From John Gardner’s The Art of
Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers:
“Consider the following as a
possible exercise in description: Describe a barn as seen by a man whose son
has just been killed in a war. Do not mention the son, or war, or death. Do not
mention the man who does the seeing.”
My first attempt:
The barn held
memories, for in all of its structure: the walls, the roof, the loft, the
important thing it contained was the stream of memories: the tractor
instruction, the square marked on the southeast wall that was 60 feet 6 inches
from where pitches were hurled in the middle of winter, the birthday parties
attended by country girls and country boys, the table where guns were cleaned
after deer were skinned. All of a sudden it seemed as though the barn was the
only place where life was lived. From all angles, life converged on the barn –
from the kitchen window, from the tiny herb garden, from the small workshop in
the basement, everywhere at once focused on the barn. The angles filled the
barn, filled it to the brim with memories that both reinforced and made
meaningless the experiences that created them. Sure, it was red with white trim
and looked like a thousand other barns but this one strangled memories, choked
them in and out of the barn – forcing them down and out, impaling into the body
and brain alive wresting sobs from eyes alive –no matter the angle. The barn,
in all of its inanimate existence, only kept alive what could be, now and
forever.
Thoughts?
Be gentle fair readers.
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