Welcome back to Saturday Workshop! As always, please share your response to today’s prompt in the comments, or your opinions about my response! 

As a refresher of our workshop practices to keep this a productive and healthy space, here’s a brief version of our Workshop Best Practices.

• Start with something that works for you, like is the repetition is driving a point home well, or if the tone draws the reader right in. We could all use some encouragement, and this is a small gesture that goes a long way!

• Avoid simple statements like “I don’t like” or “I like.” These are generally non-specific and therefore unhelpful. Instead, try to explain why you like or dislike something.

• Try to remember to refer to the narrative voice of the piece as “the narrator” rather than assuming it is the “you” of the author. Some of these pieces will be fiction, some non-fiction, some poetry, and we can quickly stray into the unproductive realm of hurt feelings if we accidentally get too personal.

• The name of the game with critique is constructive criticism. “This is bad” isn’t constructive. “The repetition in this piece doesn’t feel purposeful, and therefore is a distraction, rather than helpful” is a much more constructive statement.

• Have fun! Most–if not all–writing is collaboration. Remember we are all here for the same reasons. Happy writing ducklings!

Today’s prompt will be non-fiction.

Parents

Start by writing a list of unique physical traits that your parents (or guardians) had. Then, choose one trait of one parent, and write a paragraph introducing that paragraph through that trait. If your father has calloused hands, describe those hands and what they say about him. If your mother smells a particular way, why? Think about all five senses when listing traits. Pick something specific.

My Response

I have my Dad’s hands. Our skin doesn’t do well in winter, breaking apart across the backs of our hands in angry red deltas. Our knuckles scabbed. Every year he gets a jar of O’Keefe’s Working Hands cream in his stocking, and every year his eyes crinkle up, he pulls out his knife, cuts open the packaging, and rubs the cream into his hands while making appreciative sounds. Every year, we compare the cracks in our skin. Mine look like the coastal mudflats he’s never seen, his like the sprawl of the Badlands I’ve never seen. One winter, before the years of drought took all the snow, I was helping him clear off one of the horse shelters. He caught a bolt pushing the snow down the roof. When I helped him peel off his glove, the whole finger was purple and crooked, and the knuckle more wrinkled than ever. He shook his head, crinkled up his eyes, and told me not to tell my mother.