Words in Play - Writing Workshops, Tutoring, Editing, Copywriting - Gallery of Students Work

Gallery of Student Work - A small sampling

Excerpt from in-class exercise on creating metaphors

My Writing Process by Bobbi Stoneman

I undo the ribbon of a velvet bag of marbles of hand-blown glass, letting them roll as they will. Some are large and streaked, red banners of blood floating in clear rain-glass. The blue ones, cobalt as yesterday’s sky, being easier to sort, click like to like--they herd and huddle together. I flick the marbles out to separate, watch the little ones, the banana yellow ones, scamper across crevices in the carpet becoming tucked and stuck in the cut pile of indecision. My favorite, the only purple one, has a chip, a nick that causes it to wobble and waver not knowing where to settle...trying this phrase, that emotion until finally channeled in the crack of the pine floor where planks join - a wooden sluice or groove that leads to a knothole, the safety of a cupped palm where it can nestle...then I begin to write.

Excerpt from Writing Retreat

by Sally Hirsch-Dickinson

I wanted to get my heart back and give it right this time. Too late, though. Too many pieces, too widely scattered, too cheaply offered, too dearly lost. And so I’d left myself only to breathe, ticking my breaths away one at a time wondering how many I had left in this place, when I was going to leave, and wondering why I hadn’t already. I needed to pull myself back into some sort of wholeness but I’d lost the ability to see the contours of what I thought I was or had been. I’d managed somehow to test myself and my limits by blowing through them and diving past them only to realize too late that I lived by those rules for a reason – so as not to lose sight of myself.

Tell a Tuscan Story brought writers and artists together for a creative adventure in Italy. Some came in pairs, others in groups, some alone. All were inspired. Here is a sample of their work.

Our first full day in Cortona was Market Day.

Assignment: Absorb the sensuous vibrancy of the vendors' stalls, then telescope in on the minute details. The craft requires attention to details.

Photo montage by Liz D’Amico

Cortona Market Day by Sally Wright

There is a greasy carnival smell to the air as customers line up at Paolo’s sundry shop on market day. While the din of distant shoppers pours from the food carts around the corner, Paolo lifts the side panels of his truck, revealing his shop, and locks them into their roof position.

Setting out blue plastic buckets, brooms and stacks of paper towels, he is ready to begin another Saturday in the Cortona market.

Paolo's fingers rake away a strand of hair exposing bright curious eyes. He offers a large grin and a “Buon giorno!” to one of the many women here to do their week’s necessities shopping. As one woman picks out soap and shampoo, the other customers wait their turn and gab back and forth, gesturing their hands with each inflection. They are a wall of newly coiffed hair and animal prints. Their tongues roll their R’s, keeping time with the sounds of clucking pigeons perched on an ancient tiled roof above their heads.

Paolo’s fingers adeptly peck at the adding machine, careful to meet his customer’s expectation. She studies the receipt and nods her head, agreeing to the contract which just took place.

Paolo grins and in good humor turns to his next customer, "Buon giorno!"

Sally Wright is a novelist who finds motivation to write by surrounding herself with other writers. She traveled on this trip with her mom, Mary Jane, to live fully, laugh often, and be inspired. She accomplished all three.

A trip to Italy would not be complete without a cooking class. Our group of artists and writers spent a day in Donatella’s kitchen where there was much activity. And, as every writer knows, where there is activity, there are VERBS.

Assignment: Call out as many verbs as possible while we are cooking. With everyone contributing, the list grew to over 100 vivid verbs. Afterward, replete in the wonder that is authentic Italian cuisine, students reflected on the experience.

Donatella's Table by Andrew D'Amico

She dropped the fork as she turned to stir the lamb sautéing on the giant stove. Quickly grabbing another, she mixed the cut meat to ensure each piece braised evenly. Andrea volunteered to mix and move the meat but not until after Donatella instructed him in the correct way.

Andrea couldn’t help thinking about his grandmothers’ kitchens in New York. One was from Sicily and the other from Naples. How similar the customs were in cooking, cleaning, eating, and family life! Andrea remembered his walks to the market stores and street vendors in Brooklyn with his mother and grandmother. In Donatella’s kitchen, he could smell the aromas of his childhood spent in his grandmothers’ kitchens—tomato sauce, pasta, olive oil, garlic, basil, and of course, the cheese, especially the Romano cheese.

Andrew D’Amico, above left, is a high school math/engineering teacher. He writes from his heart and finds joy in sharing the experience (the verb list helps).
Photo credit: Janet Hutchens

Donatella worked in her kitchen in much the same way he remembered his mother and grandmothers worked with pots, pans, and boiling water. She diced day-old bread, poured oil, mixed flour and salt, nuts, and sugar with the precision of a surgeon. After all, it’s called “culinary science,” isn’t it?

She prepared a soup of the diced bread, homemade tomato sauce, water, spices and fresh basil. It simmered for about forty-five minutes until the bread liquefied—yet another aroma filled the kitchen. Again, Andrea was transported back to the days of his childhood.

After sautéing the lamb, simmering the sauce, and pounding the pasta dough, made just minutes before, Donatella began to skillfully time the cooking so each course would be ready when needed.

The table was set expressly for Andrea’s group. Water and wine were placed in pitchers up and down the long table. Enjoying the feast, everyone there felt like part of a family. The Chianti was poured, drunk, poured and drunk again. Yet, the diners didn’t feel inebriated. The wine complemented the tastes of the food. God must have made wine to allow us to enjoy a fine meal.

Andrea savored every bite and every minute. He knew that most families do not eat and enjoy much quality time together any more. How unfortunate! Have we lost our identity as a culture because we no longer dine together, talk together, and love each other enough?

The steps of the Town Hall facing the Piazza Republic, or, as the locals call it, The Piazza, Cortona’s main square, is a favorite spot for the writers. Here, Susan puts her pen to work as she enters in her journal notes, observations, impressions, dreams—all to become bits and pieces of a story yet to be told.

Susan Bellavance writes novels and short stories and essays and personal memoir. Italy called to her with its gifts

and she replied in kind.

Photo credit: Deb McKew

The Streets of Cortona - musings of Susan Joy Bellavance

We ramble through the village hills like children at a fair. Cobblestones and fresh crusty bread, salami and cheeses hanging on strings and coffee cups so small, they appear as children’s toys. There is kissing in the streets, cafés with table flowers, pigeons and people in equal amounts going about life simply, sated by the romance of “la vita bella.” We wind our way through the ancient streets of crumbling sunlit walls with their sprawling jasmines and heavy carved doors closed on the mysteries of age-old corridors. I desperately want to peak inside.

As we walk along, the climbing roses and the vistas leave me as one intoxicated. I don’t know whether to whisper or shout or burst into a skip or a dance. The laughter ripples from my toes upwards and rides the breezes all the way down to the valley below. Sometimes we tuck inside a local church, gasping at the sweeping heights of frescoed ceilings and the passionate expression of an ardent faith in larger than life paintings and murals. I am humbled and grateful at the sight. This was their faith. It is mine, too.

These are the sights and the smells of the Italian soul. Such a different life, but my heart recognizes it. Like the sound of Paverotti lifting the soul in the powerful crescendo of “Nessun Dorma” that steeps my heart in intense joy and pain, the beauty of Tuscany makes me suffer inside. I ask myself, how will I be

able to leave this place? I recognize my home, my church, my

people. These are the streets of Cortona. They have changed

my heart forever.

There is something about a door that ignites one’s curiosity. In the medieval city of Siena, known for its amazing architecture, one can find unusual doors, no two alike. They bespeak poverty or wealth, humility or conceit; they lurk down alleyways forlorn with rotting wood and rusted keyholes, or trumpet majestic arrivals and departures with hand-carved stone framing glistening brass knobs. No matter the size or the stature, these unique doors of Italy tantalize us with their mysteries.

Assignment: Walk the ancient streets of this ancient town until a door beckons. Write its story.

Sketch of Latticed Door by Doug Dartnell

The Old Latticed Door of Siena by Louise Dartnell

The only sound is her labored breathing from the arduous climb up and down alleys and cobbled streets in the ancient hill town. She hurries toward this place which holds the key to her identity. At last, she stands before 38 Via Giovanni De Pre, an unassuming door of worn chestnut wood touched by centuries of residents but seemingly unloved and neglected, not making much of a statement in the dirty cream brick walls surrounding it.

To one side of the door frame is the number 38 and to the other a shrine to the Virgin Mary, her face looking as sad and tired as the door, faded plastic flowers an offering beneath her. The narrow door itself has a simple oval lock, featureless, unpolished and calling for a huge key. A modern mailbox to the left of the entryway dresses the the pock-marked brick. The uneven white marble step is worn by the ages of feet which have entered and exited. In the past, on that step lain countless unwanted bundles. That had been her past.

She notices the intriquing lattice work of the top third of the old door where from within someone unseen could monitor those in the street. Was that faceless being behind the lattice a witness to who brought her as a baby and left her many years ago or were the eyes of the vigilant Mother Mary the key to opening the door to her past, to her being?

Louise Dartnell traveled to Italy with her husband, Doug, in tow. He sketched his way through the Tuscan hill towns as she discovered her voice in the written word. They collaborated on this assignment, the first artistic collaboration of their 45 years together.


Liz D’Amico sketched this view (left) from a lookout point in Cortona. Once home, she turned the sketch into a painting, recreating the vivid hues that have inspired artists for thousands of years.

Beryl Schmitt sketched this colorful amphora with its characteristic double handles and narrow base; the uniquely designed vessel was used by the ancient Romans to transport and store grapes, olive oil, wine, and other food products.