My Final Submission

Here is the reflective essay

Reflecting on My Experience with Creative Writing

Creative class is a very interesting experience I am glad I had to go through. When I first signed for this module, I really didn't expect anything at all. I thought we would simply learn about some techniques and activities to implement some creative writing in our classroom, which is fine. We are still getting there I think, but I loved that we- the teachers- had to go through the experience ourselves. That came as a surprise to me, but as we went on with that, it all made sense. We have to place ourselves in the students’ positions, and we must see how things can be daunting or overwhelming at certain points. I personally found it challenging to give feedback to my peers’ because I was afraid they would find it insensitive. Also, I have learned that creative writing can actually be taught to some extent of course, but I really loved every technique, and I really tried hard embrace those techniques, and they took me to places I didn't think I will get to. I used be way into creative writing, but at some points I gave up on myself thinking that I don’t have the potential to produce something remarkable. However, seeing how learnable creative writing can be, I am seriously considering giving myself a change.  

With my flash fiction story, I was very influenced by Sticks I must say, and I was intrigued by how pre-reading stories can impact our writing in different ways according to our individual characteristics. Some completely undermined those stories and went on their own journeys. Some found some inspiration in the suggested stories as I did with Sticks while others looked for inspiration from other fiction readings or movies. This immediately encouraged me to try out giving a fiction piece to read or something to watch and then have the students start making a story from that point. How that piece gets them to start is entirely up to them.

Moreover, Flash fiction really appealed to me due to its short nature even though it requires extreme selectivity, it encourages an early start with creative writing. I don’t why I had the assumption that it has to be a novel to count as an eligible story, but I overlooked the options in between. However, after going through this experience, I started searching for convenient creative writing activities.

Another task that I really enjoyed was the scene making. As a fiction reader myself, I have always fully emerged into scenes that are marvelously written and to even attempting to make such a thing myself felt rewarding. Many techniques helped such as focusing on a single object and highlighting it with detailed description using the senses. This really helps with building vocabulary and descriptive language. Immersing into the character and describing things the way they would see them also made me think of several ways this could bring so much excitement and creativity into my writing classes. Students can all describe a single item but from different characters' point of view and see how influential the outlook can be on the very same scene.

The last and the most challenging activity was writing a story and going through writing workshops to receive feedback and refine and reshape the stories. It was very interesting to see the different the backgrounds and the ideas behind each story. Being an online class and having us come from different backgrounds really allowed for this versatility in style and language. Thus, it feels that creative writing classes can be taken into another level when held on international basis. The first drafts were impressive but raw and lacking clarity as things can be very clear in the author’s head, but they don’t translate as clearly in the writing. This enlightened me to the importance of feedback, to actually listen and to the fact that stories are very editable. They can go through many stages until they form their final shape.

As easy as it sounds, listening to every single feedback and trying to please all points of view is kind of impossible. The story really begins as we write it, and it has its own twists and turns, and it doesn’t always want the author to manipulate it. Stories do have this sort of power. In my case, I knew I wanted to write something about my grandmother. My first draft was flashes from her life before she passed away. As much as the character was loveable, and the culture seems interesting, there was a clear lack of action and dialogue. We learned to focus on point of view, so I didn't like the fact that she was the narrator because that was unrealistic. She was sick, immobile and unable to communicate. In my second draft, I attempted to change the point of view to complete strangers who had no clue about what the culture is like, but my story completely changed. I didn't plan it, and I didn't expect it to go that way but I loved trusting my instincts and just letting the stories be themselves. That activity can be a great outlet for creativity and addressing main issues with fiction. I definitely will incorporate more of that into my very personal life. I am a part of a book club, and I suggested to the members to actually discuss our own stories at some point. They are all on board, but I will pass to them some of the techniques were learned. I also downloaded three books loaded with great creative writing activities, and I plan to do them once in a while and have my students do them as well.

In the end, every technique we learned gave me an ''aha'' moment and really shifted my perspective as a reader and as an immature doing it for fun sort of writer. Those techniques inspired many activities that are applicable in classrooms, modifiable to many levels with an abundance of learning potential. Now I am really looking forward to applying all of that in class and tweaking things with technology.

Helpful Resources in Writing Flash Fiction

Here are some resources that helped me understand flash fiction. You can share these with your students as flash fiction is a fun way to introduce some creative writing into your classes.

Helpful Links:

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/may/14/how-to-write-flash-fiction

Helpful YouTube Clips:

Genes - Flash Fiction

She was passive. I could never picture her initiate something unless it was intended to hurt us. such stuff she was skillful at. she was always waiting for things to happen to her, for people to call, for children to grow on their own, for a husband to love while feeling unloved. she was letting life happen to her. Her days or should I say her demons took charge of her life. I could find it within me to accept the passive part if not for the very aggressive twist. I never felt that she knew me or really saw me expect when she wanted to hurt me or my sisters. She knew exactly what to say to hurt each one of us efficiently. Aggressive she is with us all, and it's not the common one size fit all type of aggressive. It's the personalized version that never fails to break into pieces the ones at the receiving end. She would never ever say, ''I am sorry you feel this way.'' ''You have a fever; your fault. You shouldn't have go out with your friends the other day.'' That gathering was a year ago for the record. She would say whatever needs to be said in the worst time possible and, her words are always carefully selected to be as harsh and as to the bones as words could ever possiblely be. Her words are yet to be listed amongst life threatening weapons, or so I believed one day. They hurt once; but eventually they just become powerless and empty no matter how much truth lies within them. Words strip out of all their powers when put together equally harsh when your child six year old child forgets a sandwich in the living room over night or when your 20 year old son pushes you against the wall. She was so tough; and yet she kept saying stuff like ''if only anybody would ever consider me as a saint human and listens to a word I utter.'' That, I never got. How could you be so contradicted. It's so very self destructive. It's never her fault. It's dad's fault because he is unbalanced. (Loving or giving in normal humen's mesns). It's my middle sister mistake for being very a provocative influence, which is being embracing and accepting in simple words. It was never her fault, but to not to me. Well I was raised by a true character. I got through holding on my core belief that I'm noting like her.

''You could for once in your life time really LISTEN and not be a complete disgrace,'' I hit my husband in the face with that sentence. Why? for opening the left drawer while I clearly stated that his keys are in the right drawer. I don't know where those words came from, and I didn't realize until that moment that I'm capable of producing such mean phrases. He looked at me in disbelief and complete disappointment. I know that look. I know where it comes from. I made a hundred dozen of them back in the day when I used to care. He just shook his head and walked away. Is it the first time? It didn't look like that. That ''I had enough of your bullshit'' look that I know very well said more than I wanted to hear. I can fix this. I am proactive and sensitive. I am just going to apologize. It's simple. I am capable. It's not that I don't do those gestures. I headed quickly to the bedroom and opened the door quicker and stronger than I intended to. It is my eagerness to appologize I guess. I will just through the word out there and let it do its magic. Sorry is a magical word; or so we were told by our good friend Barney.

''I am sorry... I married you.''

The Workshop Feedback

The feedback from the workshops were very helpful in many ways. Being silent really allowed us to listen and see the readers' perspective. What's clear to us as writers isn't necessarily as clear from the readers' stand.

Feedback on my first draft:

1- It was too broad.

2- Not much action was going on.

3- All was told from the point of view of a person in deathbed (which is not realistic).

My reaction to that feedback:

I decided to narrow things down and really focus on a single moment, and I changed the point of view. However, I ended up with a different story! It was the grandmother's, but as point of view has changed, the story completely altered in away I did't expect myself. When strangers spot a sick person, they don't go beneath the surface and try to learn the history of that individual.

Feedback on my second draft:

1- They missed the main character and the culture of the first draft.

2- Some were unclear about who's telling the story. 

3- I was asked to blend both perspectives and make the parties communicate somehow.

My reaction to that feedback:

I really struggled to find away to blend both stories because that felt unreal to me. Only within the close family members, the culture and the great past mattered and was acknowledged. However, to the world Shikhah was not more than a crying sick elderly. If I had the chance, I will make a series of short stories to enlighten people about how much history lies within our elderlies and that  there is more to who they are than those years of suffering and illness. What I did in my final draft is to give my characters more shape and bring them to life. Since the story is now theirs, they deserve more attention. 

Perspectives- The Final Draft

I was just doing what I do best. Keep the IMC hospital as clean as new and don't expect a word of thank you. This sums my job description. Too flat and simple. Poor mom she would have been so ashamed her eldest son to end up a genitor. It is fortunate that she’d passed away without witnessing this. She was so proud she had me to make my father's name live forever, and I couldn't even get the nurses to recognize my own name.

The stressful silence of that day was shuddered into pieces by that cry, ''just take me hoooooome, noooooooow.'' I couldn't tell whether that deep voice came from a man or a woman, but I knew it came from someone old and sick. Probably one of those paralyzed patients who come here often. I wonder why though! If I don't have much hope myself while young and healthy, do they have any?

''Omer, why don't listen to me.''

That came out even louder. I had to look up to see how that family will handle their embarrassment. That's one fun thing about this job. Some cry, some fight while others try to keep it together. There he was standing while his hands are resting on his mother's fancy wheelchair. I wonder how old she is. Her skin is the manifestation of old age: wrinkles, spots, dis coloration ... You name it. A stroke for sure, he face is out of shape; he lips look as if they are falling off one side. He, however, had an unusual proud and hopeful attitude. There was some kind of ease going through his face that made me deaf to all the shouting, for a second at least.

As they walked down the corridors, all heads turned toward them as if they were walking down the red carpet, and all eyes rolled in judgmental manners. Well, at least I don't want to be in that man's shoes and definitely not in his mothers'. Not so awful. That makes my day.

I kept staring to see how he handles himself; the best thing about being an Indian expat in this country is that you have at least the right to stare. Chain is still held up high. Eyes gazing at the horizon firmly with a delicate smile and that ease. Boy this fellow got some serious nerves. Still keeping it together in spite of those two dozens of goggly eyes surrounding him. Bingo! His foot is shaking like a leaf. There you go; vulnerable like the rest of us.

“When we go back home, we will have some Turkish tea and lots of Bounty chocolate. You like it, don't you?”

The man said that remark loud enough for his mother and everyone else to hear. He spoke as if to a child. That shouting old lady got some sense of humor; she smiled teasingly and her eyes ignited. Well, we could use some quiet time. She was crazy loud.

Just in the next minute the shouting and crying were back; louder and more aggravating. He didn't react at all. I kept staring at him to spot signs of his vulnerability through those thick layers of indifference. I needed an excuse to get closer, to carefully examine that steady gesture.

My prayers are answered for once. There's a tissue under his Chair. That's my golden ticket. I approached them fast as a horse. That’s dedication!

''Excuse me sir.''

''What's it?''

''There's a tissue underneath your chair.''

''What's your name?''

''Salman.''

''My father's name is Salem; Salem is the Arabic version of Salman.''

''I didn't know that sir.''

He bent over and placed the tissue within my hand along with 500 Saudi Riyals.

''No, sir. This is too much.''

''It's from my mom. She will be very upset if won't accept it. She loves to clean, and you are doing a great job here. Thank you!"

I looked again at his mother up close and tried to picture her cleaning. I failed! All I saw was inability and old, really old age.

''Thank you madam,'' I said respectfully.

''Who are you?'' Was her answer. She shouted many times afterwards.

''Take me home.''

''I have a fatal disease.''

''I want to see my daughters.''

The nurse called them and slowly they faded into the doctor's room. The energy immediately changed. All the people smiled and adjusted their postures with relief. They started staring at each other and all eyes were shamelessly saying ''Finally!''

*****

''Shaikah's file please.''

''On your desk already. Any thing else dr. Ahmed?''

 I replied cheerfully with a super wide smile I forcefully got myself to achieve. I have been faking this jolly act for five years now and still feeling like crab. ‘‘Fake it till you make it'' is nothing but a lie. You never make it.

Life has always been unfair to me. I had to go through all the middle child miseries. My parents didn't really feel like investing in a girl with average looks and average IQ. My eldest sister seems to have taken more then her fair share of good looks where as the youngest got all the brains of the family. Poor me had nothing left. School terrified me, and I was always nothing but a disappointment to my teachers. A college dropout with minimum skills set didn't get lucky with finding job of course.

“What's today?” somebody asked in the background.

What would it be? Unless it was a Friday or a Saturday, it is just another long and hectic day. All my days in this bloody hospital are that way. Even if I only had one patient waiting, that person will make sure he is a handful. Were they all neglected children, and now they expect me to shower them with attention and care? Actually even if I had no patients at all, the phone won't stop ringing, and somehow all callers are psychopaths. What was I thinking when I sent my resume to a freaking hospital. Have I not considered that I might actually get a job there?

The time passes so slowly. Two hours seem to go by, yet I check my clock to find out those were merely ten minutes. That's sucking the life out of me. Not so much of what I expected myself to be: a princess! Suddenly my childhood dream is nothing but a joke. The icing on my cake is this old man and his crying ancient mother. She is nothing but a death project in progress. A very loud one indeed. what on earth does he expect us to offer her? Another life time.

         

''Why the hell would you bring this 200 year old mother to a hospital. There are other cases that actually do have hope, you know.''

I almost said that out loud. It feels good just to imagine that. I pictured the scene in my head. Just awesome! I've had it with this old man popping in every other day with his half way through dead mom. Why does he have to remind me that I ended up working in a sad hospital? He rubs it in my face in purpose; I know he does. I understand what he's attempting to do here. Those who live with ill people for too long become psychos themselves. I know. I'm the expert!

''When we go back home, we will have some Turkish tea and lots of Bounty chocolate. You like it, don't you?''

There he does it again with those stupid comments. Oh it's Bounty this time. So funny! Too loud even for you showman. You're going home. This sick creature is going home to have lots of chocolate. And poor me gets buried alive every single day from 8 to 4.

''How many patients are ahead of us sister?'' he is suddenly few inches away.

''Quiet a few,'' I said while trying hard to bottle my resentment.

''How many, exactly? my mother can't sit for long. Is there a way for us to see the doctor sooner? We have an appointment.''

''There are SEVEN more patients.''

''I see''

''Go back home,'' I thought to myself.

*****

Tuesdays' afternoons are perfect to start my journey to find the next hubby. For me, men are like shoes; once they start to hurt, I take them off and never look back. How many marriages so far? I never calculate.  Math and I were never associated! Unlike Saudi women who just sit back wishing for life to come to them, us Moroccans stand on our feet and MAKE things happen. This is how we do it. Tuesdays! Not after four though. Having the ones with empty pockets stuck at work eliminates undesired options and helps me focus.

I look great today, everyday as a matter of fact! That is not luck nor genetic. A Moroccan bath every week and giving up sugar and fat along with many more sacrifices are what it take to look this good! What do we have today? Mmmm.

“I told you I am buying but you need to sign first’’ said a guy on my left.

Let me see, too obsessed with his phone. A workaholic! No, thank you. Been there, done that!

What do we have at the end there? 24 no more! I can do 24. I barely look 22 myself. Detoxing pays off. No, no, no, no! He is wearing TOMS!! Too affordable and ordinary.

So what are we left with today? I guess it comes down to you oldie with the shouting mama!

Exquisite watch. Check.

Gucci shoes. Double check.

A family man. Check.

Old but not too grumpy. Pass.

Mom’s about to die. Perfect!

It looks like we have a catch. When it gets less crowded, I will make my move! At least those three boys with runny noses must get out of the picture! Drop the wallet? I overused this cliché! I know; I will sweet talk my way to his mother. My future mother in law!

'When we go back home, we will have some Turkish tea and lots of Bounty chocolate. You like it, don't you?''

Sweet! Nice voice: loud and bossy! He must be the CEO of something. Oh yeah; I doooooo! I like Bounty myself; though I am more of a Godiva person.

They are leaving. No! Not today after all.  What a waste of false eyelashes!

*****

‘’Yes, we just left the doctor’s room; everything was perfect.’’

‘’No , no she just cried a little, have we got any more Bounty left by any chance?’’

Crying in the Corridors - The Second Draft

It was a Sunday. Hot and sunny. Just a typical Saudi day. Inside, all corridors had that overwhelming scent all hospitals suffer from on that Sunday and every other day. They are filled with people coughing and cursing with all sorts of expressions on their faces. Those children look out of battery. The shoulders and jaws are sinking. That woman is a scanner studying everyone up and down. And there, amongst the crowed I saw him carrying his hopeful outlook and pushing his awfully sick old mother.

''Just take me home, now.'' His mom screamed so deafeningly that you could hear her words echoing all over that endless corridor, and all heads turned toward them in a critical fashion.

I felt sick to my stomach thinking at that man's embarrassment. She was really loud and her voice was really aggravating. She looked so old; every inch of her skin was wrinkled. She had a stroke or something that her face and body were out of shape. Her month was going down in one side but not the other. Her knees were still and leaning toward the right side.

I finally got myself to look at him; to see how he handles this hard situation. I viewed his face. Chain held up high. Eyes staring at the horizon with confidence and ease. He didn't get it. He really isn't noticing those two dozens of goggly judgmental eyes surrounding him.

He lips are starting to move. I am positive he will ask her to be quiet and stop embarrassing him publicly. He better does.

''When we go back home, we will have some Turkish tea and lots of Bounty chocolate. You like it, don't you?''

The man said that remark loud enough for his mother and everyone else to catch.

She smiled teasingly, and her eyes lit up.

The next minute the shouting and the crying were back; louder and more annoying. He didn't react. I kept staring at him to see signs of his vulnerability through those layers of indifference. I needed an excuse to get closer. To carefully examine the steady gesture.

Bingo! There's a tissue underneath his Chair. That's my golden ticket. I flew toward them.

''Excuse me sir.''

''What's it?''

''There's a tissue underneath your chair.''

''What's your name?''

''Salman.''

''My father's name is Salem; Salem is the Arabic version of Salman.''

''I didn't know that sir.''

He bent over and placed the tissue in my hand along with 500 Saudi Riyals.

''No, sir. This is too much.''

''It's from my mom. She will be very upset with you if won't accept it. She loves to clean you know. You are doing a great job here."

I looked again at his mother up close and tried to picture her cleaning. I failed! All I could see was inability and old, really old age.

 I thanked her. She shouted back many remarks afterwards.

''Take me home.''

''I have a disease.''

''I want my daughters.''

The nurse called them and they disappeared into the doctor's room very slowly. The energy immediately changed. All people smiled and adjusted their postures with relief. They stared at each other and all eyes were saying ''Finally!''

***********

''I need Shaikah's file.''

''Sure doctor, anything else boss?'' I replied cheerfully with a wide smile that I forcefully got my face to make.

It was another long and hectic day. All days in hospitals are hectic to be honest. What was I thinking when I sent my resume to a freaking hospital. Have I not considered that I may actually get a job there? The hours keep dragging so slowly. Two hours pass, and I check my clock with joy to find out those were actually just ten bloody minutes. That's killing me. The icing on the cake today is this old fellow and his weepy ancient mother. She is a death project in progress. A very loud one. what on earth does he expect us to offer her? Another lifetime. Guess what babe? Not gonna happen!

                       

''Why the hell would you bring this ancient 200 year old mother to a hospital. There are other cases that actually do have real hope here, you know''

I truly almost said that. It feels so good saying that in my head. I pictured the scene. It has some therapeutic powers. Just awesome. I'm sick of this old man popping in every other day with his half way dead mom. Why does he have to remind me that I ended up working in a sad hospital? He rubs it in my face in purpose; I know he does.

I understand what he's trying to do here. Those who live with ill people for too long become psychos themselves. I know. I'm the expert.

''When we go back home, we will have some Turkish tea and lots of Bounty chocolate. You like it, don't you?''

There he does it again with those stupid statements and out of date baby talk. Oh it's Bounty this time. So hilarious. So loud even for you showman. Yeah! Rub it hard in my face. You're going home. This sick creature is going home to have lots of chocolate. And I get buried alive every single fucking day from 8 to 4.

''How many patients are ahead of us sisters?''

''Quiet a few,'' I said while trying hard to bottle my resentment.

''How many, exactly? my mother can't sit for long. Is there a way for us to see the doctor any sooner? We have an appointment.''

''There are Seven more patients.''

''I see''

''Go back home,'' I thought to my self.

******

''Was everything okey?''

''Everything was smooth and under control.''

''Did she cry?''

''I don't know. A little I guess. No big deal.''

******

It's Sunday. I had to come here fishing rather than wishing for the husband. Scan all clinics. There it is. There are a couple of interesting pieces here. I can work with that. That guy is cute. A bit too obsessed with his phone. I can work on this; he's a baby. No more than 24. No, no, no! He's wearing Toms! Too affordable and ordinary for my liking! The man with the crazy old granny is kinda cute. Mmmmm. 

Nice watch. Check.

Gucci shoes. Double check.

Old but not so very cranky. Pass.

A family man. Check.

Mom's about to die. Perfect.

Looks like we have a catch. When the area gets less crowded, especially when those three children with their runny noses go, I'll make my move.

'When we go back home, we will have some Turkish tea and lots of Bounty chocolate. You like it, don't you?''

Sweet! Our fellow has a warm heart. Oh yeah. I do. I'm going home with you babe. I can do Bounty.

I just hope I don't have to put up with this sick lady! Of course I won't. She is more or less dead!

******

The phone's ringing overshadowed the immeasurable weep.

''Yeah, we're still waiting.''

''Only a little! Nothing too unsettling. People today live in their heads. Do we have any Bounty left by any chance?''