When it is time for that creative writing thing, Collins collects me. We head to the common area.
Macaroni is already there and signals for me to sit with him. I’m usually the only one who ever talks to him. As I flop into the chair beside him, he’s smiling like it is Christmas morning. Like he’s not stuck in here.
“Well, aren’t you excited?” he asks. “I can’t wait to check out the slam poetry. I brought along some poems, in case they want to hear them.” He pulls out a ratty old book with ripped corners and flips through it. I hope he isn’t planning to read one out loud while we are waiting. I scan the room so Macaroni won’t think I’m his audience.
The place is more packed than I expected. Four COs are leaning against the wall. In front of us a low table has been set up. Behind it three people sit, shuffling papers and talking with each other in whispers. This is the first time the creative writers have been in here. The slim guy, who looks to be about thirty, stares at us. He’s taking us in. He’s wondering what crimes we’ve committed and how safe he is in here.
Lucky that Luke and Dex aren’t around. Luke killed a guy and Dex was running guns and breaking in to people’s homes. He beat up one guy so badly the dude almost died. You wouldn’t expect that from guys who are still years away from their twenties. But it’s real. As if the dude at the table can hear my thoughts, his shoulders hunch. He picks up the book in front of him and buries his head in it.
Since the writers are here for everyone, girls are in the room too. Other than for a couple of classes, all of us rarely get to do things together in here. And when we are together in a room, we can’t sit beside each other. That must be why there are so many guards here today. They want to make sure we don’t get too close. Wired was into a girl here last year and they were caught kissing. That’s it. Just lips pressed to lips. But the whole joint was on lockdown for two hours. It sucked! It’s times like that when the guards give us attitude and make our lives hell.
I was kind of into one of the girls my first year in. But we could never get together, so I gave up. None of them are like Tanika, anyway. Or what I figure Tanika would be like if I’d had a chance to get to know her better. She’s probably getting ready for graduation. I bet she’s even more beautiful now. If my life were different, I would definitely be asking her to go with me to the grad dance.
“Let’s get started,” says a folksy-bluesy voice, bringing me out of my thoughts. “We are thrilled to be here today,” says the woman. “We used to visit the local prison and did a lot of work with adult inmates. We hope to get that gig again, but we’re lucky to have this opportunity to connect with all of you.”
Connect with us? It sounds like we’re blocks of Lego. I’m beginning to regret my decision to come here. I’m cursing Wired under my breath.
The woman speaks again. “We’re going to introduce you to the writing professionals who are here today. Then we’ll talk about writing in general, before moving into smaller groups. As you noticed when you signed up, we’ll have fiction, poetry, and song writing. We hope you’re as excited as we are.”
A few girls nod their heads. Macaroni has a wide grin on his face. I bet I look totally out of place.
The woman introduces the panel. The guy who is sitting at the end is the songwriter. His name is Sean. He’s still studying us but smiles when he is introduced. The poet is named Keto, and he’s into slam poetry. The woman’s name is Kendra and she writes novels. She pays homage to the founder of the program here in BC, where writers connect with inmates. Even though I came just to get away from Wired, I admit it is cool to have people from the outside caring about us. Sometimes it feels like no one even knows we’re here.
Kendra stands and smoothes her skirt. “I’ve written nine novels. One of them is aimed at people in their twenties. That’s pretty close in age to many of you. My character, Elsie, has a tough life. I’m thinking some of you can relate to that?”
Some of us? All of us know tough, being in here.
Kendra begins a slow walk back and forth in front of our rows of seats. “The beauty of being a writer is that we create the stories. We make up lives for our characters. We get our characters in trouble and then we give them tools to get out of trouble.”
“Are you saying you can write us right out of this joint?” one of the girls asks. I hear people snickering.
“Sort of. I can’t write you out of here. But YOU can.”
More people chuckle. They aren’t buying it.
Kendra continues. “As writers, we determine where our characters go and how they get there. You may not be able to leave here for some time. But you can write your journey. Or maybe you write about what life could be like outside of here. Then you find a way to make that happen. It’s really that simple. And over the next four sessions, we’ll show you how to do it.”
It’s really that simple.
Nothing in life is simple. That much I figured out on the day I took that car. But it would be nice to believe things could change. That we could have the power to make things change.
When we break into small groups, Macaroni goes with the slam poet. I hang with Sean.
He plays his guitar and sings one of his original songs and then talks about his process. “Sometimes I get the lyrics first,” he says. “And sometimes the music comes to me before the words.”
One of the girls jumps in, “I have no trouble writing lyrics. But I can’t always get the notes down. Do you ever have trouble with that? What do you do when that happens?”
I think about Strummer and his song.
“Yeah,” agrees Sean. “Of course it’s cool when the two come together. But I have days where I can’t knock out the words, no matter how hard I try. Then I decide not to push it. To let it just happen. I have tunes rolling around in my head all the time, but the lyrics take more work for me. That was a good question. Anyone else have questions?”
I hope he doesn’t expect all of us to share. I wouldn’t know what to say. I don’t have a process, since I don’t write songs. But Strummer and I jammed and talked about music. I wish he was here right now. He’d be telling us all how he gets his ideas. I wonder if Strummer has access to a guitar in prison. I wonder how he is surviving in there.
Hanging with Sean is making me miss Strummer even more.
But at least I am killing an hour without having to deal with Wired.