I attended my first creative writing class at the university the other night, but was not overly impressed with the unprepared tutor. I’ll give him another night before deciding whether or not to ask for a refund for the remaining classes.
We spent over an hour talking about keys…house keys, and anything we associate with the word. Fair enough, it’s a good subject. The tutor said very little, so we listened to each other. Then we had fifteen minutes to write down our masterpiece, either as a short story or a poem. I think I might have been the only one who chose the poetry route. And here it is. An explanation follows, just in case you want or need one.
Here are my keys:
I wrote only the first stanza in the class, and added the second when I got home.
The black keys are for my bicycle. After seeing the remains of a cyclist’s brains being cleared up with sawdust, some 200 yards from my home, I decided never to cycle again. The car drivers round here are reckless. So, I keep the black keys to remind me never to go cycling again. On reflection, why don’t I just sell the damn bike?!
The second stanza takes up the idea of doors (which keys open, of course), of how we have many closed doors in our adult minds. But they are not locked. All it takes is our inner child’s mind to gently push them open…our adult brains are too overburdened for the task.
So, there we go. After an initial flush of writing one or two poems a day, for the last week I have written nothing. The class pushed me towards this one, so perhaps I need the stimulus the class can give me after all. We shall see.