Classes, Workshops, Coaching, Editing: All Writers' Workplace & Workshop

ALLWRITERS’ WORKPLACE AND WORKSHOP

By Kara Steffen, 13 years old
(a student in AWW’s Creative Writing Camp for Middle-Schoolers)

As I walked into the room where I would begin to make my dreams real, I looked around. The walls were the shade of ripe Bing cherries which accented a picture with its canvas in the shape of a compass. Beautiful symbols rested on it; symbols that had made perfect sense to their creator, yet to me, they were just symbols, meaningless, but beautiful. On one cherry-colored wall, a picture frame lay, holding an object of mysteries and each person’s own truth. Reflecting back in the picture frame was a view of the other side of the room, the opposite wall holding rectangular bookcases that were divided into sections, upon which three-dimensional cases of imagination, knowledge and insight sat. Sitting on top of the darkly stained bookcases were vase-like people. Each of their generations was smaller than the last with their expressions forever etched into the shiny material of which they were made. Casting light into the small cozy room were two windows. They tiny bright glass bugs on one window absorbed the sunlight’s powerful rays, making them even more bright and cheery than they already were. The shades over the windows took me deep into China’s forests where the bamboo grows. A vase below the shades was such a deep shade of blue that it transported me straight into the sea where the fluorescent blue creatures, colored onto the vase’s surface, dwell. I reached out to touch the cool smooth vase, matched with the glassy surface of the wooden shelf it was resting on. Small leaves from a hanging plant tickled the top of my head as my hands moved across a checkerboard piece, smooth except for the indentations that a picture was made from. The plant continued to brush against my head as I ran my fingers across the rough textured wall to the silky leaves of another plant. Next, I felt the sharp prickles of a small cactus and the spongy texture of a mini-tree. A surprise came as I ran my hand across the hot window to the intricately designed bugs, shocked at how fragile they felt. I then ran the tips of my fingers gently across a piece of knowledge. It had a smooth cold cover, but a rough side as I stroked its pages against the grain. As my hand clasped around empty soft air, I stopped to listen to the countless clocks in the room, ticking in and out of unison. I listened to the occasional creaking of the building, the only sign that the walls themselves felt any of the weight they held up. The low rumble from a truck driving by pointed to the room’s proximity to the road and a scary, far-off, high-pitched, almost girlish scream of a siren could be heard in the distance. But as I took a deep breath in, the clean crisp smell of purified air met my nose, my tongue recognizing the moistness and coolness of it, and I caught just a whiff of strong black coffee. I calmly let out my breath. This was going to be an experience to remember.