lavender fields.
READ FIRST.
writer's workshop class.
prompt: use these words --
glass / breeze / lavender / wild / enough
He could almost see through the glass, almost see the lavender fields, almost feel the breeze against his cheek. But he never could -- never again. His vision was fading quickly, the war taking it's toll. He would never see clearly again, and soon his vision might be gone forever. The soldier was home, in his Idaho home, back with his mother. It was enough for him, the relaxation. He had no sense of touch, no sense of taste, no sense of self anymore. He laid down in bed, parallel to the floor, no pillows to support his head.
His mother came in. Even though he was 20 now, 2 years older than he had been when he first left, to her he was still a little boy who made a rash and stupid decision. He wasn't drafted, he left. He was set for college, set for life, but he came back. They were a traditional family -- they supported the troops, but she never thought he would become one. Her brother was a Navy officer, her father a soldier in the first world war. And now, her son. She had married her husband for his lack of military involvement in the family tree, and thought that would be enough to save her son -- it wasn't. He was immensely interested in military strategy since a little boy. He was brilliant, and it scared her. She made him play piano and guitar, neglected sending him to boarding school to keep him from other rash boys desperate to join in on the fighting. It wasn't enough, though. He found a way.
He looked at his mother, but couldn't see the tears on her face. He smiled widely, beckoned her, and she came to his bedside. He couldn't say anything, not yet, too traumatized, said the doctor. He grabbed onto her mother, the tears flowing wildly, but he couldn't tell, saw her smiling.
She left, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. He turned back to the lavender. Idaho was known for its potatoes, but here, in this piece of heaven, was acre after acre of beautiful lavender. There had been lavender in the war -- he remembered seeing it, remembered yearning for home, remembered picking as much as he could, stuffing his socks with it, smelling of it, bathing in it. They had stopped for a few hours, maybe a day, but it was enough to destroy him. After that, he was overcome with the desire to go home. After that, he couldn't be a soldier. He couldn't remove himself from the battle any more. When he saw a gun in his hand, he saw his mother crying. He saw the people he was killing, but they weren't the enemy, they were boys, away from home, just like him.
He had survived so far, keeping his head, keeping away from the gas, but he let it get him. He was short because he refused to shoot. He fell, hit his head, his eyesight now leaving, now recovering at home, with his mother.
---------------------------------
I am so proud of myself. For the longest time, I've always thought of writing as just collecting interesting things, idiosyncrasies of people. I've always thought of literature in terms of characters. Now I realize that characters are just a tool. They aren't the whole story, just tools to help you realize the theme, the point, the reason why the book was written. You need to use symbolism and imagery and metaphors and all that, and you need to consciously make a point about something, which I've never really done before. But I've done it now.
Yes, it's crudely done, horribly obvious, but the basic tools are there. There's an idea, and it's not subtle at all. It's blatant, staring you in the face. I need to fix that, but it's present, no? That's the job of the writer, the good writer: making it subtle yet present, making it understandable yet not obvious.
writer's workshop class.
prompt: use these words --
glass / breeze / lavender / wild / enough
He could almost see through the glass, almost see the lavender fields, almost feel the breeze against his cheek. But he never could -- never again. His vision was fading quickly, the war taking it's toll. He would never see clearly again, and soon his vision might be gone forever. The soldier was home, in his Idaho home, back with his mother. It was enough for him, the relaxation. He had no sense of touch, no sense of taste, no sense of self anymore. He laid down in bed, parallel to the floor, no pillows to support his head.
His mother came in. Even though he was 20 now, 2 years older than he had been when he first left, to her he was still a little boy who made a rash and stupid decision. He wasn't drafted, he left. He was set for college, set for life, but he came back. They were a traditional family -- they supported the troops, but she never thought he would become one. Her brother was a Navy officer, her father a soldier in the first world war. And now, her son. She had married her husband for his lack of military involvement in the family tree, and thought that would be enough to save her son -- it wasn't. He was immensely interested in military strategy since a little boy. He was brilliant, and it scared her. She made him play piano and guitar, neglected sending him to boarding school to keep him from other rash boys desperate to join in on the fighting. It wasn't enough, though. He found a way.
He looked at his mother, but couldn't see the tears on her face. He smiled widely, beckoned her, and she came to his bedside. He couldn't say anything, not yet, too traumatized, said the doctor. He grabbed onto her mother, the tears flowing wildly, but he couldn't tell, saw her smiling.
She left, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. He turned back to the lavender. Idaho was known for its potatoes, but here, in this piece of heaven, was acre after acre of beautiful lavender. There had been lavender in the war -- he remembered seeing it, remembered yearning for home, remembered picking as much as he could, stuffing his socks with it, smelling of it, bathing in it. They had stopped for a few hours, maybe a day, but it was enough to destroy him. After that, he was overcome with the desire to go home. After that, he couldn't be a soldier. He couldn't remove himself from the battle any more. When he saw a gun in his hand, he saw his mother crying. He saw the people he was killing, but they weren't the enemy, they were boys, away from home, just like him.
He had survived so far, keeping his head, keeping away from the gas, but he let it get him. He was short because he refused to shoot. He fell, hit his head, his eyesight now leaving, now recovering at home, with his mother.
---------------------------------
I am so proud of myself. For the longest time, I've always thought of writing as just collecting interesting things, idiosyncrasies of people. I've always thought of literature in terms of characters. Now I realize that characters are just a tool. They aren't the whole story, just tools to help you realize the theme, the point, the reason why the book was written. You need to use symbolism and imagery and metaphors and all that, and you need to consciously make a point about something, which I've never really done before. But I've done it now.
Yes, it's crudely done, horribly obvious, but the basic tools are there. There's an idea, and it's not subtle at all. It's blatant, staring you in the face. I need to fix that, but it's present, no? That's the job of the writer, the good writer: making it subtle yet present, making it understandable yet not obvious.
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