Last night Julie and I attended our first ever writing group. We got together with a few people at the Northshire Bookstore in Manchester (VT, not UK), worked through some writing exercises, and then read and critiqued them. It was actually a great time. I highly recommend these kind of groups, provided that they support and help you and don’t cut you to pieces with criticism!! Our group was a lot of fun.
Unfortunately for you, I ended up writing some things that I wanted to post, so here’s one of my writing samples from last night. The exercise involved writing about something that needs to be documented since it may not be around some day.
Stacked in rows of lonely crates, the black disc s press together in a jumbled mass. The box edges were a blurry bunch, never revealing where one gegan and the other ended. Cold wet rocks frowned upon the stack of black discs, condemning them to warps, mold, and eventual disintegration.
On a dusty old picnic table crouched a small brown box with a black lid. Somehow the large discs were spun inside or upon the box, producing the faintest whisper of rasping music. Wires weaved out of the brown box to an antiquated set of speakers that captured and projected the sound.
Those old, dusty crates were hauled out of the basement years ago to the chorus of grunts and groans. Such a concentration of discs created an immense weight. Many years ago my grandmother loved buying the discs at yard salves and Goodwill stores. Since a quarter could cover the cost of these discs, it’s easy to see why her collection become enormous over time.
While listening to my itunes, all music is digital now, I can browse the internet and find many similar pictures of these discs, or records, as they were once called. My grandmother’s phot of the exiled record collection and player in her dank and creepy basement is a gentle reminder that things have not always been as they are. Much of what is now will soon never be.
Life continues to spin. Over time we wobble, fall apart, and become useless. And yet someone will find value in the broken, clumsy, and unweildy. That is the day we all long for.