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A revision of "The Writer's Life."
The Writer's Life
Writers toil to make meanings clear for readers. And for readers to care about our words, we need to make meaning worth knowing. Writing worth reading requires effort from the writer. Practice, trial and error, blind alleys, the occasional victory— all are part of the writer’s life.
I began teaching Writing 12 in 2006. The inaugural class was deeply committed to the craft and wrote many wonderful pieces. In the process, The Pearson Buzz came to be. The class held lively debates over various names (The Pearson Pear was a favourite of mine) but, in the end, it was “The Buzz” that sounded best.
Some writers begin Writing 12 a bit wild, a little delirious with the power of words. Discipline takes time; writing is, as much as anything is, a craft. Like a finishing carpenter, making the words fit just so requires careful, methodical effort.
Working with words means working, with words. No substitutes allowed! Every week the class does a new exercise, designed to make a writer look at something familiar in a new way, or, sometimes, just to take a good look.
Because writers bring an imaginary world to life, we need to include a kind of class “conversation” to work out ideas, to prime the writing pump. Writing 12 class is quiet when we try a new prompt, but more often we chat. With ideas, our imaginations are ready for exercise.
Each class has had its own, individual, character, but each year students become more serious in the second term when publication begins. Student pieces are popular and have a worldwide readership that I often show to students through web-based analytics at Pbuzz.net.
By bringing my students’ attention to words, they can begin to have that essential conversation: that of a writer with his or her reader. If we have something to say and know enough craft to make our writing worthwhile, then I’ll take the writer’s life anytime!
-White day in Canada?
“Hey, Esther! Come here, I wanna talk to you for a sec . . . Can you get me chocolate milk?” He ran outside of the classroom and talk to me.
It was a lunchtime when he ran outside. I became stiff because here he was, popular among Korean girls and here I was, standing in front of him, feeling so geeky.
He was newly immigrated, and he asked me to bring him chocolate milk on February 14. Of course, I refused it immediately because I thought, “Why should I bring him chocolate milk? Why couldn’t he buy it himself?”
As I walked to my next classroom, I realized that it was a Valentine’s Day.
“So What?” I thought, “Did he trying to say something to me?” I puzzled.
Later, I learned that there are two Valentines’ days in Korea. Valentine’s Day is on February 14. And on March 14, the next month following, it’s White day.
On Valentine’s day in Korea, the girls supposed to give boys, whom they love, chocolates, or candies.
And of course, if the boys are accepting it, they’re looking forward to seeing chocolates on March 14, White day.
Because on White day, the boys, whom they love, are giving back the chocolates to girls. If the boys aren’t giving the chocolates back to the girls that they gave on Valentine’s day, they’re heartbroken, and they’re going to give it an another try next year.
So, What did he try to tell me? Who knows, really?
Maybe he’s been trying to say, “I love you,” or maybe he lost the bet of truth or dare.
-270 words.
Draft 2
“Is she dead?” Jason said.
“I don’t know.” I replied. “Let’s see.”
I grabbed a stick, and poked her. I thought she would bark, or at least make a sound but she did not. She just opened her swollen eyes, tried to stand up, but couldn’t lift her heavy metal chain which seemed heavier than her exhausted, frail body.
The dog’s scab-filled skin, and balled, muddy fur were indistinguishable from the rusty gate where she’d been tethered. The cold wind had already beaten her. Her joints and chilling bones had already betrayed her. Soon, the rain would’ve drowned her.
“Do you think Mr. Reyes, forgot bout her?” Jason said.
“Let’s go and ask.”
I pressed the buzzer on the gate but no one came out so I decided to climbed over it and knocked, banged on their door.
“There’s no one there,” a man from the next house shouted from their veranda. “The whole family left to the province for the holidays.”
“They forgot their dog outside.” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. They’d be back in a week.”
Jason and I wanted to save Georgia from her predicament, but her chain had a lock. “Should we break the chain?” I said. “And take her with us?”
“That would be stealing.”
“You’re right. But if we leave her there, she’d surely die.”
“Let’s build her a temporary house.”
“And feed her.”
We built her shelter using dried palm leaves, sticks and garbage bags. We fed her left-over foods which we collected and saved, water, sometimes, milk to drink and even found an old shoe to play with.
“Why bother with that thing?” Mr Gonzales said. “I already told you that they’d be back in a week.“ He rubbed the palm of his hands against each other, and after licking his lips, he added “They will “meat” that dog when they come back.”
(Second part)
I had seen people, especially the ones who came from the northern province, slaughter a dog. For them, dogs were just like any other meat. “It’s part of our tribal culture,” they explained when I asked them why they eat dogs. “Our ancestors ate them, so we do, too.”
A year ago, on my way to church, I saw a commotion in an abandoned warehouse near our house. “What going on?” I asked a neighbour. “Carnage!” he said, like a maniac. I threaded through the rowdy crowd and found Magellan lying on the floor. His legs were tied with a metal wire. Mr. Gonzales, our neighbourhood butcher, was forcing a tin-can to the dog’s mouth. Magellan struggled and barked at him. And in his desperate attempts to his save his life, he somehow managed to bite the butchers hand. Mr. Gonzales sucked the blood from his hand and spat it on Magellan’s face. He then grabbed a two by two lumber and smashed the dog’s head. “You swine.” he said, “How dare you bite your master!” His face turned red and his eyes had gone fiery. His hands trembled in fury as he continued breaking Magellan’s skull.
After a multiple beating, Magellan was still conscious. His tongue laid flat on the floor. He was crying for help. His mouth bubbled, white mixed with red. He was having a fit like an epileptic.
I prayed.
The crowd was divided--black and white and a shade of gray. “Don’t stop pounding it!” some yelled, while others screamed, “Have pity on him!” In the middle of or the roaring crowd, I heard a familiar deep voice. “Just kill him,” said the voice. ”End his suffering.” Then out of nowhere, a man with a knife in his hand, pushed the butcher aside. He pressed Magellan’s face with his hand, the body with his knee, against the cemented floor, and slit the dog’s throat.
Magellan’s eyes were still open. He was staring at me. I was the last thing he saw. At that time, I was sure, Magellan saw me as his equal. In his eyes, we were all animals.
My uncle stood in front of me. I gazed at his bloodied shirt ,hands and knife. As the blood dripped from them, so did my tears. “Don’t worry, son,” he said. “He’s in heaven now.”
Almost half of the crowd left after witnessing the brutal death of Magellan, my uncle included. I stayed.
Mr. Gonzales was panting. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and chin with his fingers, did some stretching and resumed his work. He lifted Magellan by his tail and hanged him up-side-down in a pole he had prepared. Magellan’s blood dripped until the last drop escaped from the open throat and mouth. Then the butcher lighted up his butane torch, adjusted the fire to the right size, and started burning Magellan’s long white fur.
The smell of the old wooden warehouse, mixed with cigarette smokes, burnt fur, and metallic blood filled the area. It was suffocating.
Mischievous Magellan, as I used to call him, lived up to his name. Like the great Ferdinand Magellan, he was also an explorer. He searched for his food, and often ended up in someone’s kitchen. Until one day, he entered the butcher’s dungeon and shuttered three precious antic vases into pieces. Unfortunately, his life and his meat were the payment.
(Third part)
Jason was knocking on our door. His creased face, teary eyes, and swollen lips were enough for me to know that he’d done something stupid.
“I tried,” he said, “but I was caught.”
“No,” I said, “you didn’t.”
“Mr. Gonzales saw me cutting Georgia’s chain and told my father.”
“And he did that to you?”
“I thought he’d be proud of me.”
Jason’s father ate dogs.
We continued our visits to Georgia and took care of her. Her wounds--physical, emotional--were healing fast. She was regaining her lost beauty and strength. Slowly, we restored her dignity.
“Diana,” my father said, pleading to his dog to stop shaking her wet body. “I just took a shower.” I threw a towel on her. She barked and leaped onto my father.
“Are you going to eat her?” I asked.
“What kind of question is that?” he said
“Isn’t it normal to eat dogs. Diana is still an animal, like pigs and--”
He stood up and slapped my face. My upper lip bled.
“Don’t you say that again.”
“But--”
“But what? Diana is a part of this family.”
“I’m sorry.”
The rain started falling and shuttered on our concrete streets like countless bits of glasses. I ran out to see Georgia and found her shelter trashed, leaving her unprotected under the deadly rain. I noticed that the lights of Mr. Reyes’ house were on. I cursed them from the outside. They probably did not hear me. Or perhaps, they didn’t care.
“Hey,” yelled the butcher from his veranda. “that dog will be dead by sunrise.”
“Go to hell!” I said.
I went back home and told my father the whole story. “It is all up to you son,” he said. “If you feel deeply attached to that dog, you should do something about it.” He told me where to find his bolt-cutter.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m saving Georgia from you, Mr. Reyes.”
“His name is George,” he said, laughing.
“Your dog is a female, Sir.”
“Well it doesn’t matter. Just leave the dog alone or else I’ll call the police.”
I called the police.
My father told that it’s illegal to traffic, kill and consume dogs. That it’s punishable by law.
The police did not arrest nor fined Mr. Reyes. “Just pay for the dog,” he said to my father. “He’s all yours.”
“He is a she,” my father said.
A pain from love
Most children are called honey or sweetheart by their parents, but trust me, most of the time; they aren’t sweet; at least, not always. Their taste, if they can be tasted, is just the same as some kinds of fruit like immature guava or green plum---mixed with sour, bitter, spicy, and a little bit sweet.
One truth between parents and their kids is: no matter how deep you love each other, some day, you still can’t avoid getting hurt by your relations.
Look at how our enthusiastic parents care for those sweeties: Starting from elementary school to high school, maybe extending to college, there are always a crowd of over-concerned parents, getting addicted to duties like driving to school twice a day to drop off and pick up our next generations, never interrupted by the outside world (Please count me as one driving a child to high school)
I have met a parent who used to enter our classroom after all classes--for copying homework. “I’m afraid he (the son) would lie to me,” he explained with dedicated responsibility. One mom liked to stand outside of our classes to inspect her child. I felt so sorry for this pitiful mom and even thought I couldn’t help to think she also spied on me at the same time.
On the other hand, all worlds have known what actions our teenagers returned to us that reflect their parents’ bottomless diligence.
If you want them going sleep at night; they just keep waking up.
If you want them to wake up in the morning, then they turn to sleep in.
If you want them eating healthy food; they prefer junk food.
Briefly, if you want them going to the east; they are running directly to the west.
When I teach “inverse functions” in math, I like to say, “Try to recall the feeling when you deal with your parents.” I find that makes things easer to understand the relationship between the original function and its inverse.
Is there any medicine to cure this situation? That would be a miraculous contribution to this impatient, modern society.
Don’t know who I am?
I’m watching an insect fly and buzz in front of my eyes. I’m awakened from a sweet dream by the noise. The target flips its wings and gurgles at me, I curse back, irritated. I try to flick it off, but the pleasant bumblebee wants to fondle me: threading through a lamp, stalling at a corner, and nesting its tail. “Hum, want to play with me? How dear you! Don’t know who I am?” I murmur. I grasp a fly-swatter; leap up to catch it… The result is I fall down on the bed; I kneel up again, ready for the second attack. “Come on, flyer, I will let you know who I am!” I climb the wall secretly and want to give it a powerful strike this time. Before my action, the small creature flips its two tiny wings, doesn’t want to tangle with me anymore, skillfully flies out, not forgetting to give a gentle kiss to my door.
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