Editor’s Note: This is another installment in our series “The Journal Speaks Back” in which Menomonie resident John Wilkerson invites you to join him in his love for journaling.
Storytelling and the art of showing an idea are the building blocks of a journal. So far, we’ve been carefree with our words and expressive format. Let’s touch a bit on some of the hidden power you can harness as you drop words onto the page.
Way back in the 1900s, when my brother Scott and I were young men, we played hooky from university and camped in the Appalachian Mountains. We’d found a campsite slot at Amicalola Falls State Park in Georgia; the kind of spot where city folk bring their pop-ups or fifth wheels and consider it camping. Amicalola is a gateway to the southern end of the Appalachian Trail, and we’d planned to set out early the next morning to hike up Springer Mountain.
We’d set camp in the back of my pickup truck. The tailgate was down, and the rear topper door was propped open. A draping of olive-drab mosquito netting hung over the opening in hopes that we could get a breeze during the night.
Not long after dark, we were crammed into the bed of the truck, a space so tight that only one of us could lie on our backs at a time. To turn over required a group effort and the repositioning of gear.
About an hour past sunset, the crash of a steel trash can boomed through the campground. The sound confirmed that the local critters were out feeding on everyone’s rubbish. We both grumbled at the interruption and tried to sleep.
A few minutes later, the crash of another can echoed. This one came from a spot closer to us. As I lay in the dark, I heard the can roll around on the ground for a while before going quiet. The nightly insects once again sang their songs.
After the third time a can slammed to the ground, I no longer considered the occurrence important to my night’s sleep. To sleep in the woods is to share your space with things that go bump in the night. I’d heard the bump and wasn’t concerned. At some point I drifted to sleep.
Minutes or an hour later, I can’t remember, but I do know I was dreaming when it happened. The back end of the truck drooped downward, and I found myself in a sitting position. I looked out through the mosquito netting as the muzzle of a very large black bear rested its front paws on the tailgate and started to climb into the truck with us. I made no sound. I only watched as the bear’s breath stunk up my night’s sleep.
Bears have surprisingly long tongues.
The bear and I locked eyes. It pressed its nose against the netting and proceeded to sniff my feet. I debated whether I should try to yell in hopes of scaring it away.
Later, I know it was only a few seconds, but sometimes I tell the story such that the bear and I were locked in a staring contest for hours. The long-haired beast pulled its tongue back into its toothy mouth and ambled away.
I turned to my brother, who was also sitting up, to see his take on the situation. To my surprise, he sat transfixed, staring down the sights of a diminutive revolver.
“And just what do you plan to do with that?” I said as I lay back down and attempted to tune out the sound of the bear rolling another trash can down a hill.
In telling my story about the bear, I broke from the common narrative we’ve discussed in earlier articles. In writing about the bear and my night camping, I followed time progression as the encounter unfolded. I mixed verb usage so that action felt new or exciting. I also chose specific words to end sentences and paragraphs. This writing structure is more in line with creative writing.
A journal writer will eventually begin to write short stories. This is natural as they shift away from the “I felt” narrative. If you follow a couple of general steps in writing these stories, you’ll find that the words become more meaningful.
Today’s prompt:
Tell a story. Pick something that you lived and see if you can create three paragraphs about how and when it happened. Keep the story simple.
Now, this is the hard part: carefully choose the last word of every sentence.
