I am trying to work through Ursula Le Guin’s book on how to write called Steering the Craft. Exercise 1 in the book is about the sound of language. Storytelling is rooted in spoken language, and so good writing, good storytelling, also has rhythm and musicality. I will repeat this exercise again (and try to do it any time I write), but here’s my first attempt:
It’s the morning. It’s the morning and the sky is grey. Shoes, keys, umbrella, and I’m out the door. The rain is splattering down as I make my way up the big hill with the wrinkled aunties and uncles with their fruits and their dogs and their flip flops. I take the stairs next to the temple that wind up the mountain, back and forth ever upward- past where they practice tai chi, by a small shrine, and careening around a wide tree. The steps are all different sizes; some steep steps struggle to support my stride. Other long, low steps almost invite me to lean into a full sprint, headlong up the mountain leaving my breath and my thoughts in my wake while my feet pound the crooked cobbled path. The first view of the wet city stretches to fill a gap between the trees. I’ve made it to the radio tower I can see out my kitchen window. The peak now is just ahead. I know all that separates me from the sky itself is one last gasp of stairs, just enough I can’t ever run from the bottom to the top. My legs begin to burn and sweat drips down my face, and half of the steps are still stacked, standing before me. I press on, footfall after footfall diligently until I can collapse against the great grey boulder etched in red Chinese writing “95 peak”
Don’t worry, I’m not quitting my day job yet, but this was a fun writing practice.
Stuff Cam Wrote 