I just finished reading the first 39 pages of Dr. Gabriele Rico's 256 page book entitled Writing the Natural Way. I find it difficult to move forward through the book. Usually when someone finds it difficult to finish a book it's because they don't like it. I'm having trouble finishing it because I'm loving it! Dr. Rico teaches a method of preparing oneself to write she calls "clustering". It's fairly easy once you relax and allow it to happen. It's actually a very natural process and we all tend to do it whether we realize it or not - even when we're sleeping.

I don't want to give too much away so I'll leave it at that and share with you a few of the assignments that I've completed since reading those 39 pages:

Hand harvesting wild clams under the glow of a full moon can be a pleasantly primitive experience. As sunset approaches, my wife, Ariel, and I seek out the most secluded parts of the beach where we embark on our clam hunt like ancient tropical island villagers. First, I go about selecting a hefty, grapefruit sized rock, which will be used to locate the clams, while Ariel collects porcelain like seashells that will be used for digging up the clams (just like, we imagine, our ancestors did). Next, we take our places along the shoreline sharing in the knowledge of primitive clam harvesters, that the biggest and most succulent clams are often found buried in the moist sand along the shoreline. Then, like a speechless man-ape, I stand in ankle deep water, my toes dug into the sand beneath me, waiting for the tide to begin to recede. At that moment, I lift the heavy rock above my head and just when the ocean water has cleared my feet, I release the weighty boulder away from my body. As the primitive tool lands with an impressive thud we spot a miniature geyser erupt from the smooth tightly packed sand as the frightened clam (just like its crustacean ancestors had done hundreds, even thousands of years ago) spits water into the sky. Before you know it, Ariel, like a wild, famished monkey-girl, is at the spot digging furiously with the seashell. Seconds later, the exposed hopeless clam, trapped and with no place to escape, is extracted from the hole and placed in a bag. We exchange a quick triumphant glance before repeating this simple, aboriginal act under the light of the ageless moon, not stopping until we have gathered enough clams for an unsophisticated meal before a crudely built fire under a night sky filled with faded prehistoric stars.

I've noticed Billy has seemed very depressed lately. He's normally in such an upbeat mood. He's been acting so sad lately. Our conversations, which up to recently have been so joyful, have become depressingly cheerless. Every time I ask Billy to tell me what's wrong, he offers the dismal excuse "you wouldn't understand". And once he even cruelly told me "it's none of your business!" I remember Billy as always being so carefree and happy. To see him in such a piteous state tears at my heart. What, I wonder, could it be that has made Billy so melancholy lately?

She was afraid to sleep at night for fear she'd have another nightmare. She'd dream violent dreams of guns and sometimes knives. Of war and death and armies of men invading and ransacking the house in which she lived. She dreamed of old movie monsters chasing her on her way home from school. She could never run fast enough and just as the monster had her within reach she'd wake up from the terror of her dreams crying into her pillow as she clutched her favorite doll, still afraid to go to sleep at night, alone in her own bed.

She dreamed handsome young men would enter her bedroom as she brushed her soft brown hair by the lamp near the open window where the sheer curtains billowed in the wind while she gazed at the clouds drifting past the full moon. With shiny metal scoops, like the ones she saw in the huge ice-making machine in the kitchen of the nursing home where her mother used to work, they'd pour diamonds at her feet. Abruptly, she found herself in the middle of a raging snowstorm where dirty gray snowmen shoveled dirty gray snow at her dirty gray frostbitten feet.

She noticed a pack of snarling wild reindeer with gnarled antlers and sharp teeth tied to an old tree. She was afraid they'd break free, which of course, they did. They nipped at her piggies and ankles as she lay perched upon mountains of trash. She remembered the huge dumpsters outside the kitchen of the nursing home where her mother used to work, filled with half-eaten spaghetti, wilted salad, and soiled diapers. She'd awake from the terror of her dreams crying into her blanket as she clutched her favorite doll, still afraid to go to sleep at night, alone in her own bed.

Like I said earlier, I'm loving this book. Now if I can only stop writing long enough to finish reading the darn thing!

You can keep up with my progress on my blog, 300 Words Every Day.