Cindy Hurst's Blog - Posts Tagged "ballerina"
Little Andrea's Recurring Nightmare After the Tragedy
It was dark outside. The wind howled through the branches of the trees, tossing the leaves about violently. Andrea found herself standing alone in the street. Everything appeared massive – the buildings, the streets, the few parked cars around her. Suddenly she heard a bone-chilling scream. It was a familiar scream. She followed the piercing sound as it grew louder and louder, almost becoming deafening. Her body became paralyzed and her breathing labored. Before her she saw the image of her mother, hunched over on her knees. The woman looked up and saw Andrea. Her arms came up, reaching, reaching. But something held Andrea back. She struggled to free herself from the invisible force, but her struggles proved to be futile. Then, in the corner of her eye Andrea saw him, a faceless man, cloaked in black. He began marching toward her. He was floating, yet Andrea heard his footsteps grow louder and louder until the sound was too unbearable. Then, he reached out for her, and as he did she saw the image of a cat begin to emerge from the back of his hand. The cat turned into a lion with fire in its eyes. Andrea opened her mouth to scream but nothing would
come out.
“Andi, run!” echoed the haunting voice of her mother. It sounded like a thousand voices, trapped inside a chasm. “Andi, run or the lion will kill you!”
Andrea clamped her eyes shut…
Berlin Dancer
come out.
“Andi, run!” echoed the haunting voice of her mother. It sounded like a thousand voices, trapped inside a chasm. “Andi, run or the lion will kill you!”
Andrea clamped her eyes shut…
Berlin Dancer
Writing Cannot Be Forced
I took a creative writing class in college about three decades ago. I knew I wanted to be a writer and hoped that this would help me. The class was often frustrating. If anything, though, it taught me that great writing cannot be forced.
The teacher would often choose two or three stories to read out loud during class. He would read through them and then we would critique them. I was often impressed at how my fellow classmates would weave together their ideas, often tying symbolism into their stories.
One day, as I walked through a park, I suddenly felt inspired. I knew what my next story would be. I would write about an aging woman and somehow tie her character in with the changing seasons. As she grows older, the air grows colder and eventually the trees are barren and the woman is dead. It was brilliant. Poetic, visual, and profound! Who could resist it?!
I spent the weekend carefully crafting my story and the next time we met in class, I approached the teacher and asked him if he would read it. He did and when he finished, I braced myself for my classmates’ comments. The class grew silent and no one raised their hand. “Anyone?” the teacher asked.
Finally, one woman raised her hand and said stiffly, “It was boring, dry, and uninspiring.”
I was crushed. Did she not even appreciate the way I crafted my story to include great symbolic descriptions of the changing seasons? Unfortunately, everyone agreed, including me.
Nearly one month later I decided to write a much different kind of story. This time I wrote about a man who writes horror fiction. His main character, Jenny Freeman, was a twisted psychopathic nurse with flaming eyes and skin as white as snow. Jenny begins to appear to him in his dreams. In the end, he dreams that Jenny carves him up and hangs him from the ceiling. The next morning, they find his body hanging in his room, carved up. The story was in the style of Freddy Krueger before I had even heard of Freddy Krueger. The teacher read the story to the class. I sat back, smiling to myself as my classmates squirmed and gasped at the graphic content and outcome of the story. I’m afraid I went overboard this time, but at least no one could say it was “boring.”
In the first story, I was trying too hard to create something that just was not my style. While I was desperate to amaze my classmates, my heart was really not in the story. I had a much better time crafting the second story, although I will admit that horror is not my area either.
In my novel, Berlin Dancer, I fell in love my characters. I was fascinated by the history and intrigued with a culture that was so different from my own. I took my time writing and researching it. In fact, the story took on a life of its own each time I sat down to write. I never knew what would happen next. It was always a surprise. The reviews speak for themselves. The lesson for me is that the best writing cannot be forced. It has to come from the heart.
The teacher would often choose two or three stories to read out loud during class. He would read through them and then we would critique them. I was often impressed at how my fellow classmates would weave together their ideas, often tying symbolism into their stories.
One day, as I walked through a park, I suddenly felt inspired. I knew what my next story would be. I would write about an aging woman and somehow tie her character in with the changing seasons. As she grows older, the air grows colder and eventually the trees are barren and the woman is dead. It was brilliant. Poetic, visual, and profound! Who could resist it?!
I spent the weekend carefully crafting my story and the next time we met in class, I approached the teacher and asked him if he would read it. He did and when he finished, I braced myself for my classmates’ comments. The class grew silent and no one raised their hand. “Anyone?” the teacher asked.
Finally, one woman raised her hand and said stiffly, “It was boring, dry, and uninspiring.”
I was crushed. Did she not even appreciate the way I crafted my story to include great symbolic descriptions of the changing seasons? Unfortunately, everyone agreed, including me.
Nearly one month later I decided to write a much different kind of story. This time I wrote about a man who writes horror fiction. His main character, Jenny Freeman, was a twisted psychopathic nurse with flaming eyes and skin as white as snow. Jenny begins to appear to him in his dreams. In the end, he dreams that Jenny carves him up and hangs him from the ceiling. The next morning, they find his body hanging in his room, carved up. The story was in the style of Freddy Krueger before I had even heard of Freddy Krueger. The teacher read the story to the class. I sat back, smiling to myself as my classmates squirmed and gasped at the graphic content and outcome of the story. I’m afraid I went overboard this time, but at least no one could say it was “boring.”
In the first story, I was trying too hard to create something that just was not my style. While I was desperate to amaze my classmates, my heart was really not in the story. I had a much better time crafting the second story, although I will admit that horror is not my area either.
In my novel, Berlin Dancer, I fell in love my characters. I was fascinated by the history and intrigued with a culture that was so different from my own. I took my time writing and researching it. In fact, the story took on a life of its own each time I sat down to write. I never knew what would happen next. It was always a surprise. The reviews speak for themselves. The lesson for me is that the best writing cannot be forced. It has to come from the heart.
Escaping from the East
During a conversation with Beate Vollack, a dancer/choreographer (and now dance director... congratulations!) who was born and raised in East Berlin, I asked her about the different ways people tried to flee the East. Her response was, "If you can imagine it, somebody tried it." People were quite creative. Some examples include hijacking a train, using a hot air balloon, jumping the wall, and using escape tunnels.
If you visit Berlin today, you can actually tour some of these escape tunnels.
http://www.smartertravel.com/photo-ga...
If you visit Berlin today, you can actually tour some of these escape tunnels.
http://www.smartertravel.com/photo-ga...
And When the Wall Came Down, They Failed to Celebrate!
In just over three weeks, people will be paying tribute to the 25th anniversary of the Fall of the Berlin Wall. I am looking forward to seeing what they do in Berlin. I remember seeing footage of people dancing on the Wall back then. Years later, while speaking to a dancer/choreograph (and now director) who was born and raised in East Berlin, I asked her if she was perhaps one of those people celebrating on top of the Wall. Her response was rather anticlimactic.
Beate, my contact, explained that on that very evening, she was attending a reception after a performance. In the midst of the event, everyone heard the announcement that the borders were opening up. These announcements were being broadcast over loudspeakers from the West. It was one method the West used to send information to citizens behind the Wall. People at the party stopped what they were doing and walked over to the window to try to hear and see what was going on. Observing a buildup of tanks in the streets, they concluded that the news could not possibly be true. Beate told me that she remembers feeling irritated that the West would play such a prank by sending “false announcements” over the loudspeaker. They simply ignored it, shut the windows, and continued on with their event.
After the reception, Beate returned home and went to bed. It wasn't until the following morning, after waking up, that she found out that the West had been telling the truth, and that she had missed the biggest party of all. :-)
Beate, my contact, explained that on that very evening, she was attending a reception after a performance. In the midst of the event, everyone heard the announcement that the borders were opening up. These announcements were being broadcast over loudspeakers from the West. It was one method the West used to send information to citizens behind the Wall. People at the party stopped what they were doing and walked over to the window to try to hear and see what was going on. Observing a buildup of tanks in the streets, they concluded that the news could not possibly be true. Beate told me that she remembers feeling irritated that the West would play such a prank by sending “false announcements” over the loudspeaker. They simply ignored it, shut the windows, and continued on with their event.
After the reception, Beate returned home and went to bed. It wasn't until the following morning, after waking up, that she found out that the West had been telling the truth, and that she had missed the biggest party of all. :-)
