Ten Things I Am Thankful For
From Paragraph to Story
Yesterday I wrote a post about using Eve Bunting's words as a pattern for writing several paragraphs of my own. From those paragraphs, I let the words go where they wanted and grow into the beginning of a story. I'm thinking about a possible ending but I can always change my mind.
(I don't have a title yet)
Once a small brown mouse got into the basement and couldn’t get out. It scurried into a corner, hopping and clawing at the wall. It found the shabby sofa, got a grip on the upholstery, and climbed to the arm, where it perched. Waiting. Nose twitching.
I had been living in the Tackett’s basement for about a year when the mouse appeared. But before that, before Roxy that is, I had the run of the house. One week after the Tackett’s brought Roxy home, I started marking my territory upstairs, occasionally spraying the living room drapes or flooding the corner by the litter box. I don’t know why I did it. It just seemed like the thing to do. Roxy had invaded my home, taken over my people, and my litter box. At first, I felt sorry for Roxy. She had spent her life caged up at the Humane Society shelter. Although she had been fed well and her cage kept clean, she was only periodically petted. Roxy had spent her life sleeping, grooming, and watching other cats sleeping and grooming. Her life at the shelter had been, well . . . sheltered. She'd never experienced watching the birds from the dining room window or taking a nap in a sun patch on the red chair in the living room. Roxy had never slept snuggled in blankets on Michael’s bed in the winter. Poor thing. Pathetic kitty. Pitiable youth. My sympathy for Miss Roxy, queen of the house, changed to jealousy within days of her arrival.
(I don't have a title yet)
Once a small brown mouse got into the basement and couldn’t get out. It scurried into a corner, hopping and clawing at the wall. It found the shabby sofa, got a grip on the upholstery, and climbed to the arm, where it perched. Waiting. Nose twitching.
“Don’t stop running,” I told it silently. “Don’t! You can outsmart Roxy the cat!”
For days the mouse scuttled around, successfully hiding from Roxy. And then, thwack went the trap! I feared the worst. In an instant I saw a flash of brown run under the sofa. The mouse was okay.
“Run mouse,” I whispered. “You are indeed brave.” Though I couldn’t see it, I know it was hiding, twitching, waiting to respond to the next hazard.
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| I don't yet have a name for my basement cat character. |
The tubby calico ate a lot and as a result pooped a lot. And she was a slob. Half the time, she backed up too far to do her business and missed the litter box entirely. Her deposits ended up on the floor or balanced on the edge of the box. The Tackett’s tried to remedy Roxy’s toileting challenges by providing a bigger wider litter pan. She still somehow managed to unload on the floor. As you can imagine, it didn’t smell too sweet. I had no choice but to relieve myself in the corner. There was no way I was going to try to tiptoe around her turds to use the facilities. The Tackett’s placed a second receptacle, right by the first one and Roxy the cat-pig somehow managed to spoil them both. This did not make Michael’s parents happy. But evidently, my urine was deemed more objectionable than Roxy’s turds and I ended up in the basement, with my own litter box.
Going From Sentences to Paragraphs
Over the weekend, I posted about using Jeff Anderson’s concept of imitating great sentences from favorite authors as a way to improve the complexity and coherence of student writing. After seeing positive results from young writers at school, I wanted to try it myself. I chose one of my generated sentences that I liked and tried to imitate the pattern and structure of the paragraphs of the mentor text. Below are Eve Bunting's words and then after that are the paragraphs I created using her writing as a model.
Eve Bunting’s words from p. 16 of Fly Away Home:
Once a little brown bird got into the main terminal and it couldn’t get out. It fluttered in the high, hollow spaces. It threw itself at the glass, fell panting on the floor, flew to a tall, metal girder, and perched there, exhausted.
“Don’t stop trying,” I told it silently. “Don’t! You can get out!”
For days the bird flew around, dragging one wing. And then it found the instant when a sliding door was open and slipped through. I watched it rise. Its wing seemed OK.
“Fly, bird,” I whispered. “Fly away home!”
Though I couldn’t hear it, I knew it was singing. Nothing made me as happy as that bird.
My words using Bunting’s sentences as patterns:
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| Roxy wasn't particularly thrilled to be cast as the villain in my story. |
Once a small brown mouse got into the basement and couldn’t get out. It scurried into a corner, hopping and clawing at the wall. It found the shabby sofa, got a grip on the upholstery, and climbed to the arm, where it perched. Waiting. Nose twitching.
“Don’t stop running,” I told it silently. “Don’t! You can outsmart Roxy the cat!”
For days the mouse scuttled around, successfully hiding from Roxy. And then, thwack went the trap! I feared the worst. In an instant I saw a flash of brown run under the sofa. The mouse was okay.
“Run mouse,” I whispered. “You are indeed brave.”
Though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was hiding, twitching, waiting to respond to the next hazard.
The next step is to take the paragraphs and use them to produce more writing, possibly a story. I’m going to let the words take me wherever they want to go. And if my internal editor gets too loud and begins to prevent me from getting my words on the paper, I will shush it because it is time to write.
Mentor Sentence Monday: More Sentences from Fly Away Home
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| Image from Microsoft Word |
I’m enjoying creating my own sentences using the patterns of authors. I’ve always loved playing with words and this exercise of generating sentences has been growing hooks and igniting new writing for me. And it’s fun!
The following are Eve Bunting’s words on page 14 from Fly Away Home:
Everything in the airport is on the move—passengers, pilots, flight attendants, cleaners with their brooms. Jets roar in, close to the windows.
The following are my words based on Bunting’s sentence patterns:
Everything in the room is motionless—the fan, the curtains, the air, and the cat stretched out on the tile floor. Yellow jackets hum, close to the window screens.
Nothing in the school is still—not teachers, kids, parents, secretaries on the phones. Buses roll in, breaks squeaking to a stop.
When she lays down to sleep, her thoughts keep firing—pack lunches, pick son up at the high school, chicken in the crock pot, husband cheated. Memories roar in and line up next to tomorrow’s to-do list.
Sunday Snippet: Mary Malloy Shoulda Been a Boy, Chapter 1
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| Image from Microsoft Word |
Shoulda Been a Boy
Mary rode her sister's hand-me-down Huffy bike with skinny wheels and twin baskets in the rear to the pool nearly every day that summer. She started swimming lessons later than the other kids and was older. Mary was determined to get through Intermediate 1 and 2 in one summer because she wanted to be able to go to the pool by herself instead of begging her sister to come with her. Kids that were under 16 had to pass a skills test or pass Intermediate 2 in order to be at the pool without an adult.
It was fairly early in the morning and there wasn’t much traffic. Mary rode her bike on the sidewalk no-handed unless she had to turn or cross a street. The Green Valley City Pool was a fifteen minute ride from her house. She arrived at the pool, chained her bike, and checked in with the lady at the counter by the entrance to the locker rooms. Mary’s name was on the list for Intermediate 1. She walked through the locker room with her eyes down. Older ladies and some young moms with kids actually undressed in front of each other in there. Gross.
Using Mentor Texts: Fly Away Home by Eve Bunting
From, Fly Away Home by Eve Bunting (p. 16)
Once a little brown bird got into the main terminal and it couldn’t get out. It fluttered in the high, hollow spaces. It threw itself at the glass, fell panting on the floor, flew to a tall, metal girder, and perched there, exhausted.
“Don’t stop trying,” I told it silently. “Don’t! You can get out!”
For days the bird flew around, dragging one wing. And then it found the instant when a sliding door was open and slipped through. I watched it rise. Its wing seemed OK.
“Fly, bird,” I whispered. “Fly away home!”
Though I couldn’t hear it, I knew it was singing. Nothing made me as happy as that bird.
Below is some of my work using Bunting's writing as a mentor text:
Though I couldn’t see her, I knew she was dancing. Nothing made me as happy as hearing the sound the Tele Tone taps made against the wood floor.
Though I couldn’t see her, I knew she was scared. Nothing made me as miserable as knowing her hand was just out of reach.
Though she didn’t seem to know my name, her eyes said she remembered my face.
Reflections on Using Word Counts
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| Hmmm . . . let's see, that makes one word, two words, wait . . . what's a word? |
The whole NaNoWriMo thing has had sort of a weird impact on me. Not at all what I expected. The biggest thing I learned is so simple I feel dorky writing it. Writers need to write a lot to get better at writing. Duh. I knew that, didn’t I? And writing fiction is very different from composing a blog post. But I was able to use many of the ideas that I played with in SOL’s in numerous scenes throughout the book. I still snort and chuckle when I write that. A book. I wrote a book. And I don’t care if anyone but me ever reads it. It is a piece of me. And with writing the previous sentence, I’ve gone from chuckling to blubbering like a bawl baby. Maybe I’m just tired or menopausal. I’m telling you, this thing has really changed me. By the way, I just wrote two-hundred-ninety-three words.
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