school English teacher. Most days we were surely serious, studiously soaking in the literature, the poetry, the alliteration exercises and grammatical skill-builders thrown our way. But then there were the vocabulary book days. While some wasted time with last minute cheating, others, Mandi and myself included - in fact, we may or may not have been the ringleaders - chose to make much more creative/super productive use of those 15 minutes. We would write a sentence or two on a piece of notebook paper about whatever we thought funny or interesting or nonsensical at the time, pass the paper to neighbors - I have no shame, I'm fairly certain that Kristen, Lindsey, Melissa, Triva, Kristi, Scott, Corey, and Justin all participated - and encouraged respective conspirator to add another sentence or two to the story. I can remember sitting in my desk, finished product in hand, trying to keep my shoulders from shaking, the universal (and invariably subtle) "I'm not supposed to be laughing, but I really want to" move. I'm sure Mr. Frederick had no idea; 17 year olds tend to be really inconspicuous and crafty... So, when Mandi commented on Saturday's Pillow Book entry, these instances of delinquency came to mind.You know, it's funny, when I started this post I really didn't think Mandi and my writing deficiencies had anything in common. A paragraph in, however, and it is glaringly obvious. It is Mandi's fault that I have never attempted to write fiction and really have read very little. While we were organizing the collected musings of the class of 1998, Mr. Frederick was probably giving a masterfully persuasive oratory on the joys and intricacies of said genre. Thanks a lot, Mandi. ...
Well, in an attempt to make amends - both to Mr. Frederick, who in all sincerity, was one of the best teachers I have had at any level, and to the Pillow Book readers who appreciate fiction, but who have to constantly listen to my memoir-style take on books, music, recipes, and daily life - I have decided to challenge myself a bit today. I am going to start a story (maybe a paragraph instead of a sentence this time) and then ask you, in Mandi and Liza style, to add to it. The last person gets to come up with a title fitting for the completed narrative. Now, this is the way to do fiction.
Come to think of it, perhaps a genuine "thank you" is owed...:)
[Title]
She used to hate it when her mom would open the screen door and half yell, half shriek any of the three phrases that if one or two words were changed, were exactly the same thing. She hated it because the used-to-be-blue, now kind of speckled gray, door made an annoying sound when it closed. More importantly, though, she hated it because her mom had no creativity. Fussing wasn't bad because she inevitably felt ashamed by what she had done or said. It wasn't a nuisance because her mother's words suddenly sparked some magic state of enlightenment that she would then feel obligated to act upon. It bothered her because it rarely entertained her. Where was the stuttering to make fun of? The wild references thrown in for dramatic effect? The ridiculous hyperbole that yearned for a good eye-rolling? She wanted "If I ever catch you doing [XYZ] again, I'm must going to take that [looks around for something of value] Ford Taurus (I suppose "value" is relative) and set it on fire with my breathe and make you put it out with bubbles and pillows" and all she ever got was one of the same three phrases. Every time.
