About a year ago, a handful of co-workers and myself formed a writing guild. We meet monthly to discuss and share writing, usually focusing on a prompt. This month's prompt addressed minimilism, with emphasis on a writing style connected with various writers from the 1970s and 1980s, including Raymond Carver, termed dirty realism. For the prompt, we read Raymond Carver's, Cathedral.
In general, dirty realism is intense, brief, and focused on everyday lives of ordinary people, typically those of lower-middle class, or those who have been isolated, or marginalized.
Here was our prompt:
Meeting focus – Discuss/practice the use of minimalism and elements of dirty realism in short story writing.
1. Read Cathedral, by Raymond Carver. Come to the meeting ready to discuss elements of character, tone, voice and style developed in the story.
2. Drawing from your own experience, write the beginning of a story where you introduce us to a common, ordinary scene and characters. Success will be measured by the degree with which the tone, writer’s style and character’s voices capture our interest/attention. (Constraint: 300 words or less with no sentence containing more than 10 words.)
I'd never heard of dirty realism or Carver. After reading the piece, I am not a fan of either. I tend to gravitate toward positive material, especially since becoming a father. Still, I can understand the merits and appeal to readers. Our guild held a great discussion and shared thoughts and stories. While the other members contributed pieces that emulated Carver's dirty style, I attempted a negative image of the writing style and termed it "squeaky optimism." Overall, I received positive feedback, but the guild pressed me to continue - maybe with a twist. So, I added the last line; it appeased them. Maybe I'll take the story someplace else one day.
Squeaky Optimism
The errant blade of grass caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, returning from his morning jog. How could he? It was still dark. With nail clippers from his pocket, he bent and snipped. Perfect. Sniffing the clipping, he patted the lawn, admiring the rows. A singing robin caught his ear and he paused, enjoying.
“Mornin’, George!” Harry waved from across the street. “Another beauty, eh, neighbor?” Coffee in one hand and paper tucked, he crossed. The two met on the sidewalk. “Still on for tonight? Marge is making her famous roast.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Harry. Betty will be baking an apple pie for desert.”
“Wonderful. See you later.” They parted ways.
George patted his stomach, still full from the morning breakfast. Ham instead of bacon was surprising, but a nice change. It was on sale, she’d said.
He rubbed a water spot from the sedan’s bumper. Timmy’s bicycle reflection appeared as he heard the familiar bell.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith!” Timmy breezed by.
“Good morning, Timmy! Nice job last Sunday!”
“Thank you, Sir!”
Good kid, George thought. They’re all good kids. He made a mental note to increase the donation.
George slid into the driver’s seat. He fastened the seatbelt and adjusted the mirrors. Pulling away, Betty emerged to pick tulips. She blew a kiss. He blew one back, smiling.
Off to the slaughter house for another day.
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