2007 Summer Insitute Writing Marathon
Today I joined a mini-writing marathon for the new fellows participating in the Invitational Summer Insitute hosted by the National Writing Project (NWP) at Rutgers University. The writing marathon is based on a journal exercise described by author Natalie Goldberg in her book Writing Down the Bones. In this book, Goldberg suggests how to approach the marathon:
My group set out from the Graduate School of Education, down Voorhees Mall, towards the Old Queens campus; our first stop was Kirkpatrick Chapel. We spent 15 minutes writing inside the chapel, and shared outside on the lawn. The group made way past the lawn, and directly to the train station across the street. We uncomfortably crammed into an elevator up to the train platform. It smelled of urine, baked by the summer's heat-- that made for good writing fodder. We only spent 10 minutes writing at the station, and then shared at Marita's Cantina over nachos (a marathon isn't complete without food and drink). Court's Tavern made for a good final stop on our writing marathon. We wrote for a full 30 minutes, and shared our writing over a beer.
2007wmisi tagged map - Tagzania
Kirkpatrick Chapel- 15 minutes
“What does it mean to have faith in God,” he asked, not expecting an answer in return. “The geographical history of the earth. Big bang. Continents shifting. Evolution. Movements of culture across continents, diverging and rejoining. Thanks to science and history, we already have the answers. There is no mystery anymore—just scientific proof.”
“I don’t know…” she started.
“Of course you don’t. Religion doesn’t prove something…”
“I don’t know. I mean to say, I want to believe in something more than here and now. I need to believe there is meaning in my life. That I was born for a reason, to serve a greater good. Your born. You live. You die. But what for? Religion gives me that answer. There is something beyond the scientific mechanics. There is beauty in what we don’t know.”
Train Station- 10 minutes
The subway station smelled of urinal cakes, smoldering cigarette butts, burnt coffee. Not the place you’d imagine for a romantic tryst. Dimly lit. The overhead fluorescent tubes flickered in and out of tempo. Water drip, drip, dripped deep within the bowels of the tunnel. But she insisted on meeting halfway. That was their relationship, always meeting halfway. The tunnel was alive with a beat of it’s own, so distant, yet unmistakable. Growing in timber, like a crescendo of timpani drums. His heart picked up. Rhythm, like the chugging sounds of the engine that would bring her back to him.
Court Tavern – 25 minutes
“Hey Jersey, you gonna ride?” That wasn’t a question. That was a statement veiled as a question, veiled as a test to my masculinity.
“What’s it to ya Texas?” I chided back.
At first, he rode the pause in conversation. Lingering long enough where I became slightly uncomfortable. Then he grinned at me with his eyes and slammed down a shot of whiskey.
“Do you have what it takes to prove that you have some nads city boy.” He spoke soft, yet firm. Overemphasizing city, like it was some kind of derogatory term. Maybe it was around these parts.
Dear God, it’s times like this I wish I was witty. I’m blessed to have a quick mind—though there isn’t any synaptic response between my thoughts and words. My tongue bumbled around with a few syllables. I stuttered, sucking down the air of silence. You know, someone should write a dictionary of wit-isms for times like this. A pocket reference for all the right things to say in times like this. That’s the moment I decided that actions must speak louder than words, and gave my nod to Texas.
“So, what’s it going to be,” he asked.
I pushed the stool outward, with the back of my legs, and stood from the bar. At first it took will to place one foot in front of the other. But something deep inside me disconnected from the situation. It was at that moment that I felt outside of myself, like I was watching a sitcom on TV where I also happened to be the main character of the episode. Something deep within me took over- I think they call it testosterone, and my body moved on autopilot.
Big Texas took pleasure at all of this, and guffawed as I made my way toward the mechanical bull. He shouted “Look at Jersey go!” in a sing-song sort of way. “Go Jersey go!” Cheering me onward, drawing a large audience to watch the debacle.
I’m Jersey. I’m suburban. I push a lawn mower for sport. What did I know about riding a mechanical bull? I knew well enough that I didn’t know. There was no faking experience or skill. I’d ride this blanged contraption out of sheer determination. That should show Big Texas I had the balls.
Everyone in the group agrees to commit himself or herself for the full time. Then we make up a schedule. For example, a ten-minute writing session, another ten-minute session, a fifteen-minute session, two twenty-minute sessions, and then we finish with a half-hour round of writing. So for the first session, we all write for ten minutes and then go around the room and read what we’ve written with no comments by anyone. . . . A pause naturally happens after each reader, but we do not say “That was great” or even “I know what you mean.” There is no good or bad, no praise or criticism. We read what we have written and go on to the next person. . . . What usually happens is you stop thinking: you write; you become less and less self-conscious. Everyone is in the same boat, and because no comments are made, you feel freer and freer to write anything you want. (150)The purpose of writing marathon mesh's with the NWP's main philosophy that teachers of writing should practice what they teach. The marathon offers a writing experience unfettered by genre, style, prompt, etc. It's actually quite relieving to get out of a computer lab or classroom and just write. Richard Louth describes how the marathon was put to use at their local NWP site in the article The New Orleans Writing Marathon. Louth gives additional advice:
- If you go into a restaurant or bar, be sure to order something.
- If anyone asks, tell them you are a writer.
- Keep in mind that you are doing this for yourself and for nobody else.
My group set out from the Graduate School of Education, down Voorhees Mall, towards the Old Queens campus; our first stop was Kirkpatrick Chapel. We spent 15 minutes writing inside the chapel, and shared outside on the lawn. The group made way past the lawn, and directly to the train station across the street. We uncomfortably crammed into an elevator up to the train platform. It smelled of urine, baked by the summer's heat-- that made for good writing fodder. We only spent 10 minutes writing at the station, and then shared at Marita's Cantina over nachos (a marathon isn't complete without food and drink). Court's Tavern made for a good final stop on our writing marathon. We wrote for a full 30 minutes, and shared our writing over a beer.
2007wmisi tagged map - Tagzania
Kirkpatrick Chapel- 15 minutes
“What does it mean to have faith in God,” he asked, not expecting an answer in return. “The geographical history of the earth. Big bang. Continents shifting. Evolution. Movements of culture across continents, diverging and rejoining. Thanks to science and history, we already have the answers. There is no mystery anymore—just scientific proof.”
“I don’t know…” she started.
“Of course you don’t. Religion doesn’t prove something…”
“I don’t know. I mean to say, I want to believe in something more than here and now. I need to believe there is meaning in my life. That I was born for a reason, to serve a greater good. Your born. You live. You die. But what for? Religion gives me that answer. There is something beyond the scientific mechanics. There is beauty in what we don’t know.”
Train Station- 10 minutes
The subway station smelled of urinal cakes, smoldering cigarette butts, burnt coffee. Not the place you’d imagine for a romantic tryst. Dimly lit. The overhead fluorescent tubes flickered in and out of tempo. Water drip, drip, dripped deep within the bowels of the tunnel. But she insisted on meeting halfway. That was their relationship, always meeting halfway. The tunnel was alive with a beat of it’s own, so distant, yet unmistakable. Growing in timber, like a crescendo of timpani drums. His heart picked up. Rhythm, like the chugging sounds of the engine that would bring her back to him.
Court Tavern – 25 minutes
“Hey Jersey, you gonna ride?” That wasn’t a question. That was a statement veiled as a question, veiled as a test to my masculinity.
“What’s it to ya Texas?” I chided back.
At first, he rode the pause in conversation. Lingering long enough where I became slightly uncomfortable. Then he grinned at me with his eyes and slammed down a shot of whiskey.
“Do you have what it takes to prove that you have some nads city boy.” He spoke soft, yet firm. Overemphasizing city, like it was some kind of derogatory term. Maybe it was around these parts.
Dear God, it’s times like this I wish I was witty. I’m blessed to have a quick mind—though there isn’t any synaptic response between my thoughts and words. My tongue bumbled around with a few syllables. I stuttered, sucking down the air of silence. You know, someone should write a dictionary of wit-isms for times like this. A pocket reference for all the right things to say in times like this. That’s the moment I decided that actions must speak louder than words, and gave my nod to Texas.
“So, what’s it going to be,” he asked.
I pushed the stool outward, with the back of my legs, and stood from the bar. At first it took will to place one foot in front of the other. But something deep inside me disconnected from the situation. It was at that moment that I felt outside of myself, like I was watching a sitcom on TV where I also happened to be the main character of the episode. Something deep within me took over- I think they call it testosterone, and my body moved on autopilot.
Big Texas took pleasure at all of this, and guffawed as I made my way toward the mechanical bull. He shouted “Look at Jersey go!” in a sing-song sort of way. “Go Jersey go!” Cheering me onward, drawing a large audience to watch the debacle.
I’m Jersey. I’m suburban. I push a lawn mower for sport. What did I know about riding a mechanical bull? I knew well enough that I didn’t know. There was no faking experience or skill. I’d ride this blanged contraption out of sheer determination. That should show Big Texas I had the balls.
Tags:
Labels: National Writing Project, writing marathon
