Creative Writing : Are You Paying Attention?

Part of my Creative Non-Fiction Writing Assignment

Are You Paying Attention?

“I know how to do it,” I said to my dad with a heavy sigh. Still, he grabs the drill from my hands and insists on showing me the “correct” way to mix paint using the drill with the mixer attachment. He has shown me the correct way at least five times over the course of my life. Every time I glanced away he snapped at me and asked “Are you paying attention?” His face was red and his eyes bulged out a bit but it was not an unfamiliar facial expression, his angry face is his normal face. “Repeat the steps,” he asked me, like this paint mixing lesson would save my life one day. The thought brings about the image of a crime noir back alley bathed in darkness. There is a man there but I cannot see his face. His gun is raised in my direction and he orders me to mix the paint, correctly, or die. I chuckled. The mixer began to turn the paint and I followed my dad’s instructions that have been drilled into my head. The paint was thick yet soft as it playful twirled in the can. My attention shifted for a brief moment and some paint splashed out, leaping for freedom. I cringed as I watched a large drop land on my dad’s boot. "That's what happens when you don't pay attention!" The lessons will never be over.

Creative Writing : The End of the Story

Part of my Creative Non-Fiction Writing Assignment

The End of the Story

My dad was talking about something which I had insistently forgotten about the moment he began. He has the habit of giving too much detail, taking the scenic route of a conversation that should have only taken only a few minutes but stretched effortlessly into half an hour. I have learned that the only part to pay attention to is the last few minutes which is where his true point lies. What began as a conversation about remodeling the house had veered into how old Bill Cosby was. I was only pulled in to the conversation again as he reminisced about listening to the radio as a child. When he talked about his past, his usual stern loud voice quieted to a whisper with a low hum behind every word. Instantly, I am taken back to when I was six years old in my bed, underneath my Little Mermaid covers. He is leaning on the side of the bed with a childrens book. He reads to me softly, his voice emitting a soothing rumble that lulls me to sleep. The last part of the story is always forgotten, replaced by a dull murmur that evaporates into silence. And with a loud clearing of his voice, I am back at the dining room table continuing on the scenic route, awaiting its final destination.

Poem : Woe to the Written Word

Binding wavers and winces when opened,
Pages weeping from its worn cracked center,
Exposing tiny threads holding what,
Remains of its spine to its washed out words,
That were once so bold but now willowy,
Held by these humane hands,
No longer having the backbone to withstand,
All the weighty words it is expected to carry.

Poem : They Don't Answer When I Ring

A doll house with flawless fittings
A miniature imitation of
The residence that houses it

Three dolls are sitting silently
On three separate floors alongside
The heavily curtained windows

Silence violently vibrating
Permeating paper thin walls
A stillness falls around the house

What’s this migrating malady
Spreading between lifeless houses
That makes me walk the other way

The stiff doll house family figures
Identical to their owners
But more alive than I thought

Poem : The Depth

The Depth

Atop this vast frozen pond laying above the deepest depth,

Imprisoned by its cold bond of ice seeping into the flesh.

The wind shows no mercy here drawing away my own air,

From my lungs it disappears leaving me in bitter despair.

The barren trees reach for me but what cover can they provide,

With weather-worn arms empty and wary roots to far astride.

Through its limbs the wind still blows and the curious sun still shines,

Watching the ice as it flows through my veins and from my eyes.

Soon the sun will desert my sight and give way to the winter moon,

And on comes a severe night to bring about my frozen ruin.

Numbness climbs from feet to brow leaving deadness on my face,

But I feel more here and now than I did in your warm embrace.

Book Review: Self-Made Man

"Self-Made Man" by Norah Vincent takes the reader into the secret world of men. Vincent transforms herself into a male alter-ego, Ned, in order to infiltrate various male dominated areas. She uses her disguise to observe the way men communicate with each other and females. Through Ned, she takes the reader on a journey to see the comical friendships of the bowling league, the primal displays at the strip club, and even an insider look at the almost impossible feat of dating (and how impossible women can be!).

Vincent introduces her book not as a scientific study that can be applied to all American men but only her perceptions influenced by what she experienced. Her writing is believable and opens eyes to a world that women have never truly seen. Not only does she introduce a new male perspective but also raises the issue if can be gender defined as social. What is the definition of manliness? Is is defined in DNA or because of what is socially acceptable? This is a very interesting read for how the world sees men and should be read by everyone who questions of the social restriction of gender.

ISBN-13: 9780143038702

Shelf Life rating of: 4