My favorite writers on thehabit.co are investigating creative nonfiction led by Jonathan Rogers. We read through a well-known essay and evaluate what makes it click. Then we receive a writing prompt to practice one of the methods that was used. The assignment this time was: “in 300 words, paint as full a portrait of a person as you can. Look for telling details: concrete, outward details that clue the reader in to what this person is “really” like. Stay out of your subject’s head; whatever you want to communicate, communicate it via the concrete.”
My granddaughter was sitting across the table from me at the coffee shop. She’s home from college for Easter break and had a little writing of her own to do. She was my muse.

Rhea’s Contest Entry

Her cheeks bloom red under blue-light lenses.

“Will you read this?”

“What is it?” She hands me her laptop and reads the contest entry parameters aloud, then laughs as I try to scroll on her computer with my mouse.

Looking down at her phone, Rhea’s long brown hair screens her face, but her eyes scrutinize my expression as I read. She blows a long breath out of pursed lips as I return her laptop.

“I love the poetic beginning and ending, but the middle two paragraphs need some action verbs. Try ‘show, don’t tell’ with clues for reader from beginning to the end.”

As she stares at her screen, looks out the window, closes her eyes, types, backspaces, and types again, the red spreads from the apple of her cheeks to her ears.

“Is this better?”

I smile at the picture her words bring to me. However, as I click on “track changes” to” highlight and make comments, a few lines crease from hairline to nose. “Should I be worried?”

“No way. I love the meme of the sunset the meadow and his favorite flowers. I’m right there, and the two silhouettes… This is just what we talked about in our creative non-fiction class Tuesday night.”

She beams and dives back in, and her expression match her changes: eyebrows down with protruding lower lip for death, a shuddering breath and lip-licking for despair, and a red stain spreads from cheeks to chin for hope.

Rhea emails her entry and closes her computer.

“Don’t you want me to see it again?”

“Nope, I really like it now.”

We break for lunch and she peeks at my work.

“You’re my guinea pig for my assignment.”

“Are my cheeks really that red?” And Rhea pulls out her phone.

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