Sherwood Anderson

Ebenezer Cowley, the man who stood in the store listening to the eager patter of words that fell from the lips of the traveling man, was tall and lean and looked unwashed. On his scrawny neck was a large wen partially covered by a grey beard. He wore a long Prince Albert coat. The coat had been purchased to serve as a wedding garment. Before he became a merchant Ebenezer was a farmer and after his marriage he wore the Prince Albert coat to church on Sundays and on Saturday afternoons when he came into town to trade. When he sold the farm to become a merchant he wore the coat constantly. It had become brown with age and was covered with grease spots, but in it Ebenezer always felt dressed up and ready for the day in town.

As a merchant Ebenezer was not happily placed in life and he had not been happily placed as a farmer. Still he existed. His family, consisting of a daughter named Mabel and the son, lived with him in rooms above the store and it did not cost them much to live. His troubles were not financial. His unhappiness as a merchant lay in the fact that when a traveling man with wares to be sold came in at the front door he was afraid. Behind the counter he stood shaking his head. He was afraid, first that he would stubbornly refuse to buy and thus lose the opportunity to sell again; second that he would not be stubborn enough and would in a moment of weakness buy what could not be sold.

In the store on the morning when Elmer Cowley saw George Willard standing and apparently listening at the back door of the Eagle printshop, a situation had arisen that always stirred the son’s wrath. The traveling man talked and Ebenezer listened, his whole figure expressing uncertainty. “You see how quickly it is done,” said the traveling man, who had for sale a small flat metal substitute for collar buttons. With one hand he quickly unfastened a collar from his shirt and then fastened it on again. He assumed a flattering wheedling tone. “I tell you what, men have come to the end of all this fooling with collar buttons and you are the man to make money out of the change that is coming. I am offering you the exclusive agency for this town. Take twenty dozen of these fasteners and I’ll not visit any other store. I’ll leave the field to you."

The traveling man leaned over the counter and tapped with his finger on Ebenezer’s breast. “It’s an opportunity and I want you to take it,” he urged. “A friend of mine told me about you. ‘See that man Cowley,’ he said. ‘He’s a live one.’”

"Queer" - Winesburg, Ohio

Ten thousand words, and counting…

It’s hard to believe, but this is already the thirty-fifth piece we’re writing for Daily Themes. I’ve very much enjoyed the class so far (though, admittedly, I’m looking forward to the upcoming break) and I’ve found that writing every day has incredible value. It’s forced me to think about how I write: what’s successful, and what I can improve.

Something that I struggled with for the first few weeks of the semester was finding a comfortable voice in which to tell my stories. The preponderance of perhapses, seems, and mights from these early pieces indicate a lack of confidence that I am still working to overcome. I’ve found that I’m most effective (and have the most fun) when I vary sentence length, allow myself the occasional reference to literature or art, and use short, strong words to emphasize what I find important. I still don’t use these techniques all the time, but I’m at least gaining an awareness of when I ought to.

I’m also getting better at cutting out extraneous detail. It took me a while to realize that not every noun needs an adjective, and that most verbs I use should have enough force on their own not to require an adverb.

I found the week on lists especially helpful for increasing my confidence. When I’m having trouble figuring out what I want to say, I’ll sometimes start by examining an image and writing down everything about that image that I find striking. I’ve never been one to organize my thoughts before I start writing; starting with a list helps me to realize how to begin, continue, and conclude a piece most cogently.

One goal that I have for the rest of the semester is to be more adventurous with the topics that I choose. Mostly I have drawn from my own experiences in these pieces, but I’ve most enjoyed writing the few pieces that depart from this pattern. I’m looking forward to putting this goal into practice in the coming weeks!

Giant Spoon (Revision)

But for the fact that one of the screws holding up the giant decorative chrome spoon had come loose, today was a day just like any other in the Silliman dining hall. Chef Stu and his staff had been there since six thirty in the morning, and, as always, they were busy from the time they arrived, washing out last night’s pots and pans, sweeping the countertops, preparing breakfast. By eight, when the first bleary-eyed students began to wander in, everything was in its proper place: bagels waiting to be toasted, fresh cups of milk thirsting to be drunk, oatmeal ready to be poked at disinterestedly. The giant spoon gleamed in the sunlight, greeting each new breakfaster from its proper place above the pancake tray.

The first time Stu had tried to attach the spoon to the wall, it had come crashing down in minutes. Velcro, it turned out, was not a sufficient adhesive for a utensil of such magnitude. Then, fortunately, no one had been in its way, and when Stu brought in screws and a screwdriver from home, he thought he had preempted any future disasters. Yet in his hurry to get the spoon up on the wall before he opened the doors for the day, he had left one screw just a little too loose. For weeks now, it had slowly been working its way out of its socket.

On an average weekday, at least five hundred people eat lunch in the Silliman dining hall. Today was no different: the long line curved around the servery and out into the open foyer. And, with the stomp of so many feet and the clatter of so many trays, the screw gave out at last. Stu dove out of the way just in time as the giant spoon swung towards him. With a tremendous clang, it upturned the tray of meatball marinara, splattering everything: Stu, the other dishes, and the entire line of hungry, now wet students.

Marriage Woes

CURTIS, C. J. Appellant contests the validity of Section 251 of the Healthy Marriage Act of 1976, known as the No Wine on Week Nights Test, as being repugnant to the personal enjoyment clause under the Twelfth Amendment of the Silver Anniversary Constitution. The statute was sustained by the Lower Court of Sexual Frustration (217 X. Y. 312) and the case comes here on appeal.

The Act provides that, during the regular working week, neither wedded party shall have the right to imbibe sine permissione of the other; that any violation of this pact shall be punishable by whatever means necessary to prevent future violations…

The lower court upheld the statute as an emergency measure. Although conceding that the obligations of the contract were an undue hardship, the court acknowledged the change in priorities that often can result from lack of conjugal intercourse. Uncle Steve v. Martha’s Menses, 231 U.S. 21. Attention is thus directed to the Twelfth Amendment of the Silver Anniversary Constitution, which states that “Neither wedded party shall infringe on the personal enjoyment of the other without good cause.” The good cause provision is what is most relevant to our discussion here…

We are of the opinion that the No Wine Test as here applied stands in direct violation of the personal enjoyment clause. A declaratory judgment is therefore entered on behalf of the appellant. The issue of a mandamus for the restoration of conjugal intercourse shall be remanded to the Lower Court.

HOFFENDOODLE, J. and MCDONALD, J., concurring. AUSTIN, J., delivered a dissenting opinion.


(Parody of an official discourse)

Testing the Waters

With the piercing shriek of the teapot now quite unbearable, Marge Peterson got up from the table and went into the kitchen. Because of her size (large) and the peculiar way in which her liver-splotched skin folded in on itself on her upper arms, she reminded Arthur somewhat of an Apatosaurus. He watched nervously as she fussed with the arrangement of cups and saucers in the cabinet until she emerged with an almost-matching set. “Sugar, dear?” she asked him as she scooped two large lumps of the stuff into each cup. “None for me, thanks,” he replied.

How good of her to have him over on such short notice! After the truth about Laurel had come out, his relationship with his family had suffered considerably; Arthur had nowhere else to turn. But had she heard about what happened? He was worried lest her opinion on the matter be the same as those he had already received.

Marge placed the tray on the tea caddy beside the table and sat down again. The table was too small for two – his knees pressed uncomfortably against the middles of her fleshy shins. He wondered if this sensation had bothered Stephen while he was still alive. He sipped at his tea, and set it down quickly when it scalded his tongue.

“Fine weather, today,” she started. “Yes,” he said. He watched as she stared at him in silence. Arthur was confused. Perhaps she had not heard after all? He certainly did not want to be the one to tell her. And yet he felt that she was the only one who might be able to recommend the proper course of action going forward. There was no other way: he must speak his mind. Breathing in deeply, he looked her directly in the eye and said:

“Thank you for the tea.”

(Title as starting place for a story)

Some Davis Titles

Chapter one: How Our Story Begins. Arthur and his godmother are sitting in the sitting room. This is England, mind you, turn of the last century. Or why else Arthur? Then: The Ring. And now we have a plot. Arthur has recently broken off his engagement with Dolores, whose lithium addiction has proved an insurmountable obstacle to their prospective marriage. A shame, truly. Yet A Greater Concern occupies his mind – he has already bequeathed his grandmother’s engagement ring. He is unsure what to do. And so he seeks the advice of his godmother, a close personal friend despite the difference in age. In Testing the Waters, set over lukewarm tea so as to give full ironic force to the clichéd metaphor, he seeks to determine her opinion of his actions before requesting such advice outright. With his failure to do so comes Crumpets, a similarly ambiguous metaphor of a title. As they sit with their comestibles, Little is Said from which he can glean an impression of her thoughts. For which reason, perhaps, he proposes that they go for a walk. In Walking, he slowly loosens the strings of her thought until he thinks he has grasped her intentions. Then, finally, in The Truth Comes Out, she offers her thoughts voluntarily. All his anxieties have been for naught! Or so he thinks, until A Talking-To, in which everything he has expected is proved wrong. Finally comes Redemption, which is in some senses A False Redemption.

But that is A Story for Another Time.

Faulkner

Behind him the white man was shouting, "My horse! Fetch my horse!" and he thought for an instant of cutting across the park and climbing the fence into the road, but he did not know the park nor how high the vine-massed fence might be and he dared not risk it. So he ran on down the drive, blood and breath roaring; presently he was in the road again though he could not see it. He could not hear either: the galloping mare was almost upon him before he heard her, and even then he held his course, as if the urgency of his wild grief and need must in a moment more find him wings, waiting until the ultimate instant to hurl himself aside and into the weed-choked roadside ditch as the horse thundered past and on, for an instant in furious silhouette against the stars, the tranquil early summer night sky which, even before the shape of the horse and rider vanished, strained abruptly and violently upward: a long, swirling roar incredible and soundless, blotting the stars, and he springing up and into the road again, running again, knowing it was too late yet still running even after he heard the shot and, an instant later, two shots, pausing now without knowing he had ceased to run, crying "Pap! Pap!," running again before he knew he had begun to run, stumbling, tripping over something and scrabbling up again without ceasing to run, looking backward over his shoulder at the glare as he got up, running on among the invisible trees, panting, sobbing, "Father! Father!"

-Barn Burning

Krauss again

Original:

Outside, white. Large flakes rush down from somewhere, softly but with a purpose. The snow is sinister today, no purity or innocence to speak of. The air cold, especially so with the biting gusts that find the small opening at the neck of the coat, burying themselves inside like so many icicles. This blanket is not cashmere, but a harsher wool, itching and working its way under the skin.

Men trudge about the street, bundled into sweaters, jackets, hats. This one’s leather gloves are useless against the damp, soaked through and frozen into withered talons. His hands are red and raw from his wasted efforts with the shovel, better left for morning. That one braces himself against the storm, the collar up on his jacket, slogging his way. He did not expect the storm. Up the street, a dog laden with ice scratches at a door, whining its plea in vain. The whistle and the white consume the scene; both take on new meaning. The whistle is the terror and the push, the singer and the song, futility. The white is nothing and nothing again. The white is all.

Krauss watches from the window as a tumult of snow falls off the roof. The drawn-back curtains, a handsome red and gold tartan, are reflected in her coffee cup. She takes comfort in the fire in the fireplace. A quiet feline form rests beside her, curled up in an armchair. On the radio, the announcer interrupts her sonata to inform her of what she already knows. All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home. The state’s primary concerns are that all citizens are safe and that unnecessary travel is kept to a minimum. Krauss smiles at her relative good fortune, and sets about making another pot of coffee.

(WC: 301)

~

First Edit:

Outside, the large white flakes rush down. Biting gusts find the small opening at the neck of the coat, icy to the touch. The snow is sinister today.

Men trudge about the street, bundled into sweaters, jackets, hats. This one’s leather gloves are soaked through, frozen into withered talons. That one braces himself against the storm, the collar up on his jacket, slogging his way. Up the street, a dog laden with ice scratches at a door, whining in vain. The whistle and the white consume the scene.

Krauss watches from the window as a tumult of snow falls off the roof. The drawn-back curtains, a handsome red and gold tartan, are reflected in her coffee cup. She takes comfort in the fire in the fireplace. A quiet feline form rests beside her, curled up in an armchair. On the radio, the announcer interrupts her sonata: All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home. The state’s primary concerns are that all citizens are safe and that unnecessary travel is kept to a minimum. Krauss smiles, and sets about making another pot of coffee.

(WC: 187)

~

Second Edit:

Outside, the snow is sinister today.

Cold men trudge about the street. Chilly blasts bury themselves in the small opening at the neck of the coat. Harsh wool scratches their skin. Their leather gloves are frozen into withered talons. A dog shakes ice off its body as it scratches at a door in vain.

A tumult of white falls off the roof, and Krauss closes the curtain. Her cat rests beside her on the armchair. All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home, blares the radio. Krauss shivers, then smiles.

(WC: 88)

~

(Lishian edits)

Night. Culpeper, VA

From the back porch of the Tucker House on a clear night in June, July, or August, the kind of night when you strip down to your shirtsleeves in spite of the mosquitos just to feel what little breeze there is wisping up off the Rapidan, the view of the sky is unbelievable. Not unbelievable in a sophomoric, hyperbolic sort of way, although, this being the back porch of an all-boys dormitory at a mid-Virginian all-boys academy, I give due credit to this interpretation of the phrase. One simply cannot believe in it. It is as if upon pushing open the screen door the fantastic strokes of Munch replace reality.

The way the stars settle in over the Blue Ridge Mountains, which stay blue even when the sun is far off somewhere on the other side of Gaia, brings on both terror and delight. Great clusters declare themselves boldly over the peaks, some your standard white but others red and green and gold. Through the hazy summer atmosphere the moon itself obscures itself like a mercurial apparition. None can know for sure what it portends. But there is meaning there. What's more - the silhouettes of trees at the horizon stare back at you, immuring you as both a comfort and a threat. And amid the shouts of boys playing one last game of ball on the big lawn by the Residence, the drones of so many cricket violinists fill the deepening pit. For a city boy like me, who only ever sees stars in the movies, the whole experience is unreal.

(describe a night sky)

Down From Boston

“Boy, you killed that squirrel,” Jack Gacy stated matter-of-factly out as soon as we started driving again. “Yup,” I said, and we started laughing. Earlier, when we were passing through Culpeper, I’d swerved a little too late and knocked all hell out of some poor little critter. Gacy’s girlfriend got real upset though, couldn’t stand the thought of the thing being dead. Kept on asking about it, too. “Is he all right?” she kept saying with that Yankee accent of hers. Well, never have I seen a squirrel taste the bottom of a Firestone tire and live, but she seemed set on the thing being all right and I felt bad letting her down. Twyman’s Mill isn’t the easiest place to get to, especially when you're coming down from somewhere like Boston, and I wasn’t about to be the one to ruin her visit. I shut up and let Jack do the talking.

“Naw, honey, he missed it,” he’d said and put his arm around her. “Are you sure, dear?” she answered. “I could have sworn I felt a thump. Oh, that poor little creature, I feel terrible.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he’d said. “Just a hump in the road, that’s all. He got away.” I did my best to keep my face solemn as the grave. I was trying my best not to smile. Poor girl had probably never seen a thing killed before. Don’t imagine they done much hunting up in Massachusetts. “Ain’t that right, Jimbo?” All I could do was nod – I knew if I opened my mouth I'd start laughing.

The Sledding Hill

“Wait, please.”

The boy waited and held the rope in his hand. Down the road, at the base of a hill, a plow had heaped up the snow into a bank. It shone in the light.

They started to walk. He dragged the sled on the ice on the road. The old man coughed and looked down.

“Thank you.”

“How is it today?”

“Not bad.”

They reached the hill.

“Here?”

“Here is fine.”

The boy dragged the sled to the top of the hill. His boots left small tracks in the snow.

“Ready?”

The old man nodded. He stood at the base of the hill and took off his hat. He folded it in front of his mouth. The boy shouted and jumped on the sled. With the rope he aimed the runners at the snow bank. They scraped against the ice under the snow.

The wind blew. The old man put the hat back on his head. “That was not a bad run,” he said, and coughed. The boy laughed and looked back up the hill.

“Can I?”

“Just one more.”

“Is it bad now?”

“Just the one. Then we’ll go.”

“All right.”

The old man watched as the boy dragged the sled up the hill. He stepped again in the small tracks.

At the top, the boy said, “Are you sure?”

“It’s all right,” the old man said. “Come down now.”

The boy shouted and went down. The old man put his hand over his mouth. Behind his hand the corners of his mouth creased upwards.

Obey

He does it his own way. Patterned t-shirts with wild patterns and skulls and foreboding dicta like “OBEY” splashed across the front in bold. Button-downs, sometimes, and khakis, but Union Jack socks and Supra sneakers. Other times SB Dunks and Ray-Ban Clubmasters, $200 ripped jeans. Because he still wears his hair in the bowl cut he had in middle school, he looks like a Beach Boy with an attitude.

He doesn’t listen to those guys though, wouldn’t be caught dead listening to them. He listens to other music, weird music. Like YelaWolf. “Hip Hop / Ghettotech / Alternative”: that’s how they self-identify. Ghettotech? Alternative, at least, makes sense.

To the Exeter game, he wore a mink coat and a backpack for no particular reason. And looked good. People stared, but he didn’t mind; it’s what he wanted. Prep school not the most mixed of companies, yet he breathes confidence, is comfortable with this image he projects. He enjoys distinguishing himself, enjoys being distinguished. He has a necklace made of human bones.

More often than not, he is smiling, a tight-lipped smile, with the ends just hinting at an understated bliss. His smile has a sort of smirk to it, one side a little higher. As if he is smoking a pipe. He doesn’t though, doesn’t see the point to it. Drinks a little, maybe, but not much. Too cool for it. He just does what he likes. And he does it his own way. And that’s cool.

(Write about a specific style)

Classical Scholarship

"We are told, unreliably, that a cult to Aphrodite Kallipygos grew up at Syracuse after two peasant sisters began bickering as to which of them possessed the fairer behind, and eventually asked a passer-by to adjudicate (the passer-by not only fell violently in love with one of the girls, but despatched his younger brother along to inspect the other: double nuptials ensued); and we are told that hetairai might stage, among themselves, bottom competitions (philoneikia hyper tes pyges), though admittedly, the source for this is a late writer called Alciphron, who composed imaginary letters. The bottom competition is described, perhaps with an input of male fantasy, in the fourteenth of his Epistolai Hetairikai, or 'Letters of Courtesans'. What is significant about the account is not so much what determines a lovely bottom (there is talk of buttocks 'quivering like jelly', and marvelous rippling motions, and so on), but that Aphrodite is invoked as patroness, and this is explicitly Aphrodite's world..."

(This piece comes from an article on Greek art whose title and author I have unfortunately not been able to find. The passage is so absurd, though, that I figured it was worth sharing anyways.)

Bibliophile

“But where are your books?” he wondered at her empty shelves.

“I sell them back after I’m done with them.”

Daniel didn’t understand what she meant, done with them. His own shelves were filled with books: books of poems, short novels, histories, paperbacks with broken spines, hardcovers in clear plastic sheathes on loan from the library. Some he had designed himself, cute little chapbooks with perfect bindings and bright spines, blue and red and black. Others he had bought from used bookstores, or borrowed from friends, or received as gifts from his well-meaning aunt. Each had some special significance. For his birthday, he had asked for the Oxford Latin Dictionary. Now that was a book. Two thousand one hundred and twenty six beautiful bible-thin broadsheets, every word in every author from Ennius to Augustine. Sometimes on Sunday mornings when he was feeling especially contemplative he would open to a chance page just to feel it with the tips of his fingers, to breathe the musty paper vellum, to hear the brush of the pages as they turned.

There were books piled on his desk, books crammed in his bookshelf, books filling both drawers of the little dresser by his bed, books stacked precariously on his windowsills. The idea that she had none was strange; it made him feel superior. Most nights, he read until he fell asleep, the Epictetus that he kept on his nightstand, or Hemingway, or whatever text he could reach from his white-sheeted mattress. In half-consciousness, he deposited the phrases in his spirit like raindrops, letting them pool and wash over him. In mornings, too, he would read. The books were important, they were a part of him. And suddenly he realized how alone he really was.

(A fictional version of self, in third person narrative)

Enzo

When I arrive at the coffee shop, my new Italian friend already has a table. A soggy tea bag lies under a thin film of water at the bottom of his cup, which it seems he has been ignoring for some time now. Several pages of handwritten notes are set out before him on the table, on which he is scrawling something intently when I break his concentration. “Enzo,” I say at volume that is, as he will later inform me, appropriately American, “Good to see you.”

Neatly dressed in an oxford, v-neck sweater, dark pants and thick-framed glasses, Enzo is unapologetically Italian. He looks the part of a race-car driver at home the day before the Grand Prix. If his receding hairline and graying stubble are any indication, he is perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties.

“So where is the chessboard now?” he asks as he scoops up his notes into a brown leather messenger bag. It takes me a second to realize that he is referring to the conversation we began after the lecture I met him at earlier this week. Immediately, we start talking philosophy.

The notebook filled with questions lies forgotten in the bottom of my backpack as we bounce from one subject to the next. It gets to the point where neither one of knows what the other is talking about any more, and I’m not sure I even understand myself. But the enthusiasm with which he approaches our conversation makes this seem altogether normal. Of course we are talking about Seneca over a coffee roll. Of course we are debating the merits of Fascism. Doesn’t everybody do this?

Two hours later, we are still there talking. Finally, I remember to ask him about himself. “Where are you from?” I start. “Rome,” he says. “Mio dio! Look at the time. I must go.”

Rivka

He could remember her by her shoes. Nice shoes, brown shoes, soft leather curving into small gold buckles clasping simple little straps shoes. Ballet flats, the thin spaces between delicate little toes just seeable at the crushed dark velvet mouth. Big beautiful cowboy boots embossed with curls and swirls and twists. Duck boots topped with tufting, poofing fur. Heels to make her taller. Lovely, thoughtful shoes.

She used to be a dancer. She is not tall and thin enough, but she is exuberant and this matters. Demi-pointe, good. Now plié and one and two and yes. The barre cannot contain her, she takes to other forms and truly lives them. On stage, he considers now, that pose as she turned away: feet a little apart sprouting firmly rooted legs, right arm thrust behind her obscuring a perfect bottom and her head turned to meet him. The apostrophe: Rivka, you are wonderful.

This pose arrests him. Her hair with its fraying ends tousles with the turning of her neck; it is not perfect but asserts itself, knows itself and is secure. So too the shoes. It is nice to have nice things he thinks, a few of them and the right ones that will delight me. The shoes are something to use but also look at, let others look at and enjoy. That she does this without thinking encourages him. I too can have nice things he thinks. Let them be as genuine, as understated as the ritornello. And I will have her and enjoy them with her and everything will be wonderful. A lovely apparition.

(Metaphor or synecdoche)

Pompey

When Gnaeus Pompey was twenty-eight years old, he tried to ride into Rome on a chariot drawn by elephants. To be awarded a triumph was already such an ego boost that the Senate commissioned a slave to stand behind the victors in their (horse-drawn) chariots and whisper in their ears, “You are not a god.” For Pompey, this was the first of three triumphs he would be awarded in his lifetime. And yet horses were not enough. He capitulated only when someone realized that the elephants would not fit through the city gates.

Pompey was not the sort of man who liked to settle for less. After conquering North Africa, he went on to rid the Mediterranean of pirates, marry Julius Caesar’s daughter, and construct the first permanent theater at Rome. Maybe this is why he earned the title “Great.” For the Romans, “Pompey the Great” had the same ring to it that “Vlad the Impaler” would later have for Romanians. One can imagine the sigh of satisfaction with which he might react every time he was summoned by name, and the terror that it might invoke among his enemies.

Pompey’s busts demonstrate his satisfaction with himself. Small, generous eyes gaze out from a round, fleshy face, the forehead lightly wrinkled, his hair tossed up playfully at the part. Thin lips, a bulbous nose, jowls, and an ample chin complete the image. For all his achievements, he looks the part of an absentminded college professor. Yet this was a man who nearly saved Rome from destroying herself. Caesar, instead, destroyed him. He severed this head, and had it buried in Egypt, thousands of miles from home.

Noah

His gray BVDs poking loosely out the back of somewhat worn khaki pants, Noah is the only man in the room not wearing a shirt. A white and blue striped ribbon belt marks the whimsical boundary to his smoothly muscled upper half. A large tattoo of a bull, recently acquired, spreads across the upper right corner of this freckled terra incognita. The image derives from a Cretan wall painting in which a group of men dance around a bull while one leaps up and over its horns. The dancers are absent in Noah’s version. When asked, he explains, “I’m already the dancer, right? And my body’s the bull.”

It is not hard to see why he thinks so. Consider the following. The bull’s shaggy hide, a variegated palette of reds and browns and tans, resembles a raw marbled Porterhouse. The sweeping, almost elegant curve of its barreled torso hints at awesome power. And Noah? He, too, is matted with hair: blond fur climbing up his chest, blond tufts ringed around his nipples, strangely long blond hairs perched haphazardly between the bottom of his neck and the base of his closely cropped blond beard. This delicate fleece is distinguishable from flesh only by the latter’s ruddy flush. He is the David Hasselhoff of blondes. Hooga chaka, hooga chaka. His lats, his pecs, his biceps, his triceps, his delts, his abs, all give off an impression of enormous latent power. For him, a shirt would simply be an imposition. He is the bull.

(Choose a person you know well to describe physically)

Kesey

"Yes, Disturbed Ward for ol' Red McMurphy, I;m afraid. YOu know what I think, observing him these few days?"

"Schizophrenic reaction?" Alvin asks.

Pipe shakes his head.

"Latent Homosexual with Reaction Formation?" the third one says.
Pipe shakes his head again and shuts his eyes. "No," he says and smiles round the room, "Negative Oedipal."

They all congratulate him.

"Yes, I think there is a lot pointing to it," he says. "But whatever the final diagnosis is, we must keep one thing in mind: we're not dealing with an ordinary man."

"You - are very, very wrong, Mr. Gideon."

It's the Big Nurse.

Everybody's head jerks toward her - mine too, but I check myself and pass the motion off like I'm trying to scrub a peck I just discovered on the wall above my head. Everybody's confused all to hell for sure now. They figured they were proposing just what she'd want, just what she was planning to propose in the meeting herself. I thought so too. I've seen her send men half the size of McMurphy up to Disturbed for no more reason than there was a chance they might spit on somebody; now she's got this bull of a man who's bucked her and everybody else on the staff, a guy she all but said was on his way off the ward earlier this afternoon, and she says no.

"No. I don't agree. Not at all."

-One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Play to Win

“You know, Tom, I hate most people. But I hate you most of all.”

That’s Gray Grisham for you. He’s never been the sort of person who won’t speak his mind, even if he knows you won’t like what you’re about to hear. Especially then: he takes a special delight in telling people off. Usually, the person he’s telling off is me.

When Gray was twelve years old, he started crying over his Cheerios one day because he didn’t think he was ever going to have enough money to buy a share of Berkshire Hathaway. That’s the last time he ever remembers worrying about money. At fifteen, he managed and owned his own business. Five years later, he’d made his first million. These days, he could buy all of Berkshire if he wanted to. But he makes more money on his own. Which is I think why so many people are willing to put up with his bullshit. An asshole, yes, but a genius, too.

“I’m honored,” I say. “But you’re still wrong.”

I’ve known Gray since we were both in diapers, and I expect I’ll still know him when we’re both back in them again at some nursing home in Florida. That’s why I’m not worried about telling him how I feel about this Flaherty business. It’ll get him knocked if he’s not careful, and it’ll get him knocked even if he is.

He shouldn’t be involved, but I can already tell that he’s not going to listen to me. That’s not going to stop me from trying, though. In this business, if you don’t speak out, you lose. I’m not a loser.

(Free theme with some dialogue)

Waiter!

“Diane, listen. I –“ “I’m not finished. Do you remember when we were in Boca and you left the hotel to go play golf with your friends? Do you remember that, Roger? I called Stanley that afternoon, Roger. I know you didn’t play golf with him. Was it that blonde bimbo again? What’s her name? Stacey? Did you really think you could keep that from me? God! You are such a man. I can’t stand you.”

“You can’t stand me? You can’t stand me? Why do you think there was a Stacey in the first place, Diane? Every day, Diane. Every single day, it’s Roger you’re not doing this right, Roger stop doing that, Roger Roger Roger Roger Roger. I can’t take it anymore. It’s unbearable.”

“How dare you say that to me? How dare you? I’ve given every once of my life to this marriage and you’re making it out like this is my fault. I’m not the one with the bimbo girlfriend. Waiter! Waiter!”

“We’re not leaving, Diane. We are going to have a nice dinner and enjoy ourselves like any normal couple. This is our date night. This is supposed to be nice. I cannot believe you brought up that girl. That was years ago. Didn’t I say I was sorry? Didn’t I come crawling back to you on hand and knee and beg for forgiveness? That part of my life is over. Finished. And I feel terribly about it. But you can’t expect me to let you walk all over me now. It’s unbearable.”

“And how are you folks enjoying your time so far? Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or would you like a little more time?” “Actually, we’ve changed our minds on dinner. Can we have the check, pl-“ “Actually, no we haven’t. I would like the filet mignon, medium well. And a Caesar salad.” “Don’t make a scene, Roger. God!” “I’m making a scene? I’m making a scene?” “I’m sorry, I’ll come back in a minute.” “Just give us the goddamn check, waiter.” “Don’t you dare.” “I’ll just come back.”

(Dialogue with two speakers rubbing up against each other)

OJ

Last night I dreamt that someone had invented a helium balloon of the birthday party variety capable of bringing one to unimaginable heights. I grabbed hold, and soon I was at the clouds, between them, above. The wind was pushing me towards the Yale farm, which seemed like the proper place to be headed, although I had no way to alter my course if I had so desired. Passing low over fields, my balloon and I approached a thick forest at the edge of the farm. Others, too, had just landed. I observed two friends disentangling themselves from the ribbon and the thicket.

I realize that I need to get back home. But when I turn around my balloon is gone, and it seems suddenly hundreds of miles away from anywhere. Emerging from the forest onto a section of thick, gray pavement, I decide to call the minibus. “We can pick you up in half an hour” crackled the echoing voice inside myself cellphone.

But the bus is there immediately, a big yellow school bus, and I get on. At the time, this seems normal. Less normal: the girl sitting a few rows up who is drinking orange juice out of a metallic blue beer can. When she starts pouring the liquid all over her arm, I try to stop her but I can’t. “What are you doing?” I shout. “Drinking orange juice,” she explains calmly. “Oh,” I say.

“Want some?”
“Yeah.”

I hold out my arm. The juice feels cool and sticky on my skin. Then a siren sounds, and lights flash, and I wake up.

(A dream with a resonant voice)

The Beer Hunter

“You can do it, Frank.” Frank sits across from you, staring at the Silver Bullets on the table. “No, no. No.” “Frank… listen to me. You can do it. You have to.” “I want to go home, Sam.” “You can’t go home Frank. You have to do it. It’s the only way.” He looks at you, his eyes welling up, abject in his misery. “Listen to me, Frank! It’ll be over soon. You take your shot. Look at me, Frank. It’ll be OK.” You meet him with your eyes and he offers up a weak smile and shakes his head. The brother in charge slaps him across the face. “Do it, Frank!” His bandana is stained with sweat and tears, his shirt foul with days of grime. “I can’t, I just –.“ “Don’t give me that bullshit, Frank. They’ll make you go back in the clank. Don’t make them do that, Frank.” Again the head brother slaps him. He is close to breaking. The brothers are all shouting now, but you don’t recognize the words. The only thing that matters right now is getting him through this. “Do it, Frank. Do it. Do it. Do it Frank.” You lock eyes again, and give him what you hope is a reassuring nod. “Do it Frank. You have to.” Finally Frank nods. He understands now.

The shouting stops and all eyes focus on Frank. His arm trembling, he reaches across the table and chooses. You watch as he brings it to his head. He looks at you. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.” He pulls the tab. The Coors fizzes a little, but does not explode.

Your move.

(A conversation with a primary speaker and a group of other people responding)

How I Write

When I write, I often connect my thoughts as directly as possible. Lots of therefores, alsos, moreovers, and indeeds. I (also) start my sentences with participles more than most. Writing in this way, I jam a little extra context into sentences that maybe do not need it. Furthermore, I occasionally interrupt myself in the middle of a thought. This may (I think) indicate a lack of confidence in my own voice. I find I am rarely sure where my argument is going, and therefore qualify my points lest I say anything too outrageous. In a similar vein, I repeat myself occasionally, or almost repeat myself via paraphrase. Finally, I have a tendency to employ a Latinate vocabulary.

I started learning Latin in the seventh grade, and I have been reading and translating ancient authors ever since. Latin is a language that depends on participles far more than English does; I have unconsciously adopted some of that language's features in my own writing. In some ways I imitate the Greeks as well. Ancient Greek writers loved to connect their thoughts much as I do (although, admittedly, much more succinctly – there is a three-letter word in Greek that means “on the one hand” and a two-letter word that means “on the other”). It seems I have started to write and maybe even think like the authors I translate.

Now that I am writing every day, I am increasingly aware of my writing habits. I’ve been trying to avoid them where I can in order to experiment with other styles that work better for writing creatively. But old habits die hard.

Hemingway

"How can you say such things, Frances?" Cohn interrupted.

"Listen to him. I'm going to England. I'm going to visit friends. Ever visit friends that didn't want you? Oh, they'll have to take me all right. 'How do you do, my dear? Such a long time since we've seen you. And how is your dear mother?' Yes, how is my dear mother? She put all her money into French war bonds. Yes, she did. Probably the only person in the world that did. 'And what about Robert?' or else very careful talking about Robert. 'You must be most careful not to mention him, my dear. Poor Frances has had a most unfortunate experience.' Won't it be fun, Robert? Don't you think it will be fun, Jake?"

She turned to me with that terribly bright smile. It was very satisfactory to her to have an audience for this.

"And where are you going to be, Robert? It's my own fault, all right. Perfectly my own fault. When I made you get rid of your little secretary on the magazine I ought to have known you'd get rid of me the same way. Jake doesn't know about that. Should I tell him?"

"Shut up, Frances, for God's sake."

-The Sun Also Rises