Chairs sprawled across the room that serves not only as a classroom, but as a computer lab, cafeteria, counseling center, apartment and at the moment, a church in Virginia from years ago, through the mind of a young Tamara Jeffries. My classmates and I sat in amazement as she took us back in time to visit with her the inside of her mother's purse.
"How did you do that?" We all whispered with our eyes, too awestruck to ask the question. Ms. Jeffries is as close to as a writing god as we have close enough in our reach. "I'm not that different from you. I'm nothing special," she said, trying to convince us that yes, we too, could write like her.
Trith is, she really isn't anything special. She just knows how to create a scene.
We write to be witty. We write to tell what we think is a story, but we're honestly nowhere near telling a story. We all were instructed to describe a church scene. We described the church pews, the color of the choir robes, the way we felt walking into the church tardy, but not really setting a scene.
Ms. Jeffries took us throughout her mother's purse. She described the crumpled napkins and the peppermint wrapping and the dirt and lint at the bottom. She left us at the bottom of it and took us to the pew, where she sat with her patent-leather Mary Janes dangling from the pew. She took us there. We were her. She became us. She gave us a scene.
"How did you do that?" We all whispered with our eyes, too awestruck to ask the question. Ms. Jeffries is as close to as a writing god as we have close enough in our reach. "I'm not that different from you. I'm nothing special," she said, trying to convince us that yes, we too, could write like her.
Trith is, she really isn't anything special. She just knows how to create a scene.
We write to be witty. We write to tell what we think is a story, but we're honestly nowhere near telling a story. We all were instructed to describe a church scene. We described the church pews, the color of the choir robes, the way we felt walking into the church tardy, but not really setting a scene.
Ms. Jeffries took us throughout her mother's purse. She described the crumpled napkins and the peppermint wrapping and the dirt and lint at the bottom. She left us at the bottom of it and took us to the pew, where she sat with her patent-leather Mary Janes dangling from the pew. She took us there. We were her. She became us. She gave us a scene.
