The writing prompts at this year’s Retreat yielded unbelievable results! In fact, I just had to share them. :
Random Bits of Dialogue
We handed out secret, random bits of dialogue that writers had to get into a scene. Then when they had about 10 minutes or so to write, we made them pull another quote out of the pile and get that new quote into the same scene. See if you can figure out what the required lines of dialogue were
From Holly S.:
“Oh, him. He used to be gay.” Marvin said this as if he knew it for a fact. The way he turned his head and gestured with his palm up was his trademark way of adding without saying, “everyone knows it, where have you been?
Since Marvin was my boss at the time, I had to be delicate about correcting or even challenging him. “Used to be Gay? Marvin, you know how politically incorrect that is- being gay isn’t a fashion trend that you wear one year and discard the next.”
“Well, honey,” Marvin peered over the frames of his Gucci glasses at me, “That’s retail. I’ve seen it happen more that once, believe me.”
Marvin was in his seventies and had been in the industry for as long as I had been in the world. He had seen the tsunami of corporate takeovers in the nineties, suck up all the great department store chains into one super conglomerate. He had seen the ravages of AIDs in the eighties pull many high-seated executives out of the closet and into hospital gowns. Conversely, he had also seen some terrified party boys retreat into the closet, and even into straight marriages, in the false fantasy that they could escape the scourge.
“You must be talking about a very long time ago,” I said. That just doesn’t happen anymore.”
Marvin got up, opened the armoire and started scanning his CD collection with his crooked index finger. He always read everything with his index finger.
“I’m looking for a CD that will prove to you that I am absolutely right about this, mon cherie “. He added the French endearment to punctuate his point. Translation: I am older, wiser, and worldlier than you, about such matters.
God, Marvin was old school. To lighten things up, I quipped back, in my best Gomez imitation, “ Oh Tish, I love it when you speak French!”
Marvin whipped around to face me and squealed with delight, “Adams Family!”
“Right,” I chuckled, “Gotta love that Gomez.”
Marvin stood triumphant, hands on his hips glaring at me.
“What?” I asked.
“That actor that played Gomez”, Marvin said with a wagging of his index finger. “He used to be gay, am I right? And now… isn’t he in some macho band called....
“Wait” I interrupted. Are you trying to tell me that you think the band Gomez is named after the guy in the Adams Family?”
*******
From Kelley C.
The doctor came in and shut the door behind him. He extended his hand to the willowy brunette hunched on the end of the table and, looking down at the chart in his hand, said,
“Good morning…Laura. And how are you today?”
She kept her eyes on her lap as she whispered, “Fine.”
“And this must be your mother. Mrs. Morrison? I’m Dr. Johnson.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
She rose from the chair in the corner of the room and grasped his hand. He noticed her red lacquered fingernails slightly curled at the tips, like claws. Her hair was bleached nearly white and so stiff that it didn’t move at all when she attempted to swing it over her shoulder. Dr. Johnson noticed the shadow of roots sprouting along her scalp.
He turned back to Laura.
“And what brings you here today?”
She murmured something he couldn’t quite hear.
“What was that dear?”
“She needs breasts,” her mother interrupted. “She’s going to be sixteen next week and she’s flat as a board.”
Dr. Johnson frowned and looked back at his chart.
“Well, Mrs. Morrison, it’s not uncommon for young girls to develop later in their teens. I’m sure Laura still has some growing to do. Why don’t we wait a year or two before we consider surgery?”
Mrs. Morrison glared at her daughter.
“Laura doesn’t want to wait, do you?”
Laura looked up at the doctor and said in a voice as flat as her chest,
“I’m not blond—and I don’t have big boobs, so I need to have fake ones put in.”
Dr. Johnson could hear Mrs. Morrison’s words coming out of Laura’s mouth. He knew he would have to handle the situation delicately.
“It sounds to me like Laura has a problem with her body image,” he began. “There’s so much pressure on young girls nowadays to conform to the media’s definition of beauty. I think the best thing for her would be to work on her self-esteem. Try to help her find activities and role models that encourage healthy attitudes about what a woman is. For example, Back to the Future made me fell like a man when I was eight. I’m going to recommend a colleague, Dr. Fishman. She specializes in the challenges that young women face during this transitional time in their lives. If you still feel after seeing her that you want surgery we can reconsider. And I’m also going to recommend that you rent Back to the Future. It changed my whole life.”
******
From Annette G.
“I heard that Paul Westerberg hated Jethro Tull.”
Hmm, not much I can do with that because I have no idea who Paul Westerberg or Jethro Tull are, so how could I write a scene where somebody says that? Since I don’t make stuff up, one person in the dialogue would have to say this and then the other would have to go “Huh? Who are they and what do I care?” and then the first person would have to explain who Paul Westerberg and Jethro Tull are and of course that’s where the whole thing would end, because I, the author, can’t explain who these guys are.
But maybe I could make that up. Maybe the people in the dialogue could be two old guys at a bar talking about mutual neighbors, Paul Westerberg and Jethro Tull.
In that case the second guy would answer: “Oh yeah, now that makes sense because Paul would never come over and sit with us when we were hanging with Jethro. Do you know why?” –
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Maybe he couldn’t stand that new snowmobile Jethro has and the noise he makes every frickin’ Saturday night roaring around.”
“You think? Paul usually didn’t give a shit about nobody. Must have been more than a snow mobile.”
“Yeah, maybe Jethro snatched one of Paul’s girlfriends back in the day.”
“Tss, fat chance. I can’t see any girl going for that piece of wood. Ya know, girls like it funny. They like a guy who makes them laugh. Like Dan Savage, you know.
He’s always got some broad hanging off his arm.”
“You know, Dan Savage is so not funny.”
“Well maybe you think so, but you’re guy, so your opinion doesn’t count in that respect anyhow.”
One of the guys slurps his beer a bit too loud, the other traces his stein’s sweat ring on the bar table, and they both nod.
****
Anne-Marie K.
I wasn’t why Mrs. Anders had invited me to lunch. It was true, I’d taken her daughter Macy out a few times after her divorce, but nothing had come of it, and we were just friends now. Macy’s daughter Carla rode at the same barn as my girl Amy, and they went to horse shows together all last summer. Still, I only knew Mrs. Anders well enough to nod hello or chat in passing, at the pharmacy or in church, so it took me by surprise that she should call and ask me to come to lunch at Nordic Shore, the family’s lakeside home of fifty years. She said she had something to talk to me about, which made me nervous, because as far as I could tell, the only things Mrs. Anders and I had in common were that we both knew Macy, we both knew Carly, and we both knew that Macy’s husband ran off before Carly was born.
Mrs. Anders greeted me in herself and showed me to a sitting room with a wall of windows that faced an expanse of green lawn stretching all the way down their property to a seawall and a sharp drop, overlooking the lake. Small plates of h’ors deurves had been set on a glass coffee table, around a large arrangement of sunflowers in a tall vase. I stood on the edge of the room and glanced down at my field boots. I had come directly from the barn and hadn’t thought to change them. I noticed Mrs. Anders glancing at my boots as well.
“Sorry ma’am. Should I take them off?”
“No, it’s alright. It’s not necessary.”
I laughed nervously and lifted my left heel. “I had poo on my shoe, but it’s alright. I scraped it off on the rocks by your front gate before I came in.”
Mrs. Anders offered me a tight little smile and nodded.
“Please, Henry. Sit.” She gestured to an overstuffed couch. “Thank you for coming.”
I sat and eyed the small plates. “Please help yourself. If you’ll excuse me for just a minute, I’m going to finish putting our lunch together.” She disappeared down a hallway towards the back of the house.
I leaned over the plates and picked up a miniature slice of rye bread that seemed to have been spread with some sort of mustard and small bits of bacon. I tried that. In my opinion, bacon makes everything better.
I was just thinking that thought to myself when Mrs. Anders appeared again with a determined but nervous look and said abruptly, “Let me get right to the point as I’m sure you’re curious as to why I asked you here, Henry.”
I still had a mouthful of bacon and rye bread, but I said anyway, “Of course I am, ma’am.”
Mrs. Anders took a breath and looked past me out the windows for a moment, then looked me back in the eye.
“I want to hire you, Henry. I’ll pay you a significant sum. Enough, let’s say, that Amy could go to any college and graduate school she chooses and you’d still have
plenty of money left in the bank. I want you to marry my daughter Macy.”
****
Diane H
I’m in the restaurant ladies’ room, pulling my hair back ‘cause I want to eat mashed potatoes. I’m not sure if this restaurant even serves mashed potatoes, but it’s what I need right now, what I crave. Good old-fashioned comfort food. I-don’t-care-how-many-carbs-it-has food.
The stresses of life that have filled my day are the kinds of stresses that make a person turn to whatever will calm them down the most: Wine. Roulette. Sex. For me, unfortunately, it’s food. And sometimes nothing will do but those piping hot foods you were served when you were little, when you didn’t have to worry about fat grams or calories, when you knew you’d just run it off anyway.
So my hair’s in a ponytail, because it’s going to get messy. If mashed potatoes are a menu option, I’m going to dive in with gusto.
Walking back to my table, I glance around at the others eating all round me, trying to notice what’s on everyone’s plate. I see chicken of all varieties, big hunks of red meat, salmon with what looks like cracked pepper on top, and lots of greens – asparagus, broccoli and mixed salads. Not a damn potato in sight.
I notice the woman who I am meeting has arrived. She picked this restaurant. She knows the menu. “It’s all her fault,” I say to myself. I see her sitting at the table – rail thin, her hair perfect, even though it is raining outside. Everything on and around her is slick and shiny – from her lacquered nails and black patent leather boots to her matching tote and still-damp raincoat hanging on a hook behind her.
“You just don’t understand,” I think. “You’re such a vinyl whore!”
