Another thing that I like
is when I write explanations to myself about creative writings before I actually write them.
Like this one:
"I have been staring at this blank page for a while now wondering why I thought there was something I wanted to write. What is it?
It has something to do with the sketch of an old woman who wove her way towards us across the shifty dunes, appearing as if from the very scratches and water stains of a clicking, whirring, wheel of frame-by-frame film. That evening, silence, like the flour dust of the Sahara, slipped into between our toes, into the deepest recesses of the coils of our ears, and between the lenses and the working parts of our cameras. I found some grinding in my pocket and the back of my throat weeks later and it said “shhhh.”
This woman, she slumped to a crumpled heap, silhouetting herself, back against the sun that excused itself shyly from our meeting. It could not look her and her fennec in the eye any more easily than we could; she dragged the animal, chain and all, like shackles at her ankle, like a stubbornly bum leg. The labib’s wise ears twitched at invisible flies and his eyes moved so fast-he was hoping that he would not see us at all."
I am re-reading things I wrote while I was in Tunis because Oberlin has invited me to write an "oberlin story" for the website. Boy, writing about my experience(s) in Tunisia is harder than I thought it would be
Like this one:
"I have been staring at this blank page for a while now wondering why I thought there was something I wanted to write. What is it?
It has something to do with the sketch of an old woman who wove her way towards us across the shifty dunes, appearing as if from the very scratches and water stains of a clicking, whirring, wheel of frame-by-frame film. That evening, silence, like the flour dust of the Sahara, slipped into between our toes, into the deepest recesses of the coils of our ears, and between the lenses and the working parts of our cameras. I found some grinding in my pocket and the back of my throat weeks later and it said “shhhh.”
This woman, she slumped to a crumpled heap, silhouetting herself, back against the sun that excused itself shyly from our meeting. It could not look her and her fennec in the eye any more easily than we could; she dragged the animal, chain and all, like shackles at her ankle, like a stubbornly bum leg. The labib’s wise ears twitched at invisible flies and his eyes moved so fast-he was hoping that he would not see us at all."
I am re-reading things I wrote while I was in Tunis because Oberlin has invited me to write an "oberlin story" for the website. Boy, writing about my experience(s) in Tunisia is harder than I thought it would be