I am taking a Creative Writing class at Laney College this Fall semester. Last week we were given a writing prompt requesting that we simply write about the atmosphere in our classroom. Here's what I wrote.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Theresa Donahoe
English 210A
I hate jazz. He had to pick a jazz cd for us to listen to, to take in, to digest, and distract us from writing our papers. The whistling sounds of that gut wrenching genre of music that brought back negative memories of a former jazz appreciation class I took years ago. I did not appreciate it. Busy saxophones and trumpets over took the classroom and drowned out the more pleasant buzzing noises of what seemed to be air circulating through a vent. Just air circulating through a vent would have been more peaceful. The squeaking of students shuffling in their chairs, with pens in hand, writing fervently on their notepads, would have been enough of a background chorus for me to write to. No soundtrack of annoying horns required. The occasional cough uttered in the room was more welcoming to my ears than any music played by Thelonius Monk or John Coltrane. The soft waxing lull of the teacher’s black marker as it apologetically screeched against the dry erase board, was more compelling than the sound of whiny horns blowing aimlessly in the wind. I looked around the room. Was this how it was going to be all semester? Was this part of the standard required uniform- the proverbial creative writer’s checklist? Long hair in a ponytail. Check. Liberal opinions sputtering about on political issues. Check. Vacant jazz music humming in the background. Check. And there they were- a room of writers, deep in thought, staring at their pieces of paper, feverishly gripping their pens, oblivious to the evil music that filled the room and undoubtedly spawned the likeness of Kenny G.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Theresa Donahoe
English 210A
The Room
I hate jazz. He had to pick a jazz cd for us to listen to, to take in, to digest, and distract us from writing our papers. The whistling sounds of that gut wrenching genre of music that brought back negative memories of a former jazz appreciation class I took years ago. I did not appreciate it. Busy saxophones and trumpets over took the classroom and drowned out the more pleasant buzzing noises of what seemed to be air circulating through a vent. Just air circulating through a vent would have been more peaceful. The squeaking of students shuffling in their chairs, with pens in hand, writing fervently on their notepads, would have been enough of a background chorus for me to write to. No soundtrack of annoying horns required. The occasional cough uttered in the room was more welcoming to my ears than any music played by Thelonius Monk or John Coltrane. The soft waxing lull of the teacher’s black marker as it apologetically screeched against the dry erase board, was more compelling than the sound of whiny horns blowing aimlessly in the wind. I looked around the room. Was this how it was going to be all semester? Was this part of the standard required uniform- the proverbial creative writer’s checklist? Long hair in a ponytail. Check. Liberal opinions sputtering about on political issues. Check. Vacant jazz music humming in the background. Check. And there they were- a room of writers, deep in thought, staring at their pieces of paper, feverishly gripping their pens, oblivious to the evil music that filled the room and undoubtedly spawned the likeness of Kenny G.
1 comment:
Were you limited to only one paragraph?
Post a Comment