[stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- Life Lessons

[EvaMarie Sanchez]

Bridget, I must say that this is the best thing you have ever written. It
was simple in a way, but it evoked a lifetime of feelings and memories.
Well, done on so many levels. I truly enjoyed it.
Eve

 President, National Federation of the Blind Northern Arizona
President, National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Committee Chair, Arizona Association of Guide Dog Users
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Legislative Committee
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Membership Committee
Member, Slate & Style Editing Team

"You do not need to have vision to see the stars."

On Sat, Aug 1, 2015 at 2:03 PM, Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter via stylist <
stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:

> List,
>
> This has nothing to do with recent convos, but here's something I just
> wrote
> up. Needs lots of fleshing out. I changed the POV between descriptions of
> my
> mother and me, even when referring to myself in the past. I like to play
> with structure and format. Just trying it out here.
>
> Life Lessons
>
> Chocolate fragrance permeates my nose. Rich, velvet dark chocolate mingles
> with sweet, sugary dough. I spread the batter into a baking pan, hands
> smoothing, pushing thick cookie dough into the corners.
>
> My mother baked desserts almost daily. Dinner was always accompanied with
> cake or cookies or bars. Each bite home-made, exactly how a woman should do
> it.
>
> I'm a little girl full of energy. Riding my bike, building a fort, swinging
> as high as I can-my mother frowns on these activities. "It's not very
> lady-like," she chants at me.
>
> Chocolate chip cookie bars rise in the oven. A kitchen full of bakery
> smells. Flour, sugar, vanilla, chocolate chips-comforting smells, smells
> that feel like home.
>
> My mother said she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom and wife. She cleaned,
> cooked and even sewed at times. But time presented another mother.
> Conflicted, confused, full of resentment, she never was content at home.
>
> "You want to marry a rich man who will take care of you," she explains.
>
> I watch her apply make-up with an adept hand. "You want to be pretty,
> Bridgy, especially for your husband." Another mantra chanted throughout my
> childhood.
>
> I pull on dance clothes, checking my reflection in the vanity mirror, the
> vanity my mother insisted I needed. Will I ever be pretty like Mom, I
> wonder. We drive to the dance studio she now owns. Off to work.
>
> Heat rushes out of the oven as the bars are removed. The top is golden
> brown, the chocolate chips still gooey. It's perfection as mouths salivate
> in anticipation.
>
> Mom baked chocolate chip bars. Standing in the kitchen, ingredients
> surrounding her, she taught me how to follow a recipe. "Baking takes
> precision," she told me. "You will need to know how to cook for your
> husband."
>
> The world is never black and white. Grey seeps in through cracks, making
> nothing clear. Conflicting images intellectually understood, but
> emotionally
> take a toll. Who am I? What am I? Questions asked daily. One day I know,
> the
> next, it's unclear.
>
> "Your joy is in God. Without God, you will have no joy," my mother said.
>
> She sat on the fllor mat, finishing her third work-out for the day.
> "Remember, Bridgy, if you don't stay in shape, your husband will leave you.
> No one wants a slob." She moved gracefully, a dancers body noticeable in
> each step. But she was drawn, frantic-like. As though her very life
> depended
> on the exercise at hand.
>
> I follow her every move.
>
> She's thin, so thin. Beautiful and graceful-I stand in front of the mirror
> scrutinizing every inch of my body. Finding the flaws, I learn how to hate
> my body.
>
> The cookie bars cool on a wire rack, gooey in the center, crisp on the
> edges. Moist banana bread covered in foil sits on the counter. Chewy
> Snickerdoodles welcome guest on the table. Each item prepared with heart-a
> wish to bring joy to any entering my kitchen. Treats for others but not me.
> Rarely do sweet confections touch my lips.
>
> Perfection, always strive for perfection. Lessons in childhood collect on
> me
> like weights drawn to a magnet.
>
>
> Bridgit
>
>
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