You Are Washing Something

The first night of my writing class went well. Everybody in attendance had a remarkable amount of talent, and there were a number of interesting personalities and stories there. The exercise we did in class, too, was challenging, useful, and very revealing for me.

Jane had us all write in two-minute spurts, each segment starting with her prompt, verbatim. There were nine of these prompts: I was/am/will be writing; she was/is/will be writing; [insert name here] was/is/will be writing. After churning out all of this in rapid succession, we took turns reading them aloud (one writer reading all their material before handing over the floor to the next).

While I read mine, it became very clear what a box I'm in when I write in the first person. It's cerebral, abstract, lacking any kind of sensory information, and utterly self-absorbed. Introducing a more neutral pronoun relaxed me some, and the blurbs were 50/50 fictional and me, a bit hemmed in by the borders of my body and mind, but just as much pushing at those boundaries. When I picked a name, Claire, and began to write about her, however, everything of me dropped away. It was a profound and obvious example for me about how to grow my writing, especially in the direction of fiction.

I've been thinking about how much, if any, of the material from the class I'd post here. I'll be writing every day for it, and it'd be a shame not to share any of it, but.... It's unpolished. It's 10-12 minutes of whatever comes out of my head starting from Jane's prompt for the day, without editing after the fact. It's bare and different and perhaps too revealing as my work in progress.

Mulling it over some, I've decided to try posting some of it. Not the most bizarre. Not the biggest uncomfortable departures from my usual styles and my center. Just some. Little stretches out into new directions and shadowy corners. And so in that vein, here's today's installment, from the prompt "You are washing something."

The first time I come across you, you're washing something in a large aluminum basin by the side of the lake. I can't make out what it is. Hunched over the labor, your shoulder blades are exposed by the strappy yellow camisole you've got on. The fabric sticks a bit to the long muscles that flank your knobby spine. The faded old scar peeks out from the waistband of your cropped khaki pants, more obvious in this Summer sun, unable to tan as well as unblemished skin. I want to stride up to you, but I'm not sure why, nor what I'd do when I get there. I just watch. You keep failing to tuck a rambunctious lock of wavy tawny hair behind your right ear. The repeated gesture seems unconscious. You're focussed on the washing. Suds cling to your forearms, water running in thin rivulets from elbow to wrist, branching at the change of shape and texture that defines your hands. You are beautiful. You are still beautiful.