The first creative writing class I ever took was back in the 90s. I’d been living in Chicago and was back home in San Diego visiting. My friend Karin invited me to join her at a writing class at a place called The Writing Center in the part of downtown that was long ago Chinatown, and still a little sketchy. The teacher, Judy Reeves, doled out writing prompts like hors d’ouvres at a cocktail party. The format was simple: Judy shared a writing prompt, set the timer, and we wrote. Furiously. It’s like we were all drunk on the creativity that was in the air. I was terrified. Sure, I’d been writing, but I wasn’t a WRITER. Everyone else in the group, however– well they just blew me away with their talent. For one prompt, Judy asked us each to write down a secret–fact or fiction and place it in the basket. Then we each drew one. I don’t remember what secret I shared, only the one I got: “She slept naked.” I was surprised and pleased with what I wrote (It’s probably in a notebook in a box in my basement). One woman, however astounded me. For some reason I am remembering her name as Mimette. She pulled the secret “He had webbed hands.” While the timer ticked away, Mimette wrote a complete story (with a beginning, a middle and an end) about a man who had become a monk so he could hide his webbed hands in his long-sleeved cassock.
Tea time, anyone?
A Love Affair with Tea Confession: I am obsessed with tea. I can’t remember when exactly it started. Maybe it was in college when I bought a 24-pack of peach Snapple to keep under my bed for late-night studying. Or maybe I was a tea dilettante until I had a baby and needed constant caffeine … Read more
