[stylist] Writers' Roundtable, a chapter for your amusement and critique

Thu Jun 2 23:02:28 UTC 2011

Donna,
I absolutely loved it. Very timely for me. I had just reviewed an old "My
Turn" article from Newsweek about how nobody cared about poetry anymore, and
that there are more people writing poetry than there reading it. It was so
nice to hear the words about what people first wrote to communicate.
Your piece also gives insight to us who did not lose our sight at a young
age, and the education that occurs for the young.
Your style is readable and you handle quotations so easily.
Thanks for sharing.
Jacqueline Williams

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Donna Hill
Sent: Thursday, June 02, 2011 2:01 PM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: [stylist] Writers' Roundtable,a chapter for your amusement and
critique

Hi Friends,

I've been going through my manuscript yet again, after some comments from my
sister, and it occurred to me that you might enjoy this particular chapter
without having read what comes before. Though the book is a fantasy, the
school stuff is rooted in realism. I'll copy it below and attach a Word doc,
so everyone's covered.

Just a bit of background . The main characters are two 14-year-old refugees
from the Isle of Adiaphora, Abigail and Baggy. This is the first day of the
summer term and their first class together. Abigail is hoping she'll learn
Baggy's real first name when attendance is taken. Their classmate
Christopher was involved in a fight before school. The teacher, Professor
Thornhammer, is the only teacher at the Plumkettle Learning Center who
insists upon being called "Professor." He's Abby's advisor as well as the
head of the photography department.

Enjoy and let me know what you think.

Donna

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Writers' Roundtable

Word count: 1268

Second-floor-west was quiet and empty when the two friends headed for the
closed door at the end of the hall. Once inside the photography department,
Baggy spotted students heading into the westmost of the two classrooms on
the south wall and followed. 

The room resembled an elongated dining room with a round table in the
center. It would have seated ten, but the chairs on either side of the
teacher's had been removed. There was a desk off to the right and a sofa on
the left. Curtains blocked most of the light from the south-facing windows.

"Hey, Baggy," said Christopher, who was standing near the sofa, "I didn't
know you were a writer!"

"I'm not," Baggy grumbled as he approached the small boy.

"Me neither," Christopher said with more apprehension, "They m-made me take
it."

An older boy with long dreadlocks was seated at the table on the right side
closest to the front. A red-headed girl with a big smile bounced into the
room.

"Hi, Les," she said to the boy, who raised his hand slightly in
acknowledgement, "I'm Gabriele," she added turning to the others, "I've
noticed you and your dog. He's beautiful. I'm sorry, I don't know any of
your names."

Abby recognized her voice and accent as the girl who stuck up for
Christopher in the bathroom earlier. They all introduced themselves. Abigail
sat between Christopher and Baggy on the left side of the table. Gabriele
hurried to the front of the room and opened the curtains. 

"Oh, it's so nice today," she moaned, "I can't wait to get outside!"

She was about to sit down when she noticed another student entering the
class. It was Tommy.

"Good morning!" he said smiling.

Baggy was on his feet, removing the chair next to him to make room for Tom's
wheelchair. Tom paused before moving into place to gaze into Gabriele's
green eyes.

"Did anyone ever tell you," he said softly, "that you have gorgeous eyes?"

She blushed and finally managed to say, "I'm Gabriele and this is Lester
Fields."

She was about to introduce the others, when she stopped in mid sentence.
Abby heard heavy booted steps and looked back.

"Hi Laurel," said Gabriele, "We're all just getting acquainted."

"Excellent," said the girl with a cheerful though mischievous smile. She was
dressed in jeans and a blue work shirt, her shoulder-length brown hair tied
back with a Plumkettle kerchief, "I'm Laurel Hall. I like your dog."

After greeting Tom, Baggy and Christopher, she sat next to Les, and the two
began talking quietly.

Thornhammer arrived a few minutes late wearing his usual black jeans and
shirt. He strode to the front of the room without looking at them and closed
the curtains. He placed a stack of papers on the desk. Pacing back and
forth, he introduced himself to the class. He did not, to Abigail's chagrin,
take attendance.

"This is Writers' Roundtable and I am Professor Thornhammer. Mr. Fields," he
said, nodding to Les, "Miss Hall, Miss Stein, you have all been in my class
before. For the rest of you" -- he looked to his right unsmiling and his
gaze rested on Christopher -- "This course is designed not only to help you
refine the craft of writing, but to help you develop a backbone about what
you do write. All of you" -- he looked around at each of them -- "are from
Adiaphora, and as such I'm assuming that you have experienced the world in a
more poignant fashion than most Plumkettle students, who have come to us
from more, shall we say, settled backgrounds." After pausing to allow them
to absorb this information, he resumed his pacing and continued, "Now, "Who
can tell us what the first form of literature was?"

 "Comic books," whispered Baggy.  Everyone heard and everyone giggled,
accept Thornhammer who shot him a dirty look.

"Anyone else?" he continued.

Lester raised his hand slightly and said without waiting, "Poetry."

 "Precisely," said Thornhammer taking his seat at the head of the table," We
traditionally begin our classes with quotes about writing from respected
historical figures. Mr. Fields, if you would get us started."

Abby felt her heart race in anticipation of reading her own quote. She could
hear Christopher squirming in his seat. Lester Fields showed no emotion as
he opened a spiral notebook.

"Yes, it would be my pleasure" he began in a strong calm voice, "This is
from a preface to Lyrical Ballads by the father of the Romantic era of
British poetry, William Wordsworth.  'All good poetry is the spontaneous
overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected
in tranquility.'."

After a dramatic pause during which Abigail supposed that they were to
reflect on Lester's quote, Thornhammer called on Christopher. He fumbled
with his papers and coughed before proceeding in a faint voice.

"A p-poet's work," he said before coughing again, "is to n-name the
unnamable, to point at fr-frauds, to, to take sides, st-start arguments,
shape the world, and stop it going to.to  sleep."

"By?" Thornhammer prompted.

"S-Salman ruh-Rushdie."

"And, Miss Jones?"

Abigail's body jerked involuntarily. She had been sidetracked by the
alarming, almost militant view of poetry in Christopher's quote.

"The ancient Greek philosopher Plato," she said, struggling to refocus on
the task at hand, "wrote, 'Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than
history.'"

"Thank you," said Thornhammer getting to his feet and pacing, "History tells
us what people did; poetry tells us how they felt about it. 

Abigail fumbled in her pack and hurriedly set her digital book player to
record. What followed was a lecture on poetic forms and imagery.

"Now," Thornhammer concluded, "for your first assignment, due next Tuesday,
you will each write a poem-"

Baggy, who hated poetry, groaned. This caused Abigail and Tommy much
consternation as they attempted to stifle giggles.

"I don't care what type of poetry it is," Thornhammer continued, "You can
write us a sonnet, free verse, a limerick, a haiku.whatever form of poetry
strikes your fancy.  What I do care about is that it means something to you,
that it doesn't take up more than one page, and" -- he paused to pick up the
stack of papers from the desk -- "that you avoid using" -- he gestured with
the papers -- "any of these words."

As Thornhammer handed out the papers, Gabriele whispered, "He has a list of
words that he's banned."

 "Take a moment to familiarize yourselves with this list.  I will not
tolerate the use of these words in this class, not on paper and not in
conversation."

When he reached Abby, Thornhammer pressed a stiff card into her hand. She
fumbled with the card and after getting the Braille right-side up, read,
"Professor Thornhammer's Banned Four-Letter Words." Her heart raced in
anticipation of the words he might have included, but the list was a simple
one: Like, Sure, very, fine and just.

"Ooo!" said Gabriele, "there's a new one."

"Just?" whispered Laurel.

"For you in particular, Miss Hall," Thornhammer replied sternly.

Abby puzzled over the words trying to reason out why they would be banned.
She understood that some kids said, "like" incessantly, but thought the word
had legitimate uses and wanted to demonstrate her awareness of this fact.

"But, sir," she began, and Thornhammer turned to face her, "Isn't l- . I
mean this first one an accepted way of introducing a simile?"

Thornhammer did not answer immediately, giving Abby a moment to savor the
possibility that he was about to praise her. 

"Not," he said at last with heavy finality, "in this class."

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