creative writing

Tuesday, July 2. 2013

We set off for Marineland early in the morning. It reminded me of Waldameer‘s water park (in Erie, PA). We first went to the dolphin show, and then stayed in the kiddie pool the rest of the afternoon. I went down a couple water slides with Jordi and Mar. For lunch, we had ham sandwiches (“bikinis”) and also got gelato before making the trip home. It was an exhausting day for all. Once back home, Jordi put together a more traditional Mediterranean meal. This was interesting… Sonsa? I believe it was called- very skinny fish that were ingested whole. Except…the eyes were still there. Now, I am not a particularly picky eater, and I will try anything once. And it was good! But I could not get past the fact that I was eating this fish with its eyes still there. I swear it was staring at the back of my throat as I swallowed it.

Later on, Jordi and I went to the supermarket. He told me I could pick up whatever I needed. Embarrassed, I put tampons, shampoo, and a razor in the cart. I said a silent prayer thanking God that I would finally have a razor- because I needed one more than life! And I’ll shamelessly admit that I couldn’t read the labels on the bottles in the shower, so I am not entirely confident what I have been washing my hair/body with these past couple days…

At the supermarket, it was shocking to see the switch between fresh and processed foods. Jordi took me walking through the weekly food market downtown where you can buy local fruit and vegetables. “This is how you know it’s fresh,” he said, motioning to an insect crawling through a head of lettuce. “It’s straight from the garden because these are still there.” He also showed me what the good price of meat is and some esteemed fish markets in Costa Brava. I felt like…I needed to not eat so much processed crap. And that I really should learn to cook, like him. He also made gazpacho, which looks like a delicious smoothie, but is made with with raw vegetables.

After we returned to the house, the kids and I went to the pool upstairs at their grandparents’ house. I don’t think that Jordi’s dad likes me too much. He seems very uptight and is not warm to me. Perhaps he thinks that having a stranger be an au pair here is a mistake, and that I am just another mouth to feed. Or, that I am just a young American girl that is incapable of being any help as a teacher to the children because of my inability to speak Catalan, and their young age. Whatever the reason, I can’t deny that this stings.

Now it is late, but I just got off Skype with my mom. She is sending me a package with more toiletries, necessities,and iPad accessories (since I fried the other ones). I am so grateful! Who would have thought that I’d ever be so happy to have such simple items? (Now, I was far from destitute, and I had saved up plenty of money from my first job after college to buy whatever I did need, but I just hadn’t had the chance to go to the store to replenish my own items, or didn’t pack them in the first place for other reasons.) Cliche as it sounds, the one thing I have learned quickly is that the things I truly need in this life are few, and plain and simple. I have neglected to remember that, but was reminded when my mom drove to Pittsburgh to help me prepare for this move.

We were finishing packing my backpack and boxing the rest of the stuff into storage when she said, “You have two boobs and there’s seven days in a week. Why do you have so many freaking bras?!” I love that woman.

But in all honesty, she’s right. What is it all for? I don’t need two closets full of clothes. I don’t need the latest technology, designer handbags, or more items that clutter my life. You can’t take these things with you when you go.

Just give me the sound of my mother’s voice (and maybe some clearly labeled shampoo) and I’m golden.

The strength of this woman is unmatched. She didn’t want to let her baby girl get on a plane to Europe alone, and she certainly didn’t understand it, but she still stood by me. She’s my backbone.

I can’t lie to you- the thought of being a bit mad/mysterious/dangerously brilliant, etc. always appealed to me. Growing up, I wanted to become the furthest thing from a dainty woman. I wanted to get my hands dirty, to be wondered about, to be as tough as balls, to keep as crazy and fearless as I could be. I hungered for more than just what was in front of me.

That’s not to say I was a tomboy, or didn’t dress up, or anything of the sort. But I knew I felt an instant connection whenever I read Plath, and my friends can attest that I love being secretive and then living up the shock factor. So, it only feels fitting that I am now a Madwoman.

Let me explain. Last night, I had my first class in the workshop Madwomen in the Attic at Carlow University. I am taking a Creative Nonfiction workshop, once a week, for 12 weeks. I’ve always written poetry, but want to delve further into this genre I find so captivating. I want to learn how to write such truly personal, real, and raw stories that allow for an intimacy between the writer and the reader.

When I left that room two hours later, I felt a mixture of two things- and neither were a surprise to me. First, I regretted not getting involved sooner. As many of you know, I have not written consistently for the past six years or so. Sitting there among a group of very diverse women (many who were much older than me) I suspect we all felt the same in that aspect. We introduced ourselves, talked about our experience with writing, our struggles with the process, etc. I felt so at home within these unfamiliar walls and with these strangers, because we shared the same passion and the same goal. No matter what paths we had traveled, or where we came from, we met at this intersection. To be united as women and have the support, the inspiration, the push to be better…The strength of that is unparalleled.

Second, I felt young, inexperienced, nervous, inadequate. I haven’t written in forever, and have next to no experience writing creative nonfiction. Furthermore, guess who was chosen to go first to be workshopped? This girl.

So, now I am off to create a story composed of 800 brilliant words, in which I do not even have the slightest clue where to start.

For all you creative writers, what are some prompts you’ve used before to help get the words flowing, especially with this genre? Any other suggestions or tips on writing creative nonfiction? Would love to hear from you!

P.S. A promise to you all: Whatever I write, I’ll reveal in a post two weeks from now!

P.S. As a follow-up, you can find my first rough draft here: The Mark I Left