My Workshop with Lily King

Pink Kitten Heels & Calvin Klein Plaid

Writing Exercises with Lily King

I recently took a workshop with Lily King during my last residency at Stonecoast. There were times when it was really hard for me not to go full fan-girl, but I can proudly say I made it all the way through… until the last day when I told her how I’d completely freaked out when I heard she was coming and all but begged the director of the program to switch me into her class. All while I was shoving hot pink kitten heels into my bag alongside my computer charger while tugging at the sides of my new Calvin Klein plaid dress. 

I think it was the passing around of her fully handwritten first draft of “Writers & Lovers” that sent me into a full on fan-girl panic. Yeah, I’ll go with that.

Anyway, the workshop was lovely.

I thought I’d share a few of my responses to the writing exercises we did over the three days we gathered.

For this first exercise, Lily shared a series of words while we sat in a circle with our eyes closed, encouraging us to bring forward images, memories, and experiences that those words evoked. Once she finished, we opened our eyes and quickly wrote down our thoughts next to the words that resonated most with us.

For me it was Body Odor and A Hot Morning

Body Odor:

We woke up early, as we often do, without an alarm. It was 5:56 AM. You remarked on how strange it was, and now I find myself rolling over to check my phone's clock: 5:56 AM, then back to you, your eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. My heart flutters, a mix of fondness and curiosity about what’s on your mind. What stories do you see in the stain on the ceiling? What does the hole to the left of the light signify? And what are you telling them?

I roll closer, burying my face in your armpit, inhaling deeply. I know I love you because even your morning scent is sweet to me. Even the afternoon sweat that trickles down your neck tastes sweet. I could nibble on your toes any time of day, without doubt or hesitation.

As I peek up from my cozy spot beneath your arm, you’ve turned from your conversation with the ceiling to look at me. You wear that soft smirk that makes my body melt into the sheets. I feel the duvet being lifted slightly, and I scrunch up, a reverse stretch with a satisfying pop from my lower back, as you stretch your arm over me, wrapping me tightly into your embrace. In this moment, I feel small—a feeling I cherish. You part your lips, and I hold my breath, waiting for the words that will break the morning silence. Instead, you place a gentle kiss on my forehead, another at the corner of my eye, where the warmth of your lips meets my skin, and then you pull me in tighter.

A Hot Morning:

“Can you come early? It gets too hot, too quickly.” She’d said it over a dozen times now and I said of course, mom, of course. I’ll try my hardest. 

I arrive at 9 am, but I’ve forgotten I have a meeting. It lasts until 10. Still, I’m determined to help. I want to help. So I ask, for the fifth time, what can I do? And you tell me you’ll show me. You’ll be right there.

Writing Exercise:

This writing exercise was inspired by an excerpt from Alice Munro’s Friend of My Youth, which resonates as it touches on a mother with Alzheimer’s. Unlike the bond she shared with her mother, Bobbie and her mother grew distant during her adolescence.

I know I said they never called or reached out, except for Sam. But the truth is, my mother did call once, and I didn’t answer. It was two months after I’d moved to California, having been gone for nearly a year. I was in the middle of a yoga class when my phone rang and buzzed simultaneously. The instructor shot me a disapproving glare and made a not-so-subtle comment about turning off our electronics. I silently apologized and let the call go to voicemail. 

After class, I listened to her message. She wanted to know where I was and what time I’d be over for dinner—she was cooking chicken, rice, and broccoli. It sent chills down my spine. Was this a butt dial? Did she think she’d called someone else? Or had she truly forgotten that I had moved away? Had her illness escalated that quickly?

— I wrote in my notes here “Lily King said my name.” Yup. Let’s all relish in how ridiculous I am… Okay, moving on. — 

Notes on Dementia:

It’s like a merry go round - a blur that will suddenly stop

She needs something she can understand - like clinging to music or having a friend who is a confidant for when they are not in a space they understand

Writing Exercise:

This one was simply a write what you feel. Write to write.

There’s a pressure building behind my eyes and at the nape of my neck. I try to block out these feelings, to focus my attention elsewhere so they don’t take the lead, but then it transfers to another area of pain. The backs of my knees, my full bladder, the heaviness in my chest that I can’t seem to distinguish between heartache or exhaustion. 

It’s in these moments that I find it difficult to form a sentence, let alone a thought. And when people approach me, when people ask me to talk, when people request a meeting with me, all I can do is shake my head and say ‘I don’t know,’ because I can’t. All I can think about is how many steps it would take to get to the restroom, how many minutes until I have some time to myself, how much energy it’s going to take to get from one place to the next, from one task to the next. 

I didn’t sleep last night. It was either the one too many alcoholic beverages or the almost-argument I got in about people lying to me about petty things but who doesn’t know I know and so I’m going in circles trying to circumnavigate telling them that I know, or its the anticipation of all the things I need to do. All the things I could be doing instead of lying awake here in my bed not sleeping not resting not focusing on the purples and greens swimming behind my eyelids, but rather on the scratch that is crawling into my throat, making a nest in the walls, threatening to fuck up my entire week.  

Writing Exercise:

She had been pruning the hydrangeas. They sat heavy at the edge of her garden, as if held down by the weight of all their beauty. The pressure of perfection too much to handle. The rain came down suddenly, violently, but she kept clipping away, digging further into the bush in search for brown, in search for death. 

And I sat at the window, watching her through snaking streams, and I let her continue on. I think part of me hoped she’d find herself in there. Maybe she could trim away the dead leaves that were keeping her from being my mother still. She’d find the right one, the withered, the rot, and the clouds would part, the rain would cease, and she’d look up at me with a new light in her eyes. An old, new light. 

I think the rest of my notes are in a journal in my ‘office.’ So that will have to wait for another day.

Okay, byyyeeeee!