Black River Revised

Several months ago I blogged “Black River”, a piece of journal writing that detailed a near-drown experience. I focused on action and description to tell the tale from first person perspective. I shared the piece with an online writing circle at the National Writing Project; in particular I asked for feedback to transform this journal into a short personal narrative. My colleagues enjoyed the writing, provided some insightful feedback, and encouraged me to rewrite “Black River”

Last week I attended Columbia University’s “Teachers College Summer Institute” – a weeklong series of workshops for language arts teachers developed by Lucy Calkins. This was my second year attending, therefore enrolled in the advanced institute. The institute focused on two genres of writing: personal narrative and personal essay. I jumped at the opportunity to rewrite “Black River” rather than develop another personal narrative.

Certain techniques worked particularly well for the rewrite. I created a timeline as an initial prewrite strategy. The events came directly from that “Black River” blog entry.

• First spring day in April
• Working on an assignment for grad school
• Caroline came home, decided to spend time with her kayaking
• Brought kayaks down to the river
• Decided to navigate down the D&R canal because of mid-tide
• Discover a new path we want to explore
• Dock & scurry up the wall
• Explore the path
• I fall getting back into the kayak
• Caroline falls in next
• Realize that I might drown
• The slow rescue
• Swamped ride back home

I choose to work with two particular revision tools from Barry Lane’s Reviser’s Toolbox: the collapsing and exploding moment. You collapse unnecessary information into the least amount of writing possible. All that backstory about grad school and springtime are collapsed. I choose to start right in the moment, right when we are descending back down that wall. The crux of the story is when I fall into the water. I’ll give it particular attention by exploding the moment- stretch out a small moment by writing in detail. I rewrote the timeline keeping these two ideas of narrative time in mind.

Secondly, I wanted to transform an introspective / descriptive piece of writing into a story. I choose to take some more tools out of the Reviser’s Toolbox: snapshot, thoughtshot, and dialogue. Snapshot describes the physical setting like it was a picture. Thoughtshot is nothing more than internal monolog of thoughts and emotions. Alternating thoughts, speech, and description gave me different approaches to storytelling.

Consider my revised timeline:

• Setting the background story (dialogue & thoughtshot)
• Fall getting into the kayak (explore the moment)
• Me in the water (thoughtshot)
• Attempt to save myself (snapshot)
• Wife falls in (snapshot & thoughtshot)
• Realize I might drown (snapshot & thoughtshot)
• Saving myself (snapshot)

Check out the rewrite, and compare the two versions. I am happy with the progress, but still feel that this piece of writing could go through a few more states of revision. For example, I might share this version with someone and try to locate areas that need clarification. Another strategy is to ask myself, "What am I trying to accomplish in this piece of writing? Do I achieve that goal?" and adjust where necessary.

Anyway, I am sharing the “Black River” rewrite with you to demonstrate that writing is process. Also, there are effective tools that we can teach our students to make them more independant writers (and less dependant on teacher/student conferences). It takes several rewrites and revisions before getting at the heart of the moment, and craft a story that is worth a reread.

Black River (revised)

Caroline grabbed a tree-root and began to scale back down the wooden retaining wall. She eased her way back into the kayak, most of her weight carried by her swimming-toned shoulder muscles.

“Why did we ever anchor here?” she asked.

I shrugged- either not knowing or caring.

“We should have landed farther up the canal where the banks sloped. Seems like a smarter plan than this.”

But what did she know?

I glanced down the wall, an old canal lock, abandoned since trains overtook the donkey and barge system of transportation. On the surface, the canal appeared calm: glassy like a black mirror reflecting back toward the spring sky. A few low-hanging tree branches dipped below the waters, caught in a current sent towards the Delaware River.

“Follow my way down,” she said. “Use the roots like a ladder.”

Instead I followed a path of my own design; my foot searched out below for crevices river-worn into the wall. “It’s a four-foot drop; hardly any need precautions,” I thought. My feet planted squarely with the kayak. Caroline turned to smile. I grinned back with a mischievous wrinkle on my eyebrow that seemed to say, “Bah, I found the rugged way down.”

In that split-second between intention and accident, mind and body raced to comprehend. Fwomp. My frame tilted. Counterbalance. My mind coached, “Don’t fall. Don’t fall,” meanwhile body stiffened into a controlled fall. Splash. My eyes reached upward toward Caroline as feet plummeted toward the depthless base of the riverbed.

The river began to close around like a crushing blanket of ice. My hooded sweatshirt, saturated with water, pulled me downward as an unseen current swooshed me towards the river. My arm shot out for a hold. Any hold. Something to bring me back to surface and dry land. Only the kayak was within reach. In a fierce doggie paddle, I managed to leverage myself atop the kayak, submerging it deep below that glassy surface.

My second plea… I heard the violence of water take Caroline as she tipped her kayak. My only lifeguard was now the new co-victim. I wanted to be manly, swoop down on a vine and save her from the raging rivers. The scene played back in my mind, black and white, like an old Tarzan movie. How could I save her when I couldn’t even save myself?

There I was: weighed down by a waterlogged sweatshirt, anchored by a submerged kayak. I flailed in panic; each uncoordinated motion adding the weight of fatigue to my arms and legs. Arms impotent, and at the mercy of the current below… as the surface reflected back toward the spring sky. I wondered if my life was supposed to flash before me. Nothing. I tried to force a memory, each time coming up empty. Was this my time?

“Joe,” Caroline called.

I turned back. There she was, hanging onto a low-hanging tree branch in one hand. Each second put another foot between us.

“Joe!” she screamed.

For all that it was worth, I paddled with one arm, as the other trailed the kayak. Another attempt- my arm shot out for a hold. Any hold. This time my fingers found grip of the wall. It was smooth, water-worn over the years, and slicked by algae. Who would have imagined that finger strength could be that dividing line between…

“Joe! Grab the roots.” With the arms of a swimmer, Caroline began to climb back up the wall of that canal lock, pulling herself back out of the water.

My fingers were numb and trembled beneath the weight of water. That spring day, along the lock of the Delaware Canal, I slid my tired and aching body over the gravel and mud; in safety, I glanced over to my wife, drenched and cold, and choked on the fresh air.

Tags: personal narrative, short story, revision, writing process, kayak, Delaware River, D&R canal, drown