The opening prompt today was:
Write about your favorite place.
Next writers read and compared the following vignettes:
Number
200 was at the far end of the building.
Zoë walked the quarter mile from math class, passing no less than forty-nine
classroom doors, at least six of which were English classrooms. “That Zartler guy had better be as good
as everyone says,” Zoë thought.
After
walking a year, Zoë reached room 200.
A wide wooden door, with a huge chip of veneer missing was all that
stood between Zoë and his last class of the day. Zoë reached for the door, just as his fingertips touched the
knob, the door swung wide open, nearly clipping his nose. “I can’t take it!” yelled a tall blonde
girl in a General’s soccer jersey, “It’s just too much!” she screamed as she
fled down the hall.
Zoë walked in. Half the shades were
halfway up, and the other half were closed. A strange smell swirled through Zoë’s nose – it reminded him
of old lemons. A paunchy man with
a goatee and a school ID labeled “Zartler” was leaning against the chalkboard,
a thin layer of white chalk dust hung like vocadandruff on the collar of his
worn polyester shirt.
“Welcome
to creative writing,” beamed the teacher.
Zoë
knew this wasn’t going to be good.
Leaving
room 274 was anguishing. Zoë had
loved her first day in geometry.
The teacher Ms. Willow had been clear, funny, and had not assigned too
much homework. At the other end of
the school was an unknown. “Zartler – English Lit.” Every time she had shown her schedule to someone they had
frowned, or just stopped talking when they got to seventh period.
Zoë walked by room 243; the fluorescent
light overhead was flickering. As
she got to room 206 she entered a long stretch of hall where the lights all
seemed to be out, and where the janitor seemed not to come at all. At the very end of there was one
door. It was labeled “200,” though
the “2” was hanging cockeyed from one nail, and one of the zeroes seemed to
have been cut out of red construction paper so long ago that it was now the
same faded brown as an old scab.
Zoë stood in front of the door. The was a large scar in the wood, a
place where a chunk of it’s skin had been torn off. It was all that stood between Zoë and his last class.
Inside
the room was a patchwork of shadow and light. Shades were randomly up, down and in between. A couple of football players, still in
their huge jersey’s even though it was December cowered in one corner of
light. In the back of the room,
almost hidden by shadow a dark, goateed figure nearly as ominous as the
blackboard he was writing dense, tiny sentences on.
“You’re
late. Copy what’s on the board
before it’s too late,” the teacher said.
The class discussed how the second version using setting to create a much more ominous and sinister character. The class discussed the use of the opposite of what is expected as irony.
The majority of class time was devoted to conferencing on writers morbid fiction drafts in triads. The class followed the following procedures. The
1) Writer describes what he /she is trying to "do".
2) Writer describes what she / he thinks that they have done well.
3) Writer offers two questions he / she has about their draft and asks either for positive feedback or positive feedback AND constructive criticism.
a) Their story, e.g. plot, character, theme, etc
b) Their writing, e.g., use of the elements of story telling, pacing, etc.
4) Writer shares their story
5) Writer receives feedback
6) Repeat for all members of the group.
With the remaining time writers had time to revise or have additional conferences.
