I just can’t get enough of Yavapai College. Working here for two and a half years, I’ve been taking classes for a year and a half after graduation. I can’t quit learning.
Three credit hours in two weekends of writing workshops sounds like a great deal for someone starving for credits. For me, it ended up being an eye-opener. I’ve worked with dozens of writers at varying stages of developing the craft over the past couple of years. We’ll call the beginning writer of this learning experience “J”.
The Saturday of the first day of workshop class, I woke up early so I could feed my Red Bull addiction on the way to school. I’d need a few of them to last 9-4 Saturday and Sunday. I looped my canvas bag over my shoulder. I’d decided against taking my laptop, as the class was in a computer classroom. I stocked up on smooth-writing, fine-tipped ink pens (my most recent obsession), and lab-style notebooks. Geeked-out to the max, I skipped up the stairs to my first Saturday class ever.
I was ecstatic to discover that many of the former writing classmates were also in the weekend workshop class. We’ve formed a sense of community that makes workshops run smoothly and productively. We know one another’s weaknesses and nab on to them while the writer is still reading a piece. Everything said in class is constructive and useful.
I ended up sitting next to an older man with a cane named J. I met him while working in Registration over the summer, but I’d never been in a class with him.
We shared our impromptu character development exercises around the circle of desks. Kaitlyn shared her piece about a high school protagonist that sounded eerily similar to herself. Dino read his piece about a Nordic man from a rural area moving to the big city. Kristen shared her novel opener for her Goddard College MFA program about a twenty-something library science student with a passion for Victorian literature. I read my first experiment with a challenging point of view. Anyone who’s read my work will point out details of my characters that aren’t only similar to me, they are me. Therefore, I wrote from Koda, my boxer’s point of view.
Finally, it was J’s turn to read. He wrote from the point of view of a homeless man living under a bridge in our town. The man painted murals, drank beer at 8 AM, and made friends with anyone who took a moment to speak to him. The character seemed interesting, and far from anything or anyone I’d ever encountered. J’s language, however, felt recycled. He’d listened to a roomful of experienced writers and forced metaphors and similes where they weren’t needed. He wanted to sound like a writer.
Dino encouraged him to free his authentic voice. “Just tell the story in your words,” he prompted. “Don’t try to dress it up or polish it for this draft.”
J felt honored to have so much attention paid to his work. He thanked us profusely and promised to only use his own voice for the rest of the workshop; he didn’t want to sound like anyone but himself.
The next day, J presented the class with half a notebook full of his own voice. He wanted to tell his story.
“Old Man Winter” he called the man, with his white head of hair and icy blue eyes. Old Man Winter lived beneath a bridge in a beautiful part of town, just across the street from a Starbucks, where, J commented, “People spend five bucks for a cup of plain coffee.”
A community developed beneath that bridge, and friends alternated taking turns venturing downtown to the liquor store to gather “forties” of Steel Reserve, the cheapest of the cheap beer, for the gathering masses. Between the Steel Reserve and the cans of spray paint, the community spent any donations accumulated from passers-by. They loved their life beneath the bridge.
With the cans of spray paint, the community, with Old Man Winter as its leader, created a mural that stretched the length of the bridge’s internal structure. The intoxicated artists threw their empty paint cans at any tourist daring to call their artwork “graffiti”. The hostility attracted Prescott’s police force. Officers patrolled the area regularly, occasionally arresting the most intoxicated members of the bunch and citing them for the destruction of public property.
Eventually Old Man Winter was arrested and taken away for good. He faced a notoriously no-nonsense judge. Old Man Winter convinced the judge to take a look at his community’s artwork before determining that it needed painted over.
The judge, despite his hard-ass reputation, determined that the mural was “art”. He let it be. However, no one in the community knew what became of Old Man Winter.
J concluded his story in telling that the wall has since been painted over. Old Man Winter is still missing. J really tried to drive home his point that all of this is happening in Prescott, nicknamed “Everybody’s Hometown”. The bridge is a very popular walking destination in a public park downtown, and J made sure to tell us his story. A few of us had no idea that anything like that happened here. We were ranked number four on CNN’s “25 Best Places to Retire” list, and all of this happened under a prominent walking path in a city park.
Monday, on my way to work, I stopped at Circle K, a gas station often referred to as “Gangster K” for its reputable patrons, to grab my daily Red Bull. Something on the checkout counter next to me caught the sunlight. A silver label on a forty ounce bottle stared back at me.
Oh, please, let that be a bottle of Steel Reserve, I thought. I rocked on my heels to nonchalantly get a clearer view. Steel Reserve, indeed!
I wallowed in the irony alone. I glanced to the patron purchasing the bottle at 8:30 AM. Blue eyes peered at me behind shaggy white bangs.
Old Man Winter, I thought, exasperated. I finally felt like he’d adverted his glare, and I peeked at his elastic-at-the-ankle sweatpants. There were no signs of spray paint, maybe he really was an artist.
So, maybe it was him, maybe it wasn’t, but I pulled into work that day feeling like I’d just encountered a celebrity of sorts.
I’ll savor that irony for years to come.
