Shared Writing Class exercises

We had a fun assignment in my writing class tonight–we got to play Mad Libs! I rather like how mine turned out and wanted to share it. I tried to make it somewhat consistent by using vocabulary I vaguely remembered from this Sylvia Plath poem. The words that got replaced in the Mad Lib exercise are in bold:

To be, or not to lie, — that is the feather;
Whether ’tis noble in the bones to suffer
The slings and pencils of sandy fortune,
Or to take pens against a sea of papers
And by hoping end them. To die, –to write,–
No more; and by a write to say we end
The typewriter and the three hundred and thirty three natural shocks
That flesh is oracle to,–’tis a seashell
Sleepily to be wish’d. To die,–to write,–
To write! perchance to urge! ay, there’s the oven;
For in that write of death what crows may come
When we have dreamed off this black coil,
Must give us child

Then we were asked to write something using our Mad Lib sonnet as a prompt. Again I liked what came out and wanted to share!:

The female writer uses bones to tell her fortune on the dusty bedroom floor. She has to keep her face steadily turned away from the window to avoid the childish grey faces, crying in the street. Somewhere deep in the kitchen the oven clicks. You have to stay out of the sun because it can expose rankness, rottenness; flesh that is rotting away from the bone is easier to see in the sunshine. You have to do these things. It is the tradition you have to turn to, the long history. You have to keep things on your desk. The black feather from a crow. The half-melted stump of a candle. The curly pink conch of a seashell that still spills sand across the wooden surface of your desk. Somewhere the typewriter is humming. Somewhere a child is crying. It could be so easy but it’s not. You make it hard. You keep a dried-up honeycomb, a gift from your father. A stone smooth from hours of carrying it in your hand; if you filled your pocket with enough of them you could sink down and down in the river forever. Somewhere in your yard there is an unweeded garden. Somewhere behind a bush there is the paw print of an animal, half-filled with rainwater, a panther skulking away at the sound of you coming down the stairs. You wear long necklaces draped across your neck and keep piles of blank-faced paper, smooth pens and bumpy pencils that rub redness into your index and middle fingers. Somewhere someone is waiting for you to cook them dinner. Somewhere there is an open bedroom window, your slippers before it and a dropped bathrobe on the floor, as though you could just step out of everything away from everyone and disappear into thin air.

And then I promptly ate four oreos and two ginormous handfuls of popcorn (I especially like nibbling on the burnt kernels when I am all finished, like a tiny rat). Writing class is FUN!

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