This week’s writing exercise is inspired by Chapter 7 of Ursula Le Guin’s Steering the Craft. The focus is on perspective, an area where I’ve been stumbling a bit. Fortunately, Joey helped clear things up during our weekly writing call. I skipped the third-person observer exercise because I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it, but here are three out of the four assignments from the book.
Ronald had seen her there last year, in the same black Stetson, with rhinestones glittering around her neck. Row 31, seat D—just two rows in front of him. Paula always had the Golden Corral’s club seats. While she sat in comfort, he was stuck upgrading from general admission to VIP for an extra $25, a splurge he could barely afford on a ranch hand’s wage. But Paula? She didn’t pay a nickel. Even as Ronald noticed just bottled water in the cupholder of her folding chair, he knew her seat was permanent. It was the same seat her father, and his father before him had occupied. Generations of ranchers who helped build this arena had Ronald imagining what that kind of legacy felt like. He sat a little taller, crossed his feet at the ankles, and when the next person caught his eye, he tipped his crinkled old Meyer’s Oil hat and whistled a tune his Ma used to sing him to sleep.
Up in the announcer’s booth, Janet had her notebook, a working pen, and a hot microphone. Finally settled in, she glanced over her left shoulder. Sure enough, her friend of twenty years was there, hand raised in a small salute from beneath that same Stetson—the one Paula had gotten for her 21st birthday. Janet smiled. That was the birthday they’d gone to Nashville, where she’d watched Paula fall in love for the first time. And with a singer, no less. She could still remember it all, how Paula’s head was in the clouds, dreaming of going on tour with that barely-making-it country crooner. It wasn’t the life her family had in mind for her, but Paula had always been a bit of a wild card. Janet looked fondly at the crow’s feet that framed her friend’s eyes and the small tear at the front of the hat. She tucked the memory into her pocket, along with the kerchief her Daddy left her, and turned back to her notes, readying for the 75th annual Galedale Rodeo.
The crowd filtered in—one by one, two by two, and in small groups. Not a single attendee arrived without the help of diesel, horseback, or the boots beneath their feet. The excitement in the air was thick as bourbon, and the closer you got to the Golden Corral, the more the scent of alcohol hung on the breeze. The smell of livestock had yet to settle in, as the paddocks and chutes were downwind on the south side of the arena. Along the bank of wooden planks, plaques displayed the faces of the top rodeo competitors. Not one bore a toothy grin, just the stern, gritty look of those who had spent years going to work in all kinds of weather—rain, shine, sleet, or hail.
That’s it! Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 