Read Online The Princesses of Iowa by M. Molly Backes - Free Book Online
Authors: M. Molly Backes
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whatever you want to. Just keep going. The point of freewriting is to write fast enough to get past the little voice in your head that says, ‘Don’t write that, it’s stupid!’ or ‘That makes no sense!’ You’re trying to outrun your editor, because that’s how you get to the good stuff, the moments of truth. If you get stuck, and
I remember
doesn’t work, try
I see, I wish, I don’t remember
. . . Whatever comes into your head, write it.”
“Even swear words?” someone asked.
He grinned. “It’s your writing, you guys. Follow it wherever it takes you. All you need to do is tell your truth. Get it? Everyone with me here?”
A few people nodded.
“Ready . . .” Mr. Tremont said. “Write.”
I put my pen to the page, hesitantly.
I remember . . .
“Don’t think too hard,” Mr. Tremont said. “Just write.”
I remember . . .
I remember Lacey. I remember Lacey in seventh grade, the first time we made brownies together. I remember turning up the radio in her kitchen, singing along to the Top 40 station, screaming when our favorite song came on. I remember the day at lunch in middle school when Tyler Adams climbed up the big oak tree to get the football they’d thrown up there, and he got stuck coming back down. I remember how the janitor had to get the ladder to get him down, and how we laughed, Lacey and I, sitting against the sunny brick wall at the corner of the playground, laughing and laughing until tears ran down our cheeks and our mascara ran in black trails down our faces. I remember how we ran into the girls’ bathroom to fix it and saw Morgan Ellington in there with tweezers, trying to pull a hair out of her chin, and how we looked at each other with giant eyes and squeezed together lips and ran right back out until we could collapse by the pop machines outside the gym, laughing and laughing until we could hardly walk back to class when lunch was over.
I remember . . . I remember her standing over me with that look on her face like she knew she had me good and she wasn’t going to drop it. When did she stop forgiving people their mistakes? We used to tell each other every secret, but one day secrets turned into weapons and now we brandish them back and forth to keep each other in check, walking along a perfect straight line, daring one another to fall.
The stopwatch beeped loudly, and I jumped. “Okay, stop,” Mr. Tremont said. He was sitting with a yellow legal pad at the front of the room. I looked down at my notebook in amazement. I’d covered more than two pages.
Jenna raised her hand. “Mr. Tremont?”
“Yes?”
“Were you writing, too?” she asked.
“I was,” Mr. Tremont said. “It’s only fair, right?”
Across the room, Shanti and the Freshman exchanged looks.
Mr. Tremont stood and moved around to sit on the table. “I know I said no one would read this but you, but there’s something freeing about reading a raw draft. . . . Anyone feel like sharing?”
“Dude, I will,” Randy said.
“Great,” Mr. Tremont said, looking around the room. “Before you start, I’d like to remind the class that it takes a lot of guts to read your own work, so I’d ask you to be respectful of anyone who offers to read. In order for this class to work, you have to be vulnerable and open in your writing. And in order for that to happen, we need to establish a sense of trust and safety.”
Behind me, Brian Sorenson snorted. “Dude, Tyler was right. This class is totally gay,” he muttered, keeping his voice low enough that Mr. Tremont couldn’t hear him.
Randy stood and cleared his throat dramatically. His friends cackled. “‘I remember this morning, when I waked and baked. I remember how fine Paige looked in that little skirt on the first day of school. She looks hot today, too. It would be awesome if her and Lacey made out, even though Lacey’s like a cripple now. I remember —’”
“That’s enough.”
Randy stopped, looking pleased with himself. Brian and
I remember
doesn’t work, try
I see, I wish, I don’t remember
. . . Whatever comes into your head, write it.”
“Even swear words?” someone asked.
He grinned. “It’s your writing, you guys. Follow it wherever it takes you. All you need to do is tell your truth. Get it? Everyone with me here?”
A few people nodded.
“Ready . . .” Mr. Tremont said. “Write.”
I put my pen to the page, hesitantly.
I remember . . .
“Don’t think too hard,” Mr. Tremont said. “Just write.”
I remember . . .
I remember Lacey. I remember Lacey in seventh grade, the first time we made brownies together. I remember turning up the radio in her kitchen, singing along to the Top 40 station, screaming when our favorite song came on. I remember the day at lunch in middle school when Tyler Adams climbed up the big oak tree to get the football they’d thrown up there, and he got stuck coming back down. I remember how the janitor had to get the ladder to get him down, and how we laughed, Lacey and I, sitting against the sunny brick wall at the corner of the playground, laughing and laughing until tears ran down our cheeks and our mascara ran in black trails down our faces. I remember how we ran into the girls’ bathroom to fix it and saw Morgan Ellington in there with tweezers, trying to pull a hair out of her chin, and how we looked at each other with giant eyes and squeezed together lips and ran right back out until we could collapse by the pop machines outside the gym, laughing and laughing until we could hardly walk back to class when lunch was over.
I remember . . . I remember her standing over me with that look on her face like she knew she had me good and she wasn’t going to drop it. When did she stop forgiving people their mistakes? We used to tell each other every secret, but one day secrets turned into weapons and now we brandish them back and forth to keep each other in check, walking along a perfect straight line, daring one another to fall.
The stopwatch beeped loudly, and I jumped. “Okay, stop,” Mr. Tremont said. He was sitting with a yellow legal pad at the front of the room. I looked down at my notebook in amazement. I’d covered more than two pages.
Jenna raised her hand. “Mr. Tremont?”
“Yes?”
“Were you writing, too?” she asked.
“I was,” Mr. Tremont said. “It’s only fair, right?”
Across the room, Shanti and the Freshman exchanged looks.
Mr. Tremont stood and moved around to sit on the table. “I know I said no one would read this but you, but there’s something freeing about reading a raw draft. . . . Anyone feel like sharing?”
“Dude, I will,” Randy said.
“Great,” Mr. Tremont said, looking around the room. “Before you start, I’d like to remind the class that it takes a lot of guts to read your own work, so I’d ask you to be respectful of anyone who offers to read. In order for this class to work, you have to be vulnerable and open in your writing. And in order for that to happen, we need to establish a sense of trust and safety.”
Behind me, Brian Sorenson snorted. “Dude, Tyler was right. This class is totally gay,” he muttered, keeping his voice low enough that Mr. Tremont couldn’t hear him.
Randy stood and cleared his throat dramatically. His friends cackled. “‘I remember this morning, when I waked and baked. I remember how fine Paige looked in that little skirt on the first day of school. She looks hot today, too. It would be awesome if her and Lacey made out, even though Lacey’s like a cripple now. I remember —’”
“That’s enough.”
Randy stopped, looking pleased with himself. Brian and
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