[stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- Life Lessons

[Jackie Williams]

Bridgit,
Wow! What an interwoven tale of conflict and contrast, laced with
perfectionism. This is a brave bit of insight into what moved and motivated
your formative years. 
I am not primarily a fiction or memoire writer, so my technical knowledge is
limited. I do like the change in point of view, and the contrast it
provides. It gives validity to the whip-saw effect of a mother who demanded
perfection in two quite opposite models of motherhood. The dancer who was
lithe and full of grace and beauty, but was a servant to the old-fashioned
model of motherhood, household skills, and pleasing her man, no matter the
cost.
Your language serves this bit of growing up very well, for it pin points the
conflicting emotions questioning who you were.
I am so glad you took up the prompt which did include short fiction or short
memoire. 

Jackie Lee

Time is the school in which we learn.
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Delmore Schwartz	 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Bridgit
Kuenning-Pollpeter via stylist
Sent: Saturday, August 01, 2015 2:04 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
Cc: Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Subject: [stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- Life Lessons

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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