The Writing Room kicks off 2012 next week! Upcoming sessions meet 2nd and 4th Tuesdays from 6:30-8:30pm at the Women’s Center of Greater Lansing (1712 E. Michigan Ave., Lansing). See the About page for more details.
Save this digital flyer and pass it on! We hope to spread word about meetings times and the new open mic. Our first open mic is Monday, October 10, at 8:00pm.
This post is part of the contributor series “Spring 2011.”
“The Beaten Path”
The speedometer read 80. The fuel gauge’s needle floated just below 1/8th of a tank.
The windows were open. The man driving the car flicked a cigarette butt out the window, allowing the wind to grasp and toss it onto the road that was rapidly fading into the distance. He glanced into the mirror, and smiled softly to himself as he surveyed the familiar landscape stretched out behind him. The man allowed himself a moment of nostalgia before once again returning his attention ahead. He couldn’t see far. The sun was setting in the mirror, and before him dark clouds obfuscated a pink sky.
Glancing in the mirror again, his attention turned to a small, dark bag in the back seat. It wasn’t a particularly noteworthy bag. Its straps were worn with use, its sides scuffed and dulled. Everyone he knew carried one just like it. It bore no identifying marks save for a pair of initials embroidered in white thread on a zippered pocket. The man driving the car briefly considered rummaging through its contents, but decided against it before lighting another cigarette and focusing his thoughts on what lay ahead of him. A heavy fog obscured the highway.
In the distance, a small green rectangle quickly grew into a road sign boldly stating in white block letters: Exit.
Is this it? The man thought, absently rummaging through the door pocket for a map that wasn’t there. Before he knew it, the sign was rapidly fading away in his rear view mirror. The man frowned and ashed his cigarette out the window. I’ll just take the next one.
It began to rain, slowly at first but faster and harder as the car sped farther and farther under thick gray clouds. He rolled the windows up, leaving a crack for the smoke to slither its way out. In the backseat, the unremarkable black bag lay slumped against the door. Something about it caught his eye, and he studied it for a moment. He studied its worn fabric, its frayed straps, and the pearl-white initials engraved along its outer pocket. Again he considered fishing through its contents. In the mirror, another sign receded into the distance. The speedometer read 80. The fuel gauge’s needle loomed precariously above empty. Damn.
Lightning split through the sky like a spear, and the man gripped the wheel tight as it began to rain harder. He squinted into the distance, but couldn’t make out what lay ahead. He was lost. The steady whine of the car’s engine and consoling beats from the stereo drowned out the sound of the windshield wipers’ struggle to keep the rain at bay. He glanced into his mirror and watched his missed exit fade into the horizon. There’s always the next one.
Through the sheet of water falling from the sky, the man thought he saw something in the distance. Another sign. He couldn’t make out its message, but it drew nearer and nearer with each second.
This might as well be it. In the backseat, he thought he saw the bag move.
The speedometer read 80, the fuel gauge read empty.
—–
“Sunrises”
Light assails the blinds in my bedroom, growing in intensity as its color shifts from soft orange to brilliant yellow. Bright beams slip through, and splay themselves against cream colored walls in glowing streaks. My eyes, heavy with the weight of scattered dreams but sensing the enemy at the gates, fight their way open and I groan awake.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m showered and attempting to get my leg into a pair of jeans. The blinds are open now, and the light pouring in is a welcome change from the early morning darkness. Silence no longer fills the room, as soft reggae music flows from my computer speakers and covers up the sounds of my struggle.
Cleaned and clothed, I open my door and step out of my room. I smell pancakes. The house is empty, except for my mom, who sits at the counter sipping a cup of tea.
“I made pancakes!” she says with a warm smile.
I reply with a groggy “I see!” sarcastically mocking her cheery disposition. She laughs as I pick at the plentiful leftovers of my younger siblings, who have already been at their various schools for an hour. We talk absently about cleaning up the basement and rearranging some gym equipment. It isn’t long before the clock on the oven reads 7:35. At my mom’s urging, I make my way towards the door, slapping all my pockets as I stumble down the stairs. Phone? Yup. Wallet? Got it. Car keys? Present. Slipping on my shoes as I open the door, my mom shouts from the kitchen, “Drive carefully!”
“I’m doing 80 the whole way, you can’t stop me!” I say with a grin, as I tauntingly jingle my keys. Mom rolls her eyes.
Like a curtain drawing open before a stage, the garage door slowly makes its way up, revealing my little red car sitting in the driveway. The spring sun casts warm rays against my shoulders and I take a deep, clean breath. It tastes like fresh cut grass. As I walk towards the driver’s door, I lovingly pat the trunk as I walk by. The antenna falls off.
After a couple of tries, I start the car, and drive off.
Dull orange slats of light splay up against cracked, cream-colored walls. Underneath my pillow, my phone vibrates violently and screams its alarm. 8:50. No time. Adrenaline floods my veins, and I sharply remove myself from my bed’s warm embrace. I find a pair of sweatpants lying on the floor, and pull them on in a quick motion. Behind half-closed blinds, cold wind blows in through the open window. Sufficiently clothed, I gather my things. Phone? Yup. Wallet? Got it. Room keys? Present.
My stomach groans hungrily, breaking the still silence that filled the room. No breakfast today. I slip my shoes on and step out of my room. In the empty hall, the air is warm and stale. I turn and walk outside. Cold raindrops sprinkle from a solid gray sky, and I turn my coat collar up to block the icy breeze.
I start walking.
This post is part of the contributor series “Spring 2011.”
From the second I was born I was a Michigan State Spartan. Both of my parents went to the great school as well as my grandparents and most of my aunts and uncles. I always planned on attending MSU and my opinion never once changed. Since I grew up with this attached to my mind I developed a deep love for the school. It was my school and I was proud of it. MSU was one of the few things I was and am passionate about, so when I first had to start hearing the criticism people gave my beloved school it didn’t sit well with me. Mainly these putdowns against Michigan State came from what was happening on the football field against our rival college. This rivalry became my obsession.
Rivalries are what make college football standout above the pros. We mark these games down on our preseason football schedules, and count down the days to the showdown. Every game before that one rivalry game is just one step closer to the game we all actually are waiting to watch. Here at the great Michigan State University we have one and only one true rival. The most hated school in the history of college sports. Yes of course I am talking about the University of Michigan. We are tasked with keeping their ego crazed fans in check by giving them the defeat they deserve.
Do not be fooled by any Wolverine, or the rest of the world for that matter, MSU their biggest game. Unfortunately, Ohio State is considered their greatest rival by the nation. That game gets severe national coverage and is considered amongst many to be the biggest rivalry in any sport. This is bothersome because that is no rivalry or at least in this day of age it isn’t. Michigan has not beaten them on the gridiron in years now. That game is not even remotely fun to watch.
The MSU/UM game on the other hand is almost always exciting and has been for years now – constant lead changes, last second finishes, triple overtimes. And the best part about it for us Spartans is that MSU has had the greatest trilogy of victories over the past three seasons. This is amazing because State had been getting destroyed in the rivalry before 2008. Yet no one reports on this game like they should. Sports Center hardly acknowledges it is happening and this upsets me.
The world doesn’t understand the feud that goes on in this state. Nobody except State fans, who have experience the hardships through the years of losses, really know how intense this rivalry is. Wolverine fans know it too; they just will never admit it. My strong feeling on the subject has a background to it. Growing up I wasn’t the biggest sports fan. I didn’t know anything about MSU football. Going into middle school my opinions about sports started to change. It was 2004 and the Detroit Pistons had won the NBA Finals. I was forced to watch the NBA basketball games and follow the pistons to their championship. It was the most exciting thing I had ever watched, and this is when Tyler the sports fan was born.
This post is part of the contributor series “Spring 2011.”
The Benmark may not be a time machine in the literal sense of the term, but it does its best. There is no cell service, no television, no paved roads. The only vehicles there are Jeeps from the ’50s and a ’62 International Scout, along with a few old ATVs. It is a few thousand acres of woods fenced in with 13 or so cabins scattered about the premises. As much as I love my personal time machine, living in the past can have its down sides.
Driving up to the family cabin in the winter was always risky. If you got stuck in the snow or crashed there was no phone to call for help and it was at the very least a mile walk to the nearest tow. This particular trip was stressful. My dad and I had decided to take a weekend trip up north and a blizzard hit half way there. The roads were slippery, but we made it there safe.
After we walked in the door to open up the place was when things took a turn for the worse. It had been a particularly cold winter and the pipes were frozen. Of course.
Many people would at this point turn around and go home. The pipes were frozen and there was no phone. We were unable to call a repairman and without supplies it would be almost pointless to try to fix the situation. The storm had cleared up for the most part; at this point, however, without running water it wasn’t exactly going to be the relaxing weekend we had hoped for. Most would come to the conclusion that there was nothing to be done, not for the time being anyway. Not my dad.
We had come too far in too horrible of weather to turn around at this point, and although the cabin sat atop quite a tall hill, there was a stream at the bottom. Logically the running water in the stream must be warmer than the frozen water in the pipes. So I was given a bucket and told to get the water. I wasn’t sure how this was going to help our situation. However I try to make a habit of doing what my dad asks, so down the hill I went.
I will never forget the ten or so trips I made to the stream that day. It was still snowing quite a bit, and there was already a foot or so of snow on the ground. This combined with the fact that the hill to the stream was quite steep made fetching the water almost unbearable and quite frankly, in my opinion, almost pointless. I would fill up my bucket at the bottom of the hill and by the time I reached the cabin about half of it would have spilled out on the ground, and on me making me even colder. No matter how hard I tried to balance that bucket of water most of it found its way out. The foot of snow and tree roots didn’t help much. Finally it became evident that this plan was not going to work. The cabin was old and the pipes were frozen, probably even broken by now anyway.
My dad looked at the tiny, pipe-frozen cabin and then at me covered in icy cold water. It must have been the last straw for him. The cabin had been getting old for quite some time now. Leaks in the roof had had to be patched and one of the heaters had broken last winter as well. And that’s when it was decided to build a new cabin.
Note from the author: This story was written about my family cabin. It was inspired by a picture of a family that was given as an optional prompt during a Writing Room session. This is based on a true story with some minor tweaks in order to better give the feeling I wanted to portray.
From February to April 2011, Michigan State University students from service-learning courses took part in The Writing Room. The forthcoming posts are from those writers. Thanks to these contributors for sharing their words!
The Writing Room continues this fall twice a month at a new time, 6:30-8:30pm on 2nd and 4th Mondays, starting September 26. The first hour still offers self-directed writing followed by an hour of voluntary exchange.
New this season is an open mic during the exchange part for one session each month. Also, we will alternate locations. Meetings with the open mic take place at Gone Wired Cafe, and the other meeting continues at the Women’s Center of Greater Lansing.
Here are our dates and locations:
Women’s Center Greater Lansing, 1712 E. Michigan Ave., Lansing
An hour of writing followed by exchange
September 26, October 24, & November 28 (4th Mondays)Gone Wired Cafe, 2021 E. Michigan Ave., Lansing
An hour of writing followed by open mic
October 10, November 14, & December 12 (2nd Mondays)
See the “About” page to learn more about The Writing Room.
Summer sessions for 2011 meet 2nd and 4th Tuesdays at the Women’s Center of Greater Lansing from June to August with the exception of July 12. Regulars Sandra Cade and Claire Vallotton wanted to keep the circle going over the summer, so a big thanks to them for facilitating!
The updated description for The Writing Room is available in the “About” page.
When The Writing Room convenes, there’s always an optional writing prompt on hand, an offering toward inspiration. Many times people bring a project or idea of our own to a session. Even in these cases, the prompt can offer a spark or direction that’s productive for the creative process.
At our first session in November, the word “synchronicity” served as the optional prompt. I had brought a poem that’s been years in the making. Quite unexpectedly and strikingly, the definition for synchronicity worked its way into the stanzas. Now titled “northern fields”, the poem is nearing closure, in part due to that happy coincidence.
The Writing Room most recently met on January 20, and the poem “Legacy–Hers” by Audre Lorde served as the optional prompt. The poem unfurls the relationship between Lorde and her mother, and is accessible with the Amazon reader of Lorde’s collection The Marvelous Arithmetic of Distance: Poems 1987-1992.
“Legacy–Hers” is a powerful and mysterious glance at a profound connection, raising questions about the shared history of these two women. The climax places daughter by the elder’s death bed. In the final lines, the adult child carries away a single profound word from her mother: “wonderful”. And Lorde succeeds in carrying the resonance of these syllables, italicizing the word on its own line.
