In Class Writing Activity
One of my favorite things about “Where Are You Going Where Have You Been?” is how masterfully Joyce Carol Oates builds dread and horror during the encounter between Connie and Arnold Friend. The slow revealing of disturbing detail works so well in this scene.
Using the scene as your model, write your own scene in which the main character gradually realizes that he or she is having an encounter with someone who is not quite right in some way. Work on slowly building tension by using detail that gradually accumulates into a disturbing portrayal.
Your scene should be about 200 – 400 words.
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It was very late, and I’d been sitting around the piano at the bar drinking and singing for several hours when a man slipped onto the stool beside me. He leaned in and asked me if I’d like to talk with him. I love conversation, so within a short time, we had moved away from the piano and found a table in a corner where it was quieter and we could hear each other. The first part of the conversation was the usual, where he told me how he’d been watching me for a while and liked my singing, thought I was sexy. I asked him about himself, what he did for a living, told him I thought he was pretty sexy himself and asked him what part of town he lived in. We did a little kissing and touching there in the dark, paid the bill and left, dropping my car off at my place along the way.
I remember walking through the door of his place directly into the living room/kitchen. Neat and tidy, no bad smells. Always a good sign when you’re about to go to bed with someone you don’t know.
“Take off your shoes,” he said.
“Sure. Look, I’m a pretty independent woman. I don’t mind taking off my shoes, but I don’t like to be told what to do. I’ve had enough of that in my life.”
He came over to me and took both my arms in his hands, gripping me hard. He pulled me to him and kissed me, bruising my lips. Then he led me into the bedroom where I was surprised to see a Japanese futon on the floor.
Pointing to the bed he said, “Be careful where you walk.”
I laughed and said, “Why? Are there mines between here and there?”
“This isn’t a joke. Don’t joke.”
Okay, I’ll play along, I thought. So I walked in a straight line and flopped down onto the bed, tossing my purse onto the pillow.
“Don’t! Don’t ever put anything on the bed. It’s a sacred place.”
Doing as he said, I realized I’d made a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t drunk enough, or maybe I was too drunk, but this was creepy. Still, I didn’t have my car and I hadn’t been laid. So I stayed.
The next morning we got up and I followed all his rules about how to get out of bed, then out of the room and into the kitchen, how to drink my coffee. I wasn’t concerned until I asked him to take me home and he said, “Stay here, dear. I’ll see you tonight.” and walked out the door to go to work.
Still, I stayed. He came home at six, told me how to prepare his dinner to his specifications, how to put the kitchen back in order. We went to bed at eleven.
Over the next 60 days, I wasn’t allowed to do anything without permission and instruction. Gradually, by small degrees I felt my own will slipping away, replaced by his. I stayed.
“See how happy you are, dear.” he murmurs in my ear at night as I lie on the futon, and he ties my hands tightly above my head.
I do feel happy, and I know he loves me because he comes home every night and he calls me “Dear.”