Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse
Writing Leap #72
As writers we are in a unique position to express how we are experiencing events in the current political climate through fiction. Fiction enables us to make our point indirectly through showing rather than telling. Showing is always more powerful and immediate.
This new edit of my Thanksgiving post from last year sprung from my gut reaction to the current mood concerning women in our country.
The First Thanksgiving
He would eat standing up. To sit next to an ash-skinned man at a crowded table, maybe have to touch arms, would kill him.
He was fourteen.
He was a ferocious warrior.
And he would stand.
As far away from those moon-colored faces showing all their teeth as he could.
Which wasn’t far. He felt his father’s eyes flashing fire at him,
But even if his father suspected his thoughts he would never see them on his son’s face. The muscles around the young warrior’s eyes and mouth were as still as stone.
His weapon hung loosely at his side begging him to grab it.
Lots of gunfire this morning from this white settlement. Surely an attempt for a full out attack on his whole tribe. His blood raged. He would devour them. Chop them up like whale meat. He was well aware of how easy that would be for him.
She brought him a platter of paleface overcooked venison and stupid-looking cranberries. She was his age, he thought, but mush. Not hard and magnificent like his mother and his sisters.
“Seconds?” she asked. Washed out blue eyes. Worst of all she had yellow straw for hair. A freak.
He just stared.
He pinched her breast through her starched apron. Hard.
Her mouth flew open.
He didn’t have to look at his father to see the gesture of fury directed at him. It said, “Leave. NOW.”
As he turned to go the young girl took the platter of venison and cranberries and dumped the whole mess on his head. And then she did something surely God would punish her for. She gave him a hard pinch on his behind. He let out a roar, looked at his father and willed himself to stand stark still.
The girl walked back to her mother, sure of step and mouth set. She sat down at her place at the Thanksgiving table and forced herself to breath evenly. In a quiet voice her mother said to her, “Good.”
Last year the young girl fainted. That was last year.
Happy Writing and Happy Thanksgiving all you writers out there,