This semester is my first experience with a creative writing course.  Last Tuesday I read a piece that I had written in front of the class and they then critiqued it.  My teacher is a sharp and humorous New Yorker with a lot of wisdom.  The piece was fairly well received- although I had already re-worked it in my mind after listening to my colleagues and Professor’s critiques of other pieces (I will post that version later- it will be three short parts)… I need to work on pacing and showing.  But here is the piece as marked up by my professor:


Sifting through time with a telescope  through moments woven then forgotten

Much is lost, much already used: The script has written itself, Once upon a time…

There was a lost little girl

With the sun high overhead 

Follow her shadow

Grass sways, stop and listen

It soothes, enchants her

Petals with their heads to the sky brighten her wide eyes

They cannot be described as she saw them

Time continues its steady row and we lose track of her

She has been lying on her back for ages staring and imagining; tracing shapes

She cannot know

Boredom seeps in

Now she is wandering, wavering, with the woods looming on her horizon

The forest is a desire, stretching far and wide, inside closed and tight

The wind picks up

She runs to the dark and foreign trees for cover

Waiting out storms and pressing forward with a mundane step

Moments evade her

Fear is her master

She must find a way out, find time, find something?

She names abandonment her mother

Whisper to her, she walks further on

She looks down

Dreams bring to her that clearing, a memory, flower, innocence or desire

Where is her memory?

Does each step take her farther or closer?

Can the gray melt away like snow, give birth to colour

Don’t ask Don’t tell

Trudge on

Hope that one day you reach the heights

You don’t know as we, but someone wants to find you

Lift your eyes

Don’t step forward with hope for the dusk

Don’t forget

But her heart cries to her, sleep, sleep, sleep



I have been thinking about how to edit that piece for several years, and shortly after writing my first draft I discovered this – the similarities were curious.  Happy reading.


One thought on “Fairy-tales…

  1. A, this is even more beautiful than when you first wrote it, almost prophetic in its fragility.

    love you and love when you write. your words awaken the me inside that may never be.

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