I took a marvelous writing class at Northwestern this summer. We only wrote and revised one story in the six weeks, but there was a lot of additional writing on top of this via exercises that were largely derived from two books: Janet Burroway's
Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft and the better known
The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner; both of these are pretty much required reading for anyone serious about writing fiction).
Those 18 exercises were challenging, but on the nights that I was really into it they were unbelievably fun. I thought I'd share one of my exercises here. You're going to be dropped smack-dab into the middle of a story. The rest of it is not written; honestly, beyond the scene below, the story hasn't even been
conceived. But this is one of two or three exercises from that summer class that I could definitely see expanding into something longer and fuller.
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THE EXERCISE: Write a scene that shows a character who feels the pressing importance of getting or accomplishing something. That something need not seem significant to others; in fact, most people might find it trivial (e.g., he is terribly embarrassed even though no one seems to notice anything wrong; she must have a certain book from the library; etc.). Purpose: to make a character interesting by showing the intensity of her/his needs or desires.I was having a hard time concentrating on what the officer was asking. I think I was finally going into something like shock. I was staring at a spot over the policeman’s right shoulder, remembering details of the accident, the point of impact, where the girl had ended up, where her mother landed, the color of the car, any scrap of info on the license plate … I was drowning in unorganized thoughts, when all of a sudden I realized I had been staring at something underneath a parked car.
It was a toy, a Rubik’s Cube. The puzzle was unsolved, a jumble of colored squares. I think the officer was repeating some question about what time it was, but all I could do was fall into those solid squares, count them off, unlock the patterns.
I was in high-school when I got my Cube. Actually, I borrowed it. Okay, stole it. I disappeared to my bedroom for a few afternoons, never quite figuring out the trick to solving it, and finally walking in the rain one day to the mall bookstore to copy down with a ballpoint the solution from a pamphlet on the back of several record store receipts. I mastered the Cube. I got to where I was able to solve it from any position in less than two minutes. Eventually the satisfaction of that ordered universe dulled, and I returned it to the locker from which it had been stolen.
And now the Cube was back. The little girl had been holding it, I remembered that. I didn’t remember seeing it fly when the car struck them. What was playing over and over was the two-part thud —
da-THUNK. The sound was so dominant that I didn’t remember hearing tires squeal, though there were straight-as-arrow skid marks. Neither victim uttered a sound, not even of surprise. And the bodies: the mother, in a thin skirt, looking almost birdlike as she traveled; the child, in blue jeans, never really getting to experience grace in her life and certainly not showing it in her final moment.
And now, there it was, at least 50 feet from where the girl ended up. Green squares. Yellow. Red. Blue. Mostly blue. What were the other colors that I couldn’t see? White? Black? Purple?
“Mr. Poidevin,” the officer said, “if you can just bear with me for a few more minutes …”
“I’m sorry, yes, can you excuse me for just a moment?” I asked.
“Just a few more questions,” he said.
“I know, I just need to get … I need to look at something.” I lifted the yellow tape and bent under it.
“Sir!” the officer barked, and then modulated his voice. “Mr. Poidevin, this is a crime scene, and you may not go past the tape.”
“I’m not touching anything,” I muttered. “I just need to … I need to look at something in that car.”
“Which car?” the officer said. He had a hand on my arm now. It was a polite tug-of-war. I remembered when my father would grab me like this. I had learned to shuck out of my nylon windbreaker and get away. That would not be a good idea now.
“The black one, right there. Look, I’ll be right back. Then you can ask me anything.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve sealed the crime scene. Now, please come back to the other side of the tape.”
We stood still, him and me. I wanted to call him by his name, but now I couldn’t remember it, and I couldn’t take my eyes off my target to look at his badge. The Cube was right there, by the rear wheel of the car, its colors almost pulsing. The girl seemed young to be doing that puzzle. Surely she couldn’t solve it. I could do it, for her. I could put it right.
“I can’t remember …” I started to say. My eyes filled, and the Cube was lost in the blur. I bowed my head, pinched my eyes with thumb and index finger. Deep breath. “Alright, alright,” I said, ducking back under the tape.
The policeman returned to his interview. I thought about making up answers just to end this so that I could get to work on the puzzle, but that would only complicate things. Instead, I tried to focus on the policeman’s face, kept my answers brief, and tried not to give away the Rubik’s Cube’s location.
“That will be it,” he said. As I stepped away, toward the tape again, he added: “I just need your contact information, in case we need to follow up.” He clearly noticed my distress. “Mr. Poidevin, do you need to sit down?”
No, what I need is for you to let me fix the damn puzzle! I thought.
“I’m fine.” As I gave him my address and phone number, I saw another officer walking deliberately in the middle of the street, as if making certain he didn’t step on a land mine. He was studying the asphalt as if he’d lost something. He wore purple latex gloves. He slowly made his way toward the black car and the Cube.
“Thank you, Mr. Poidevin,” my officer said. The investigating officer crouched down. He had seen the toy. He called someone with a camera over.
“That’s mine!” I yelled. My face flushed. Both officers turned to look at me, expecting clarification. “I dropped that, that’s mine!”
Still crouching, the policeman by the car pointed at the Cube. “This?” he asked.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“Is this your car?” he asked.
I was about to say yes, but my policeman said, “No, that’s his VW over there.” I forgot I had told him that. The photographer moved in for close-ups of the Cube, and then he stepped away, nodding to Officer Gloves.
As the other officer walked over to us, he smiled and said, “We have witnesses who says the child was holding this.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” I said simply.
“So, this is your toy?” my officer said. He was amused. It was a strange place to feel amusement.
I nodded, doing my best to temper my impatience. I allowed a glance at it, and I could almost hear the gratifying sound the Cube being twisted and turned, the calming rhythms, the feeling that my hands and wrists knew how to work together and make everything right.
Having considered my appeal, the gloved officer produced a plastic bag from his pocket, snapped it open, and dropped the Cube in. “Carlos,” he addressed my officer, “give me this guy’s contact info and I’ll attach it.” And then to me: “You can pick it up in a few weeks.”
As he walked away, he shook the bag at his side, and the Cube bounced against his thigh.
