A Note On Object writing

Hey there! Hope this finds you well!

As my career has progressed, I feel I’ve gotten more in touch with my voice as a writer - a never ending quest. One of the things that has always helped me write has been to start my days with an object write. I was introduced to object writing in my songwriting and lyric writing classes taught by Scarlet Keys and Pat Pattison at Berklee. At that point, I was curious about songwriting, but really, I had never written a song in my life. I had, however, turned to poetry to express the emotions I felt, but that I could never seem to get out in the moment (being the introvert that I am, that should be no surprise). And when we did our first few object writes, I felt I could really dig in with the imagery and I loved how quickly and easily it was to get to a more imaginative place. I was hooked.

The point of object writing is to write using your five senses plus the senses in your body and how your body moves. What you end up with are really imaginative and deep images to jumpstart writing a song or really any type of writing. Check out Pat Pattison’s books and tips on songwriting here. The point is not to be grammatically correct or even to write in full sentences, but purely to connect with your body and get more in tune with your feelings and emotions. It’s almost like a meditation on the page for me.

I’m starting this page on my website to help me get back into object writing and once again, dive deeply every day. I have had a busy touring schedule of 100-150+ dates per year in the last couple years, building my career along the way and I couldn’t find the energy or the time to sit down for 10 uninterrupted minutes to write. But, with the pandemic, I’ve embarked on a lot of self-discovery projects and body/mind/spirit growth and I want to get back to viewing my day through the lens of an object writer. That is to say, through a very vibrantly colorful lens, full of descriptors and evocative mini-stories and checking in with my senses.

I hope that, if you feel an inkling to write at all, you will join me on this journey with an unknown end, but a very clear beginning. Visit objectwriting.com for word of the day inspirations and check back here whenever you can!

All the best,
Vanessa

"rat"

Ever bright lights, each competing to replace the sun, pierce the blackness of night with a conical beam spreading towards the cracked sidewalks and subway grates. A kaleidoscope of red brake lights, aluminum silver, and black SEPTA writing flashes beneath the cold grates below as I duck my head against the chilling wind reaching into the folds of my jacket like a pickpocket. As I grit my teeth together and fold my arms across my chest, I feel even my teeth are cold. Passing a particularly noxious alley, I swivel my head towards the offensive scent, my nose wrinkles and the I see the dumpster looks like my clothes hamper at home, overflowing. But instead of sweaters and jeans, it’s a few dozen banana peels that have gone black, wilted lettuce heads sagging over the side, stale loaves of bread with little toothmarks carved like ancient cave paintings from the rats and night crawlers. My shoulders brace against…

"nitrogen"

Rows of sweet green peas ready to pop from their pods, wispy green carrot tops, rosebud-like lettuce tipped with eggplant purple, the promise of asparagus. Sweet pea flour hangs on the air tickling my nose as I inhale more of the delicate floral notes. The gritty, sandy soil is dug so deep under my nails, the knees of my overalls patched with red clay dirty stuck in every cross weave. The rooster yells as I pass, infringing on our agreement of space, pecking at the fence and trying to intimidate me. The sun warms my face as I remove the wide-brimmed thatched straw hat and tilt my face upwards like a child’s hands at communion. The warmth travels in waves down my neck, sending welcome shivers despite the heat.

"chisel"

Clink, clink, clink…another tiny piece of marble crackles and falls away, cliff diving to the ocean blue mat below. A puff of dust rises in protest. A low grumble rising from the pits of my gurgling stomach, fitters coming with it and rising to my sternum and sticking like gum in a toddler’s hair. I inhale, almost as a free diver coming to the surface, and I step back, covered in marble dust looking like someone dumped powdered sugar on my head. Once a tall rectangular block, it’s now got the shaped biceps and forearms of a dainty woman, strong, but flowing. The veil around her face thin enough to appear as though the folds are the petals of roses interlaced. Biting my bottom lip softly, surveying the work…

"aardvark"

Driving through the tall grasses, we can barely see the tire marks from the open-air vehicle in front of us as they disappear beneath a slosh of mud. With the back wheels spinning and spitting up giant dollops of mud, our front tires grasp hold of solid ground, like a free solo climber reaching for the next hold, and it propels us onward. Pairs of eyes peek out from the tan grasses, but we are unaware. We use the long necks of giraffes to guide us to our next destination and I rifle through the pockets of my many-pocketed vest, pushing crumbs of raspberry Nutrigrain bar under my fingernails, as I search for another stick of Wrigley’s. The sun bores into the skin on the back of my neck and I wish for a shady spot somewhere. The revving of the engine, working tireless, whines and groans from the effort. The whines and groans are mimicked by the pasty pale woman…

"table"

The crack running down the walnut table top leads to baskets of bread with fresh salted herb butter; large, smooth black ceramic bowls of field greens colored eggplant purple and lime green. Terra cotta bowls of potatoes au gratin, glistening with melted cheese and butter. Platters of charred and skewered halibut, settled and nestled on a bed of labneh and speckled with pomegranate arils. Fresh pita hides beneath warm towels, the smell twirling like a ballerina out into the open and under my nose. A soft hum of voices slips in between the cracks of the kitchen’s saloon-style doors and the soft clinks of glasses as a toast to the host is made. I am taken, as if by a riptide, and plunged headfirst into an ice bucket full of my time spent in the streets of Lebanon and Turkey. Fish pulled right up from the depths of the sea and seared, held tauntingly over roaring flames eager to consume it. A smattering of small china…

"oil"

Swirling rainbows, twisting and turning like riverbanks, try to escape the confines of the puddle, eager to slither to the next adventure. I’m ever so-gently twisting the viscous liquid further using the broken branch off a nearby oak, stirring like my mom stirs pancake batter on Sundays. I chomp on my last piece of Bubble Yum as it loses its flavor, a stale, sugary film coating my tongue and teeth, and I start to push air into a balloon shape at the end of my lips. Smack! Her little pint-sized hand reaches from behind and pops my bubble, coating the end of my nose and lips with the stale, sticky, diluted pink gum. A light, effervescent giggle emerges - somewhere off my right shoulder - and there’s a tickle in my ribcage as I, too, start to giggle. Falling back from my crouched position…

"bar"

Clinking of glasses in the corner by the men still dressed in their grey thatched suits, their ties hanging askew and pulled loose around their collars. A dark-haired, olive-skinned woman with her hair pulled back into a loose bun, tendrils spiraling like streamers on either side of her head, eagerly looking toward the door every time it opened, only to turn back toward her Old Fashioned and sip, a long and hearty gulp, with the corners of her lips taught and downturned. Peering over my own clear glass half full of a peppery pink paloma, I scan the crowd, crunching ice between my teeth. Heart beating slow and steady in my chest and in my ears, like taiko drummers, calm and even. The smoky aftertaste of the tequila, warming engulfing me. Running my fingers through my hair, I take a deep, rattling breath and wait. A familiar tap on my shoulder and the taiko drummers…

"cotton"

Wispy little white clouds cling to brown, desiccated limbs of plants, like little white-haired mummies all lined up in a row. A dry rustle runs through the crowd with every whistle of the wind. Sun peeking up over the horizon, playing hide and seek with the moon and I twist the pen between my teeth, pulling the little arm of the cap like a slingshot and letting it snap back. Lost in the deepest moors of my mind, I see kingdoms come to fight on this field for the honor of their respective kings. The chainmail clinking, the horses flaring their noses and expelling air, exasperated and impatient. A little joy eeks out of my subconscious and it pulls me back to the field of brown and white. The soft hum of the machine picking its wat and suctioning up all of the little clouds of what looks like spun sugar, gobbling them like a kid who’s behind on their chocolate advent calendar and voraciously…

"house"

Soft, white, pillowy billows, like plumes on a hat, slowing puffing out of the chimney and along with it, that smell of embers. The dirt road - a stark red clay - in contrast with the vibrantly dark green grass blades poking up and reaching for the sun. A light wind causes the long chains of rising smoke to careen and twist and the trees lining the dust red dirt road shake like a dog coming in from the rain. The sharp ping of metal hitting something hard and stubborn rings through the trees and shakes a couple birds out of their nests high up in the tallest maple closest to the house. She’s standing there, hovering over a little tuft of dirt mounded on the ground, like the loose cowlick of our red-haired cousin, and she’s peeking in to see what her shovel had struck. I tase the iron on the tip of my tongue and realize I’ve chewed a little divot into the side of my cheek. Hands clenched and wrung like wash cloths, a teetering penguin wobble, and the ever-present knot just behind my belly button gives a little…

"chapstick"

Running my tongue across my cracked bottom lip, peeling like crumbling slate in a canyon, little bits flaking off. My tongue, coated in a thick invisible fuzz, runs across my top lip next and finding a collection of salt in the crevice beneath my nose, in that little dip in the middle. I open my eyes groggily, and everything slowly comes into focus - the sheer blue roof of the tent, my shorts and light blue tank - soaked in sweat and clinging to me like a scared child, and that falling sensation in the pit of my stomach when I remember I’m out in the woods alone. The night sweats start up all over again and that churning of my insides resumes until I crack the tent zipper a couple inches and a wind sweeps in like…

"cousin"

Boots caked in mud and hay, she guides a chestnut horse out of the warm wood stall. Her face freckled across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, a strand of her hair loose and hanging like the vines of the jungle and she tucks it swiftly behind one ear. I munch on a slice of watermelon, sitting on the top rail of the fence with my leg swung over, the yellow sweet flesh tickling my nose as I eagerly take too big of a bite. My headphones, slipping off one ear. are pushing out the rhythmic, intoxicating guitar of Argentinian folk songs, and with my eyes closed, I’m dipping my toes in the cool waters of the bluest lake I’ve ever seen - when a pair of hands push up on my collarbone, nearly unseating me from my perch. “Hey!” I cough, nearly choking on the sugary liquid…

"soldier"

Rigid, unmoving, angular - the right angle of the elbow, just so. All fingers in a straight line salute, and the toes of each boot lined up. His caramel colored eyes intently staring forward, focused. His breath seemingly barely controlled, as his chest heaves in large waves, his stomach then chest rapidly filling with air, making his pride even more apparent. Muscles taught underneath the green and brown camo. The cloud of dust is still kicking up around them, a smokescreen inhaled by the coughing onlookers. An acrid smell of gunpowder hanging in the air, hovering like an invisible fog creeping down the windpipes of the audience. A small girl twirls in circles, dragging her feet so as to make tiny crop circles, kicking up her own dusty haze.

"Bedroom"

Pitter-patter of excited little toes down the hallway. They round the corner where the ink marks their height last Christmas and even with my eyes closed, I can tell from the absence of the loud croaking sound, they’ve remembered to skirt around the loose walnut floorboard. Still glancing at the inside of my eyelids, wrapped in the weighted cloud of our comforter, I start to smell the butter, sugar, eggs, clove, and cinnamon cooking on the griddle and I know Danny’s in the kitchen. One small clammy hand comes to rest on my cheek and I feel tiny, soft lips kiss my face and a little giggle erupts, just as the little volcano of joy erupts in my stomach. Another little pair of hands reach around my ribcage and I feel the tickle of long hair fall across my shoulder as I’m squeezed awake. I slowly peek one eyelid open like the drawing up of the morning shades and I see my little guy dressed in his overalls…

"Aunt" - April 13, 2022

A tight, chestnut brown curl had spring free from her bun and now bounced about like a kid wild and free in a bouncy house. Sweat collected and gathered together at the tips of her eyelashes until they were too heavy and a single drop started careering towards the tile floor. Mop in hand and a dirty bucket of soapy water lay at her slippered feet, smelling of pine sol and the grime of the last 50 years built up in the grout. The air was much more like smog and littered with flying dust bunnies of hair making a run for the closest doors and windows. I blew a bright blue cotton candy Bubble Yum bubble so big it obscured half my face until I pierced it with the tip of my tongue - this was the most fun I’d had all day with my tired, almost-tasteless-except-for-that-horrible-gum-aftertase-when-it’s-lost-it’s-flavor taste. The arches of my feet pulsed, nagging me like a little child saying “Are we done yet?!”

"Tweed" - April 2, 2022

Slipping my arms into the oversized sleeves with the leather patches on the elbows, I’m engulfed in a cloud of him, his woodsy pine smell from his shop. His beeswax hand cream. My stomach does loopety loops and I start to feel the rumble of my lunch threatening to come back up. Fresh cut peonies on the table, blushing almost as much as me, as I remember the last time I got to kiss my husband before he traipsed into the woods to fight the fire overtaking the county. Ashen clouds obscured the sun, an impenetrable haze thickening lize the air in a small southern church on Sunday. A giant barbecue has raged for 3 days, persistent and strong…

"Kettle" - April 1, 2022

“The little steam engine rumbling above the open flame, pressure building as it aches to let out its piercing cry. An unpolished silver, dull from overuse, with a black plastic handle connected by steel arms to the body. She hovers over the stove, waiting for that moment when the kettle cries out, so she can swiftly pull it off the stove before it wakes her daughter. Pencil stuck through the ruffled, messy bun she put it up in as the summer air kissed her neck. Notepad by the stove, its wires pulled in different directions like a wiry mess of rebar left from a building torn down. She glances between it and the teapot, softly chewing at the hardened bits of skin around her cuticles, and the ticking of the secondhand making her feel the drop in her stomach more with every soft click, sounding more like the firing pin touching the barrel of a gun, locked and loaded. Her stomach churns like…

Utopia

Sweet red plums grasp their stems like a rock climber gripping a cliff with two fingers. The nearby hives hum with the busy work of the bees, carrying the nectar of the bountiful flowers off the fruit trees. The smell of the sweet blossoms drift under my nose, as though I am a sommelier of the outdoors, and I catch notes of the California coast - the ocean carrying the seaweed to the shore along with the surfers, the serene evergreen forests and the faint must of the giant hundred year old Sequoias, and the smell of José’s tacos al pastor wafting from his open fire pit. My mouth begins to water as I reminisce about the last gathering at José’s. José tending to the charring pork spinning on the spit above the fire, the sweet glaze of the pineapple making its way down the spit like I traveled down the coast to get here. Laughter filling the air, following the path carved…

"Twinkle"

The warm bed of pine nettles padding my back as I look up through the mesh of my mosquito net. I close my eyes, take a breath that fills me from my stomach up through my chest, inflating like a hot air balloon, and joy fills me up as I exhale. Hot chocolate swirling in the my stomach, my hand brushes his, as we lay near the sweet smelling grasses - the smell of summer melon wafting off the nearby fields. Opening my eyes, I find his two iridescent caramel colored eyes and his two dimples looking at me. I melt like soft caramel into those eyes and I’m floating, much like the stars blinking in the night sky. He leans his warm, muscular body over me and I smell the faint hint of lavender - a beautiful side effect of working in the lavender fields all day. Every muscle in my body goes limp and I give in with the brush of his lips over mine. He lightly drags his lips like a crop duster across my upper lips, then my nose, then to each eye lid, delicately and deliberately…

"Chimney"

Placing one foot after the other, heel to toe, my bare feet tickled by the rough crab grass, I started the long walk up the drive way. Inching closer to the house, my stomach started to twist like a washcloth being rung out, and I started to pull on the edge of my broken fingernail. The wind curled the scent of burning wood under my nose and I can almost taste the gooey marshmallow and melted dark chocolate. My muscles relax, shoulders drop from hugging my ears as I hear her laugh echo from the porch. Her warm, light giggle fills the air like a bubble gun with bubbles of joy popping all around. Even the gardener, who was undertaking the arduous task of getting the weeds to let go of their clasp in the ground, looked up, wiping the back of his muddy work glove across his brow, leaving a little streak of dirt across his forehead.