I had just taken a sip of coffee, carefully slurping from the white styrofoam lid, fearful of burning lips already bruised from the chill November wind, when I happened to glance up and see the smoky glass doors across the street being thrust open. The coffee -too hot, and bitter now as well-pooled in my mouth, my throat automatically constricting at the sight of the couple who had burst through them, refusing to allow any liquid past the hot bile rising reflexively from the pit of my stomach.
The young woman, her white wool coat belted tightly around her slender waist, long auburn hair whipped back by a gust of wind, was laughing gaily, pushing the door open with one hand and gesturing broadly with the other. I could sense the sparkle in her eye, hear the musical laughter from her throat, even though I was physically too far removed to actually experience it. She pushed forward onto the sidewalk, her body radiating the excitement of someone stepping forward into a much anticipated future. Closely behind her, smiling proprieitarily down at her, his eyes fixed on the ruby colored lips of her laughing mouth, he touched the small of her back as she passed through the door, nudgine her ever so gently into the world outside the confines of this building.
Side by side, their shoulders brushing intimately against one another, they stepped purposefully onto the street, his head leaning down towards hers, so that not one golden word which escaped from her lips would be lost to him in the November wind. My eyes continued to follow them as their pace increased, so eager they were to stride into the future.
My coffee, cooled now, it's bitterness only enhanced by the lukewarm temperature, at last slid down my throat, as they disappeared from view around the corner of the building, a snatch of her white coat my last glimpse of them. I lifted the cup again to my lips, my eyes drawn back to the entryway opposite me. The heavy glass doors were silent and closed now, the golden letters announcing "County Clerk's Office" a fitting punctuation to the end of this story. Rising from the cold iron bench, wrapping my hands around the paper cup of coffee, I turned my back to the building and walked away.
An exercise from Now Write!, "Two People Come Out Of A Building...and into a story"
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The Readers in the Family
I was the first reader in the family - well, not literally, for they all knew how to read, my parents, and grandparents. They certainly were good readers. They just didn't love it, didn't have to do it they way I did (and do), didn't become agitated and restless if there was no book available to hold onto, to dive into, to inhale deeply into the brain like the smoker sucks deep whorls of tobbaco into the lungs. Books - words- images- ideas - have always been life's blood to me.
Where did that come from then, that need to read? I know where the music came from, that was easy, from my grandmother, who would sit at my piano when she thought no one was listening and play glorious hymn tunes straight from her inner ear to her fingers, no printed music on the page for a go-between. And perhaps the reading was from her as well, for she was the one who was always ready to pull me onto her lap and open the book, even if it was the middle of the night and I was up with croup yet again. Likely there was little reading time for her, the eldest of seven, in that country farmhouse with so many chores to be done each day. Perhaps, had she had my advantage, of the library down the road, and the bookstore up the street, she too would have developed a strong addiction to the printed word, the one that sends little frissons of excitment up my spine everytime I walk into Borders.
I am the reader in my family now...where will that reading gene end up next?
Where did that come from then, that need to read? I know where the music came from, that was easy, from my grandmother, who would sit at my piano when she thought no one was listening and play glorious hymn tunes straight from her inner ear to her fingers, no printed music on the page for a go-between. And perhaps the reading was from her as well, for she was the one who was always ready to pull me onto her lap and open the book, even if it was the middle of the night and I was up with croup yet again. Likely there was little reading time for her, the eldest of seven, in that country farmhouse with so many chores to be done each day. Perhaps, had she had my advantage, of the library down the road, and the bookstore up the street, she too would have developed a strong addiction to the printed word, the one that sends little frissons of excitment up my spine everytime I walk into Borders.
I am the reader in my family now...where will that reading gene end up next?
Sunday, February 18, 2007
The Photograph
This exercise is from Now Write:
(photo borrowed from here)
Pick an image - a photograph from your personal life, an image from a magazine or art gallery, part of a memory - have in your mind a picture that is framed which will serve as the basis for your writing. Set a time for 30 minutes and write a 1000 word sentence-no need to pay attention to stucture or punctuation, no need to edit. Just let it go...
Every damn day, Edward thought, no matter how crappy the weather, with no thought for how much the moisture filled wind battered his cheeks, or icy rain saturated his shoes, no matter if the sun burned a hole in his eyeballs and sent rivulets of sweat running in a stream down his back, every damn day, first thing in the morning, she sent him for the Globe, reminded him to take the quarters out of the bowl on her dresser ( you know the bowl Edward, the rosewood pottery bowl that belonged to Aunt Eleanor) the one where she always threw the loose change from the bottom of her purse so that it gathered in a silvery pool at the base of the mossy green pottery like glittering minnows schooled at the bottom of a meadow pond, as if he didn't know after 35 years of going for the damn paper every morning, that the place to get the two quarters he needed (it used to be only one quarter, than a quarter and a dime, and now two whole quarters, pretty soon it would be three the way the world was going, to hell in a handbasket, at least as far as Edward could tell from what he read in the headlines of the Globe as he walked home with it every morning) was in the rosewood pottery bowl that had stood on the dresser in their bedroom every since Aunt Eleanor died in 1972, which was when, come to think of it, he started going for the paper every damn morning, because she was pregnant then (his wife, not Aunt Eleanor, who was dead) and couldn't be bothered to get up so early to get the paper herself, so he started getting them for her, hoping that the smell of ink on the newsprint wouldn't bring on another bout of sickness, but that the news, good or bad, might instead distract her from the illness that plagued her throughout those days, an illness that seemed to stay deep within her, now that he thought about it, through all the years after, even when the baby, god rest it's little soul, had been born dead (no more, the doctor said, shaking his head) and duly buried in that tiny white coffin, even months later, she would still wake up sick in the morning, lying in bed with that cool moist cloth over her eyes, her voice weak as she reminded him where to find the quarter he needed, and he would trudge out the door, whatever the weather, to the row of newpaper boxes at the end of the street, just like he was trudging today, except today, he would buy no newspaper, today she had not reminded him of the rosewood pottery bowl, which he had in fact flung against the wall of the bedroom, watching it bounce off the steel rail of that hospital bed they had delivered three weeks ago, wincing as it struck the night table on its way to the wall, sending a confetti shower of brightly colored capsules and tablets flying from their plastic containers into a rainbow arc toward the ceiling, until it finally shattered, falling to the floor in a heap of green shards, today he would not even raise his head to look at the row of newspaper boxes, waiting patiently as they had been for 35 years, for Edward to take home the paper.
Monday, February 5, 2007
A Moment in Time
The dishwasher hums noisily in the kitchen, as it does every night about this time, the tired old motor complaining as it grinds itself into action once again. Every night as I flip the lever, I wonder if this will be the night it gives up the ghost once and for all, forcing me to make the long procrastinated trip to Sears and shell out another $500 I don't have. Luckily tonight, the old Kenmore mustered it up one more time, because I don't think I could have handled anything else going wrong today.
I retreat to this room, this spot, every evening about this time, the time when dinner has been done, the leftovers (we always have leftovers now that Brian is gone) stashed in neat little plastic bowls, the counters sprayed with Cinch cleaner and wiped free of all lingering bacteria. Inhaling the vibrant aroma of the mint green tea I like to drink after dinner, feeling the tangy spearmint leaves tingle against the membranes of my nose, I perch on the edge of the big black leather desk chair I splurged on a couple of years ago when I started working at home. I don't know why I never manage to sit back in the chair, always straining my already aching back as I reach toward the keyboard of the laptop. There's a reason they call these laptops, I think, wondering why I don't just unplug the thing and hold it on my lap, which would be so much more comfortable. But, I don't - I continue to sit rigidily on the chair as my hand hovers over the ever powerful little mouse, waiting patiently to bring my electronic world to life.
If I really stop to listen, I'm surprised by all the noises I hear in this room, the place that's supposed to be my "haven" from the goings on in the rest of the house. But this house, this two bedroom ranch, was not meant to provide quiet havens for any of its occupants. And now is certainly no exception. There is always the noise of whatever the television is playing ~ tonight it's gospel music from the Gaither Brothers Quartet, of all things. Sometimes it's auto racing, or James Bond, or the Terminator, something with horrendous sounds of people smashing their fists into the faces of other people, or crashing their cars into buildings. Whatever it is, and here again tonight is no exception, it makes me want to scream. I can feel my stomach twist into a little knot with the unexpressed anger at the assault on my senses. Why don't I say anything, you ask? Probably for the same reason I sit awkwardly in my chair rather than arranging myself in a more comfortable position~ too much bother.
So, here in my retreat, I have the growling hum of the dishwasher, the strains of some song with lyrics like "love America or die" in very broad four part harmony, the clatter and click of my fingers on the keys, and ~ wait, one more~ is that the skittering of tiny mouse feet in the attic? I believe it is.
No matter. The glow of the bulb in my tensor desk lamp is warm and inviting, the mint tea soothes the angry knot in my belly, while the cup that holds it~a handle-less little Japanese tea cup I bought in Disneyworld~warms my icy hands. This has become my habit of an evening, to linger here until bedtime, reading the words of my "friends" around the world, writing a little of my own now and then, perhaps curling up in the soft, overstuffed armchair to read a book for a while. Usually, the dogs will join me, and add their own little noises to the undercurrent~gentle licking of their lips, a tiny snore, an occasional warning growl from Magic if he's not in the mood for Molly's cuddling.
The evenings pass here, time passes with them. The dishwasher grinds to a halt and finishes it's work in heated silence. And I sit silently too, letting the cares of the day disappear into cyberspace, the noise of a busy world drifting away.
Written in response to a prompt entitled "Create A Written Snapshot," from Pen On Fire, by Barbara DeMarco Barrett
I retreat to this room, this spot, every evening about this time, the time when dinner has been done, the leftovers (we always have leftovers now that Brian is gone) stashed in neat little plastic bowls, the counters sprayed with Cinch cleaner and wiped free of all lingering bacteria. Inhaling the vibrant aroma of the mint green tea I like to drink after dinner, feeling the tangy spearmint leaves tingle against the membranes of my nose, I perch on the edge of the big black leather desk chair I splurged on a couple of years ago when I started working at home. I don't know why I never manage to sit back in the chair, always straining my already aching back as I reach toward the keyboard of the laptop. There's a reason they call these laptops, I think, wondering why I don't just unplug the thing and hold it on my lap, which would be so much more comfortable. But, I don't - I continue to sit rigidily on the chair as my hand hovers over the ever powerful little mouse, waiting patiently to bring my electronic world to life.
If I really stop to listen, I'm surprised by all the noises I hear in this room, the place that's supposed to be my "haven" from the goings on in the rest of the house. But this house, this two bedroom ranch, was not meant to provide quiet havens for any of its occupants. And now is certainly no exception. There is always the noise of whatever the television is playing ~ tonight it's gospel music from the Gaither Brothers Quartet, of all things. Sometimes it's auto racing, or James Bond, or the Terminator, something with horrendous sounds of people smashing their fists into the faces of other people, or crashing their cars into buildings. Whatever it is, and here again tonight is no exception, it makes me want to scream. I can feel my stomach twist into a little knot with the unexpressed anger at the assault on my senses. Why don't I say anything, you ask? Probably for the same reason I sit awkwardly in my chair rather than arranging myself in a more comfortable position~ too much bother.
So, here in my retreat, I have the growling hum of the dishwasher, the strains of some song with lyrics like "love America or die" in very broad four part harmony, the clatter and click of my fingers on the keys, and ~ wait, one more~ is that the skittering of tiny mouse feet in the attic? I believe it is.
No matter. The glow of the bulb in my tensor desk lamp is warm and inviting, the mint tea soothes the angry knot in my belly, while the cup that holds it~a handle-less little Japanese tea cup I bought in Disneyworld~warms my icy hands. This has become my habit of an evening, to linger here until bedtime, reading the words of my "friends" around the world, writing a little of my own now and then, perhaps curling up in the soft, overstuffed armchair to read a book for a while. Usually, the dogs will join me, and add their own little noises to the undercurrent~gentle licking of their lips, a tiny snore, an occasional warning growl from Magic if he's not in the mood for Molly's cuddling.
The evenings pass here, time passes with them. The dishwasher grinds to a halt and finishes it's work in heated silence. And I sit silently too, letting the cares of the day disappear into cyberspace, the noise of a busy world drifting away.
Written in response to a prompt entitled "Create A Written Snapshot," from Pen On Fire, by Barbara DeMarco Barrett
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Hey, That Was My Idea!
Interestingly enough, just after I wrote my Write On Wednesday post about writers and their special friendships with other writers, I ran across a blurb in Orpah magazine about a new book called The Company They Kept: Writer's On Unforgettable Friendships, a collection of essays written by writer's regarding their writer friends. This isn't the first time I've had an idea about something and then seen it show up in published form somewhere else.
It started way back in the day when I was writing children's stories. The idea was for a picture book about two little boys who are friends, and all the things they liked to do together. Until one day, one of them does something the other one didn't like. So they storm off, mad at one another, only to realize how much they miss sharing all those things they liked to do together. I shopped the story around to different magazines, but it really needed illustrations to make it. And one day, in the bookstore, I saw a picture book by a very well known children's author with the exact same premise~on reading it, it was pretty much my story, too. Hmmm.
Not too long ago, I had an idea for a story or novel centered around a wedding dress that gets handed down through the generations of a family, and all the women who wear it. Lo and behold, I find a non-fiction book in the library called "My Life in Clothes," or something to that effect, which wasn't exactly the same idea, but close. It was a memoir centered about the author's wardrobe, and how it reflected her life through the years.
I suppose at least I can feel as if I have good instincts about ideas and what's "writable." But it's probably an indication that when I have an idea, I should get up off my butt and do something about it, because, if I don't, somebody else probably will.
It started way back in the day when I was writing children's stories. The idea was for a picture book about two little boys who are friends, and all the things they liked to do together. Until one day, one of them does something the other one didn't like. So they storm off, mad at one another, only to realize how much they miss sharing all those things they liked to do together. I shopped the story around to different magazines, but it really needed illustrations to make it. And one day, in the bookstore, I saw a picture book by a very well known children's author with the exact same premise~on reading it, it was pretty much my story, too. Hmmm.
Not too long ago, I had an idea for a story or novel centered around a wedding dress that gets handed down through the generations of a family, and all the women who wear it. Lo and behold, I find a non-fiction book in the library called "My Life in Clothes," or something to that effect, which wasn't exactly the same idea, but close. It was a memoir centered about the author's wardrobe, and how it reflected her life through the years.
I suppose at least I can feel as if I have good instincts about ideas and what's "writable." But it's probably an indication that when I have an idea, I should get up off my butt and do something about it, because, if I don't, somebody else probably will.
Monday, January 22, 2007
In the Idea Jar
Here are some ideas I have for writing projects:
For Write on Wednesday this week:
For Write on Wednesday this week:
- a look at the special connections that form between women writers and how they play a part in the writer's life
- focus will be on Anne Sexton and Maxime Kumin, with mention of Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville
- could this be expanded into an article for a writer's journal
Ongoing writing projects to finish:
Trudy: Finish this story by the end of next week, according to my self imposed deadline, and post it here. Have to decide how the story is going to end - (also probably need a better title)
- will it end with Christopher and Sarah somewhere together without Trudy in the picture
- Christopher and Trudy together without Sarah - perhaps Sarah moves on and runs into them in the park, the whole episode helping her see that Christopher is not the man for her after all, that he's too immature
- Christopher finally gets the picture, and gives Trudy away, and in doing so breaks the connection with his mother that's been holding him back from growing up
- Christopher brings home another dog that Trudy immediately bonds with, giving up her obsessive love for Christopher - the idea being that everyone needs the perfect partner, and Christopher has his in Sarah
All these are possibilities - just have to see where the story takes me
Title possibilities: Gone to the Dogs; Trudy's Tale;
Reading Projects:
Check out some short story books, as recommended by Francine Prose (Katherine Mansfield, Raymond Chandler, and, my own recommendation, Interpreter of Maladies (since I loved Jhumpa Lahiri's book (which I lost when i loaned it to Connie and never got it back :(
Study these stories with an eye to detail - close reading as Prose calls it - as well as ways they might help me improve Trudy when I finish it.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Trudy
It was Trudy's breathing that bothered Sarah the most, the consistent snuffling sound like a pig rooting in the ground. That and her eyes - huge, round, protuberant eyes, that would fix themselves balefully on Sarah's face, unwavering, intense in their mistrust and dislike.
It wasn't that Sarah disliked dogs, for she loved them actually, and was familiar with the way they cleaved to their owners with a passion reserved for the most stouthearted of lovers. Sarah had grown up with dogs - big lumbering retreivers galumphing around their small house with joyful abandon, lavishing sloppy kisses on her when she arrived home from school, their tails waving like flags, forever sweeping her mother's collections of knick knacks from low lying tables.
Small dogs like Trudy were something of an enigma to Sarah. They could insert themselves into the most inconvenient places. Trudy for instance was always fitting her rotund little body into the space beneath the rungs of Sarah's desk chair, where she posted herself as guard while Sarah worked, the relentless wheeze of her breathing a steady accompaniment to the click of the computer keyboard.
Sarah didn't think it was devotion that kept Trudy at her feet. No, indeed it felt more like imprisonment, a watchfulness born of Trudy's wariness and mistrust. Trudy's devotion was reserved for Christopher, her savior, her lord and master, her lover really, Sarah often thought with a small frisson of revulsion. The rotund little body - a fireplug with legs, Christopher affectionately called her - wriggled with obscene pleasure when he walked into the room, and she waddled toward him with as much haste as the four stubby legs would allow, only to prostrate herself at his feet and present her hard little belly for his loving ministrations.
"My adorable little pugsy," Christopher would croon, dropping to the floor beside the toast colored furball before him, while Sarah stood by, leaning against the wall half hidden from sight as if illicitly observing this reunion. Eventually, he would look up and smile sheepishly at his wife. "Hey hon," he'd say, continuing to massage the dog's belly with firm circular strokes until Sarah sometimes recognized an absurd urge to flop onto the ground beside them, desperate for those hands on her own flat abdomen, circling lower toward the place where pleasure had lately been denied.
"Hey yourself," she would answer softly, the standard greeting long established between them. At the sound of Sarah's voice, Trudy would freeze for a moment, even her noisy breath would cease, her ears alert for the intruder to move nearer, into the sacred space between her body and Christopher's. Those black eyes, rimmed in a darker shade of brown, would turn toward Sarah, penetrating in their bugginess, staring at her with a mixture of warning and victory.
Possessive, was this dog. Obsessed with Christopher in a way Sarah simply found unnatural.
Christopher laughed it off, anytime she dared make mention of it. "She's still grieving for my mom," he would say, his tone reminding Sarah that he too, was still grieving, and so any idiosyncrosies on his part (or Trudy's) were to be overlooked, forgiven.
Yet in Sarah's mind, they took it too far, were too connected. Christopher's mother, an overmade up synchophant in Sarah's humble opinion, had forged an iron grip on Christopher's psyche, a grip Sarah had hoped would loosen after she was ensconsed in her final resting place last July. Christopher was insistent that Trudy, the companion he had purchased for his mother when he and Sarah first moved in together seven years before, come an live with them after Grace's death. It was as if Trudy bore Grace's spirit inside her, for she attached herself to Christopher from the start, sensing Sarah's ambivalence, jealously guarding Christopher's attachment to her.
The fact was that Trudy's presence in their lives had created some weird menage a trois. In the six months that the chubby little pug had been living with them, Sarah and Christopher had not made love, because Trudy wouldn't let them.
*In response to Exercise 3, My Pet, by Alison Lurie, in Write Away! Exercises for Writers
It wasn't that Sarah disliked dogs, for she loved them actually, and was familiar with the way they cleaved to their owners with a passion reserved for the most stouthearted of lovers. Sarah had grown up with dogs - big lumbering retreivers galumphing around their small house with joyful abandon, lavishing sloppy kisses on her when she arrived home from school, their tails waving like flags, forever sweeping her mother's collections of knick knacks from low lying tables.
Small dogs like Trudy were something of an enigma to Sarah. They could insert themselves into the most inconvenient places. Trudy for instance was always fitting her rotund little body into the space beneath the rungs of Sarah's desk chair, where she posted herself as guard while Sarah worked, the relentless wheeze of her breathing a steady accompaniment to the click of the computer keyboard.
Sarah didn't think it was devotion that kept Trudy at her feet. No, indeed it felt more like imprisonment, a watchfulness born of Trudy's wariness and mistrust. Trudy's devotion was reserved for Christopher, her savior, her lord and master, her lover really, Sarah often thought with a small frisson of revulsion. The rotund little body - a fireplug with legs, Christopher affectionately called her - wriggled with obscene pleasure when he walked into the room, and she waddled toward him with as much haste as the four stubby legs would allow, only to prostrate herself at his feet and present her hard little belly for his loving ministrations.
"My adorable little pugsy," Christopher would croon, dropping to the floor beside the toast colored furball before him, while Sarah stood by, leaning against the wall half hidden from sight as if illicitly observing this reunion. Eventually, he would look up and smile sheepishly at his wife. "Hey hon," he'd say, continuing to massage the dog's belly with firm circular strokes until Sarah sometimes recognized an absurd urge to flop onto the ground beside them, desperate for those hands on her own flat abdomen, circling lower toward the place where pleasure had lately been denied.
"Hey yourself," she would answer softly, the standard greeting long established between them. At the sound of Sarah's voice, Trudy would freeze for a moment, even her noisy breath would cease, her ears alert for the intruder to move nearer, into the sacred space between her body and Christopher's. Those black eyes, rimmed in a darker shade of brown, would turn toward Sarah, penetrating in their bugginess, staring at her with a mixture of warning and victory.
Possessive, was this dog. Obsessed with Christopher in a way Sarah simply found unnatural.
Christopher laughed it off, anytime she dared make mention of it. "She's still grieving for my mom," he would say, his tone reminding Sarah that he too, was still grieving, and so any idiosyncrosies on his part (or Trudy's) were to be overlooked, forgiven.
Yet in Sarah's mind, they took it too far, were too connected. Christopher's mother, an overmade up synchophant in Sarah's humble opinion, had forged an iron grip on Christopher's psyche, a grip Sarah had hoped would loosen after she was ensconsed in her final resting place last July. Christopher was insistent that Trudy, the companion he had purchased for his mother when he and Sarah first moved in together seven years before, come an live with them after Grace's death. It was as if Trudy bore Grace's spirit inside her, for she attached herself to Christopher from the start, sensing Sarah's ambivalence, jealously guarding Christopher's attachment to her.
The fact was that Trudy's presence in their lives had created some weird menage a trois. In the six months that the chubby little pug had been living with them, Sarah and Christopher had not made love, because Trudy wouldn't let them.
*In response to Exercise 3, My Pet, by Alison Lurie, in Write Away! Exercises for Writers
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