storyrainthejournal: (in dreams)
Dreamed I was at some sprawling writers' conference/workshop/retreat and one of the things was a 'give up your words' challenge. I didn't want to do it, but was cajoled and gave in. In the way of dreams, the rules and mode were understood, but never articulated. Most of the writers (all younger than me) did little films full of evocative images. One older woman did a kind of q&a in which she answered questions without using words, charade style--except no one asked anything, so she never left her chair. Watching the various lovely little films, I was dismayed at my own lack of preparation, but filled with things I could have done if I'd felt like dragging a lot of props along--put a beautiful scent on a scarf and waft it up and down to fill the room, pass around various tactile objects, use a fan and ice to fill the room with cold wind...

My brain maundered on about this for awhile after waking, on the way in which we use writing to conjure the simple magic of the everyday--food, touching--that another thing one could do in such a challenge would be to take liberties that would be too intimate outside the bounds of words, go around kissing people on their bellies, for instance, or tickling the backs of their necks. Writing a story, bringing a person into a narrative is, thereby, a very intimate act (my half-asleep brain said).

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storyrainthejournal

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