Some speculations and a flash fiction piece, "Pigtails"
It's that time of the year, guys! I'm here again, and I have so much to say.
I am currently attending a creative writing program at Columbia University (taking the train/subway there and back every day, talk about independence). To be quite honest, I had no idea what to expect and I was actually fearing disappointment rather than difficulty. If the class was phenomenally difficult and rigorous, I would have been rather pleased, because despite the difficulties, I would have been able to learn a lot. I was more scared, therefore, of some elementary level class on "how to write" or rather, "how to put your pencil on the paper." Thank god that I can say that Columbia's writing program is probably one of the best experiences in my writing 'career' so far. It really is.
Going to this program has definitely opened my eyes to the vastness of writing and art itself. I'm not trying to sound cliche or mushy or even advertise the program. I am being very candid right now when I say that I am extremely excited about this program. We workshop each other's work (and I must say, everybody's passion for writing is absolutely beautiful, to say the least) and sort of "conference" with each other to improve our work and debate on its topics. This is definitely helping me improve so much. So so so much, and I am so happy that I've applied and that I've been accepted into this program. It's just... an amazing experience. I know it sounds cheesy. Bear with me.
In the program, we aren't exposed to "normal" writing that I thought were the only ones in existence in the literary world. Poetry was flowery and maybe sometimes funny; prose was in paragraphs. That was as far as my knowledge went.
I had no idea about prose poetry, about Tao Lin (whose poems are amazing), about the different ways writers challenged genre distinctions--it was a whole new revolution in itself. Reading all of these bizzare genres and forms of writing opened my eyes up to a completely different side of literature. And I love it so much.
I realize that writing isn't about just words or form; it's about the meaning and the way you manipulate or break or piece back together that form and genre. I think I'm beginning to get a grasp of how vast and, just, open the world of literature is. I mean--who ever thought of writing a book of Wendys?
I'm serious. Reading so many surrealist writings and minimalist shorts has made me even more excited about writing. It has sparked a new area of interest. I'm a fan of modern art and minimalism, and I'm more than excited about the discovery of similar parallels in writing as well.
With that said, here is a short story I wrote for an assignment for class. (It's actually due tomorrow.)
Here goes.
(It's flash fiction.)
They name her Zuzu. That is the name on her birth certificate. Zuzu. They love her and they carry her bundle around. They promise each other to make her honest.
They tie pigtails from her thick hair. They tell her it’s like noodles, and she sends out a twinkling giggle that sends bubbles to their stomachs.
They don’t send her to school. They promise each other to protect her. She doesn’t know, but they do. So they don’t send her to school. She studies from books and her parents.
She turns twelve. They still tie pigtails of her hair every day. They are thick and jungly now. They tie it still with the same pink band with a plastic flower. Everything is the same, except for her height and their financial situation. They can’t afford to protect her anymore. They think for a moment to run away and protect her in that way, but they know it won’t work. I’m worried, they each think, but they know it’s their only choice. So they send her pigtails off with a tattered Barbie backpack. Barbie has pigtails, too.
She comes home from her first day of public school. It’s different, Mom, she says to them. They have been doing nothing but drinking coffee and talking in hushed voices and sitting at the counter staring at the door.
I don’t really like it, she says. The people don’t really like me. I want a better backpack.
The mother starts to cry. Zuzu’s hair is down.