Just for Fun: Responding to a Prompt from Teachers Write


One of my favorite family photos. We'd all converged in Virginia and I took this as we stopped in a specialty bike store so my brother could look for a part for his vintage BMW. None of the bikes Roonan would race, but a great moment. c. Elissa FieldMy posts on the last two days were pretty intense… So today’s is a chance to just play around with sensory detail.

Inspiration for today comes from a writing challenge — no, “challenge” is too intense for summer — a virtual writing camp for teachers called Teachers Write!.  (I wrote about it on my teaching blog hereTeachers Write via Mrs. T’s Middle Grades. Go back to that later — right now, read on and I’ll give more links below.)

Teachers Write 2013 ButtonWhether you’re a teacher or one of my YA-writing friends, you’d be interested to know the camp is hosted by four kid-lit authors: Kate Messner, Gae Polisner, Jo Knowles and Jen Vincent. They share daily writing activities every day except Saturday, and the hosts and participants get together in blog comments, Facebook and twitter updates.

With all the revision I’m doing, I wasn’t sure I’d get involved — but, wow, with such excitement amongst the hosts and participants (over 1,111 last count I heard), it’s been a fun opportunity to connect with others.

Tuesday Quick Write Prompt

On her blog, kid-lit author Kate Messner  got everyone started today with Tuesday Quick Write (<click to read the prompt).  As a warm-up, her prompt was really interesting: it’s a single word but — whether from her examples and encouragement, or merely the suggestion of the word — it was amazing the range of sensory details it helped rouse.

My Morning Warm Up

So, just for fun here is my morning warm-up. It may seem random without the context of the story, and it’s just an unrevised rush of ideas, but I liked that the prompt provoked details of setting that brought out my character Roonan’s childhood fear about his motorcycle-racing father on race days.

        Sometimes night left vapor rising off the fields, waving hands across the laneways in warning. Stared you straight in the eye from the place where darkness started at the edges of fields and crept its way through the trees overhanging the roads. Smelling of earth, of damp, of rocks uncovered by cloven hooves in the night, of the sour, live alarm of dung beneath the cows, jaws cranking out the sane pace one should travel. Ch-omp, ch-omp, ch-omp… Pausing. Heaving out a breath. Stomping. Looking away to where a kite split the white haze of morning, where crows hid somnambulant in the trees, faces hid beneath a wing. Slow. Sl-o-o-ow. Slow. Sometimes rain would come. Barely falling, merely a dew floating in the air. Sometimes heavy sheets, rushing rivers impromptu along the lanes, drawing rivulets of mud, strings of grass, ripened berries knocked loose in the night by greedy maws, pebbles, spilled oil, sprung gears popped loose, a bit of chain, spit hocked out in yesterday’s trials, bit of tape. Men walked in the rain. Their boots mucked a neat path from trailer to trailer. Mechanics continued methodically adjusting spanners, polishing visors, low voices saying, “I’ve not heard shite,” of whether it would dry or the meet be canceled. Roonan was still young enough to squat beneath the trailer’s overhang, hearing but unseen, his eyes fixed on the rivulets creeping  closer to him beneath the trailer, eyes widening at the chance there might be no race today. He heard the familiar rasp of his father’s voice, the disappointment in it, saw what he knew to be his father’s hand extend out the door to feel how hard the rain still fell. Sometimes it stopped. Sometimes Roonan’s heart would race the hour or more after rain stopped falling, anxious knowing how badly the men wanted to ride, how the crowds were clamouring, “The roads are fairly dry…” Sometimes it would rain all day and he’d lie in his bunk, coffinlike, in the caravan, forcing his gaze to stay fixed on the near distance, tuning out all other voices – the complaints, the cursing, the calculating of costs paid to come this far and not race – and press down, like holding down sick, the guilt that rose in him. To be afraid, as he never saw his father or Stephen: scared by the thought of his father flung 160 miles an hour between the hedgerows.

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What Else is On Teachers Write?

Wednesday’s feature is Q & A — participants post any questions to be answered by guest writers. If you’re reading this on Wed morning the 26th, hop to this link, where writers  Laurel Snyder and Joanne Levy are on deck.

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What About You?

If you are a teacher/librarian and want to participate in Teachers Write, here is the post on Kate’s site announcing the program and how to sign up. Here is the recent writing prompt: Teachers Write 6/25 Tuesday Quick-Write Sometimes

If you’re not a teacher, I am in love with the handful of prompts to spur thoughts about setting halfway down this article by Donald Maass: The Map and the Trail.

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Revision is Messy c. Elissa Field

Revision is Messy c. Elissa Field

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