Ugh...

I really need to work on a fiction piece for Dana this week. It's my turn to submit and I really should be working on something. I started a couple different pieces last week but they didn't go anywhere. I have the bones of a story within a longer story I've been telling bouncing around in my head, and I'm sure that's what I am going to send her. But every time I sit down to write it out I get stuck. I can see the scene, I can hear some of the dialog. I am just missing some joining pieces and well missing the actual WORDS to TRANSLATE the VISION.

Using capital letters there to show my frustration with WORDING lately.

But I am not giving up, I will have something done by Friday. Or Sunday. One of those...even if it's not what I think I'm going to send, I will find a writing cue and send something else if I have to. BUT I REALLY WANT THIS PIECE TO FALL OUT OF MY HEAD.

And honestly? It's kind of nice that it's not the dry desert of no ideas up there block it's the how do I say this to describe what I'm seeing sort of block. Those are much more comforting. Those are the blocks that feel more like log jams, like if I get one piece to wiggle loose it will all come flooding out. The other type of blocks feel like failure. And who needs that?

Okay, Just wanted to actually get the satisfaction of seeing the black letters march across the white space so this is what you get.

Thanks for listening to me whine.

Ghost Writer...

"She was born in poverty and died the same but what came in between was richness beyond belief..."

"Stop it. Just stop right there."

"I know it's rough but bear with me for..."

"Rough? It's not just rough, it's cliched. I imagine you also going to talk about fighting for every step and the seemingly endless doors slammed along the way."

"Well, yes. I thought I would. People like a story that shows overcoming the odds. And especially if there is a tragic ending. I mean, isn't that why I was hired?"

"I'm actually not entirely sure why you were hired to tell the truth."

"Need I show you my resume again? Or those," and with that the author waved her hand toward a stack of bestsellers. "It's not like this is my first rodeo."

"Yes, I see that. And it shows with the cliched way you are approaching the story."

The author closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Trust me. Please. This is the way the story should start.

"Fine, skip to the marriage."

"The beginning or the end?"

"The middle."

"I haven't really written about the middle. I wrote about the courtship and then the divorce. Those were the interesting parts."

"Not the 15 years in the middle? You think the only interesting parts are the very beginning and the very end? Why do you think those are interesting? It's because of the middle. We see and don't see a thousand people in our lifetimes, starts and stops, it's only the ones that have middles that mean anything. Tell me what you are writing about the middle."

"There is nothing about the middle. Well, not nothing I guess, there is mention of the years together and the number of children."

"The children being nothing as well?"

"No, I wrote about the relationships with the children. How they all left."

"Left? They didn't leave, they grew up. That's what children do. They grow up. Left. They didn't abandon anyone, they grew up. My god. You are a hack."

"But they didn't just grow up and move out, they left town. The lost touch. They moved on."

"It was a different time. Before everyone had e-mail and texting and cell phones. There were letters. There were visits."

"The only record for visits I have is for funerals."

"Can you think of a more important time for a visit?"

"But that's really more about obligation isn't it? Not..."

"Not what? Not love? Not family togetherness?"

"It just doesn't seem like it's, well, it doesn't seem like there was a lot of companionship."

"Maybe they just weren't so co-dependent in those days. People grew up and became adults. Not like now. Where adults ride bicycles to work and go to amusement parks and wear t-shirts with comic book characters on them." She sniffed with disgust.

The author looked at her Wonder Woman t-shirt and pursed her lips, "I am only sharing the draft with you out of kindness. It would be nice if you would show me the same respect."

"I thought you were sharing the story with me for feedback. If everyone tells you you are brilliant you never get a chance to be better. And you need to be better. This is cliched tripe."

"Aside from the stylistic choices that you don't approve of, have I gotten any of the facts wrong?"

"No, but..."

"So you would say that this is all true, correct?"

"Yes, but..."

"And it does include the highlights right?"

"Well...I would..."

The author held up her hand, "I know we are talking about 92 years of life. I understand there are a lot of stories in there that weren't told, but would you say the frame work is essentially correct?"

"Yes. I would say the framework is essentially correct."

"Okay. Thank you. That's what I need. I will, of course, let you have one more chance to see the book before I send it to the publisher. But for now I have what I need."

"Oh no, please, wait, don't you have more questions? I have a few more stories I could share that I think you will find very entertaining..."

This was the first time the haughty tone had been dropped. It almost made the author feel badly for ending the session. Almost.

"I will get back to you if I feel I need to add more."

"No, please! Let me stay. Please, it's just so lonely and nobody else wants to talk about my life and..."

"I'm sorry. This is all for today."

And with that she drew a line through the salt circle and blew out the candle sending her away, listening to the spirit scream and curse her as she faded away.

Ghost writing a biography was not for the faint of heart.

POETRY MONTH!

Just kidding...

I'm not doing that this year.

Of all of the little writing challenges I've set up for myself that one might have been the hardest. Or I should say, the ones that are within my control. Setting up the challenge to get something published a few years ago was the absolute hardest because it was out of my control. But the things that were in my control? That one was tough. Part of it is that it's not my strength. There is a reason I always tag poems with "bad poetry." Part of it was because it's not my strength so just thinking in that way was challenging. Basically it's not my strength is what I am saying.

But it was fun in it's own way. And now it's fun to torment Skippy with the thought that I might do it again.

It was also a real creative drought last year. I was going to submit things for publishing last year as a goal (see how I've realized that the sending it in should be the goal, not the part they are in control of?) and I had to give it up when I couldn't even find the juice to put words on paper. This year has been like starting an engine that stalled. A few backfires, not real smooth action, chugging along, but words have been written. Threads have been started. It's better.

I haven't set any additional goals, I just went back and checked on my January goal posting post and I said "I'd get back to it" well it's April 1st and I haven't set a firm goal. Hmm...Let's see. I've been doing an exchange with Dana. She sees the stuff that I'm not really sure is anything just yet and I get a feel from her reaction what it is or isn't. And just sending it to someone else can tell me what I think.

There are a lot of things because of the way that I write that go no where. I write short stories. I am not a book person. I am not a novella person. I don't outline. I don't have plots sketched out. I just sit down at the keyboard and write. It's not a very disciplined way to do it, I know, but the times I've tried to be more organized and writerly the well has gone dry.

So, anyway, there is that, but it's not really a concrete goal type thing. I haven't posted a ton on the blog. That could be where I need to step up. With sabbatical this summer there will be stretches where I am away from my routine and writing for long stretches but I think I'm going to aim for 115 blogs this year. I did a complex math formula to figure that out. Don't ask. It will make your brain hurt to see how mine works.

So more blogs. Keeping up the work exchange with Dana. And no poetry month.


But there is part of me that wants to do it again. Just to mess with Skippy. I'm a writer. Making my readers cry fills me with joy...


The scream from Australia could be heard
Was it some strange tropical bird?
No..it was a giant roo
Yelling "that's not what you do!"
And for once the writer concurred...

Surreal...

Last night we were at a hockey game. Part way through the second period I looked over to a little area they have set up with a bar and tables at glass level and saw Portland Fire and Rescue working on someone. I pointed it out to Brent and the guy next to me said they had been working on him since part way through the first intermission. They were across from us and at ice level and I hadn't noticed it at all.

From that point on I split my attention between the game on the ice and drama right off of it. When they took the man out of the arena on a stretcher they were still bagging him so it was very serious. My guess from his size, the bagging and the fact that his shirt had been opened that he had a heart attack while watching the game. It was a very exciting first period, with us tying it up at the end after being down 2-0. And I know that sounds really disrespectful and that's the point of this blog.

How surreal must it have been for the team working on him, any love ones he had with him, and, if he was conscious, for him as well. It's a playoff game. We were down 2 games to one going in to last night. If we lost that one that was pretty much it. We were blown out the night before. And started down 2-0, fought back to 2-2, then briefly took the lead in the 2nd to lose it and then to get it back, the crowd was loud.

Now, do not misunderstand me at all, I hope that the man is okay. That he makes a full recovery, that he suffers no real permanent damage.

But...I am a writer.

While it was happening, when the boys would make a great play and everyone would cheer, when the goal song played, when the announcer yelled, when the bumper music played...all I could think was...how surreal would it be to die in this environment?

We all have ideas of how we would like to go. Mostly they are peaceful. Go to bed one night and that's it. Or quick. I want it just to be a flash and I'm done. But I don't think anyone thinks, I want to die while the crowd cheers and sings along to TNT.

And how many people in the arena had no idea what was going on? We were in a battle for our play off lives while a man was in an actual battle for his life? I mean, the area he was in is right across from me and I didn't notice it right away because I was focused on the game. Anyone not in the line of sight for the bar area would have had no clue. And anyone in the line of sight who never left the ice viewing would have had no clue.

 And yet, there he was. In what might have been the most important moments of his life. Portland Fire and Rescue working on him. Getting him stable enough to take to the hospital. All the while the crowd goes wild...

Too Small...

The summer before my 13th birthday my parents and I went back to Iowa to collect a few antiques that belonged to my mother. My grandfather had recently died and my grandmother moved in with my aunt and uncle when the farm sold. So we were going to get the pieces that belonged to mom now and bring them home. It was a massive road trip and ended up being a bit of a disaster for the antiques when the closed trailer that was supposed to be waiting to rent was an open trailer with a tarp. But that's another story.

This is a story about a stop on the way. 

My father's middle brother was living in a small town (I think it was call Pierson) with his current wife and her kids and we stopped to visit with them for a day on the way to Osceola. My cousin Dulce was about my age and we hit it off right away. So as kids did in those days we took off on our own. We went to the local playground to hang out and do what ever it is we were going to do. I think pretty much just swap stories. 

We were swinging and gossiping when a loud whistle blew. Dulce stopped and said, "Let's go."

"Let's go where?" If I had been older I might have panicked thinking it was a tornado siren, but I honestly had no idea what it was, aside from loud.

"It's time for lunch."

Seems the whistle let everyone know it was lunch time. Hunh.

We headed back to the house, "Does that blow everyday?"

"Yeah, lunch and dinner."

"You all eat your meals at the same time? Like everyone in the whole town?"

Dulce looked at me like I was crazy, "Yeah..."

Hunh.

We got back to Uncle Robert's house and sure enough lunch was spread out on the table. I told my parents, "They blow the whistle for lunch every day."

My parents just smiled and nodded like this was something totally normal.

After lunch we headed back out again. This time with a shouted, "Wait for me!" from Dulce's little brother. On our way back to the park his friend joined the group. 

To say that this kid was a brat would be to insult bratty kids everywhere. He was the worst. He tried to butt in to every conversation, he tossed pine cones at us as we swang, he shouted and yelled so we couldn't hear each other talk. I suggested to Dulce's brother that they both go play somewhere else. Then THE EVENT happened.

The friend asked why I wanted them to go away. And I told him. "Because you are annoying."

"I'm not annoying, YOU are annoying!"

"Then go away."

"No. I don't have to. I live here. YOU go away."

"I will. Soon. But right now you are annoying me and I wish you would go play somewhere else where your annoyingness stops bothering me."

"NO!"

"Fine."

So I told Dulce we should go back to her house and play in her room where annoying people couldn't join us. And so we left. With him following along the whole way saying we couldn't do that. But of course we could and we did. 

When the whistle blew for dinner we headed over to the only restaurant in town.  Which with my mom, dad, me, aunt, uncle and two cousins and then the family that owned the restaurant eating with us we shut the place down apparently. Which boggled my brain a bit. It seemed like if they were joining us for dinner it wasn't so much of a restaurant as just going to someone's house for dinner and then paying them for the invite. But what did I know right?

Anyway we get there and my cousin's annoying friend is the youngest son of the restaurant owners. Oh great. We have to eat with the punk. As we are getting situated at the table he is smirking. Hmm...

His mother looks over at me and Dulce, "Did you girls need to say something before we start?"

I'm thinking she means grace, and usually dad handles that so I say, "I don't think so, no."

"I think you need to apologize for the event this afternoon."

Now I'm confused. "What event?"

"Didn't you call (cannot remember his name for the life of me) annoying?"

"I did."

"And?"

"He was being annoying."

"I think you should apologize."

"Why?"

"I just told you why."

"No. You just said what I said. I wasn't wrong. He was being annoying."

"Well I don't know what it's like where you are from but around here we raise our children not to call names."

I look over at my parents because even at 12 going on 13 I realize that she's just insulted them and questioned their parenting and I'm sort of waiting for them to step in. Now looking back I realize that they probably thought the worst thing they could do to her is let me keep going on my own.

"I didn't call names. He was being annoying and I told him so. I described his behavior. He asked why we didn't want to play with him. Should I have lied to him?"

"You should have played with him."

"Why?"

"Because that is the right thing to do."

"Screaming at us and throwing pine cones at us doesn't seem like a fun game to me. It seems more annoying. Where I'm from people raise their children not to be annoying." 

Looking back I also realize that at that point that was probably not true at all because she was clearly annoyed.

"He was trying to engage with you girls and you were ignoring him."

"We were ignoring him because he was being annoying."

"Did you ask him what he wanted to do?"

"No. I wasn't visiting with him. I was visiting with my cousin. He just tagged along. I didn't care what he wanted to do. He's 8."

"Nine!" annoying kid yelled.

"Fine, you're nine. I don't want to play with a nine year old. I wasn't there to play games with a nine year old. I wasn't there to be yelled at or had things thrown at me."

"If he was throwing things at you, you should have told me about it instead of calling him names."

"I don't know you. You weren't there. And why? You didn't need to know he was being annoying, only he did. You weren't involved with any of this. It wasn't your business."

Which of course made her really mad!

"Not my business! You called him a name of course that was my business!"

"Why?"

"Because he is my son and I have a right to know."

Then I saw the line, looked at the line, and vaulted over the line, "Then I guess you should get used to people telling you he's annoying."

At this point my Uncle Robert clapped his hands and said something to the effect of we should probably eat before the food got cold. 

I never apologized. 

I also didn't eat dinner there that night. I might have been raised in a place where kids aren't taught right, but at least we were taught not to touch the food if you've pissed off the kitchen staff. 

When we got back to my aunt and uncle's house my aunt made me a sandwich. She also said, "You're right, he's pretty annoying." Which made my cousin laugh so hard she peed a little. 

It was on that visit that I decided there was such a thing as a town too small. And one where the whistle blows to tell you when to eat, is too small. 

Prompted to write...

I mentioned before that I was going to use writing prompts on days that I didn't have any ideas about what to write to make sure that I was writing more days than not.

Today was one of those no real ideas but haven't written since Friday so really need to sit down and crank something out sort of days. I thought a little about a political tirade but, honestly, I am so tired right now of all of that. I am tired of watching people make excuses for the inexcusable so I'm skipping that for a moment. But that means looking for a prompt. I decided that there must be some sort of daily writing prompt thing out there. I mean I have daily prompts for my picture of the day so there must be something for writing, right?

I found a ton aimed at teachers to get kids to write. I don't think a story about the great Alaskan earthquake that happened on this date in history is really in my wheelhouse and I don't have access to library resources #1-4 to complete the assignment. I'm not even sure what those are which increases the level of difficulty quite a bit. Then there were these three aimed at adult writers:

Use the following sentences as the opening lines of a short story:
He did not know what to do. They had never had contact with this race before.

Ummm...okay.

How about this one?

If your hero's love interest could invite three famous people to dinner, who would he or she choose?

And then this jewel from a list that is formatted pretty much the same way as my Picture of the Day prompts:

Destroy it.

Unless you write science fiction the first one isn't really going to grab you. And as I don't write science fiction I am ungrabbed (back to political writing? hmmm...) The second one is one of those things that is supposed to help you write your great american novel. It's more a cue to dive deeper in to your characters and flesh them out. Who are they? What are their deep thoughts? Well, I don't have current hero right now I just have my standard stable of characters who when asked questions like that roll their eyes at the very cliched thought of such a thing. "I'd invite Mario Batali, Michael Symon, and Duff Goldman. And not so much to dinner as to make me dinner." And then there is the last one: destroy it. What the fuck does that even mean? That's not a prompt for writing. That's just lazy. Though not as lazy as tomorrow's which is iPhone. THESE ARE NOT PROMPTS! THESE ARE JUST RANDOM WORDS!

So yeah, I need to find a good book of prompts and not rely on the interwebs it seems...

Though I did get a short blog out of it, so maybe all is not lost.

Final Assignment

She had reached the last chapter of the workbook. The recommendation had been to allow for at least 6 months to work through all of the items. She had done it in two. Part of it was that she had always been an over achiever, she liked being faster than everyone else. Doing things quicker, it made her feel accomplished. Of course part of why she was such an over achiever was because she had always been a procrastinator as well and had put off starting the workbook for as long as she felt she could. But she hadn’t ever been worried about getting it done. She would have finished it even earlier except there were things that she had had to wait on. Group work. She had always hated group work. If it had just been her she could have had it all done in a week.

Which was about how much time she had to finish it now. Which really should be more than enough time. After all the last chapter was only two tasks. She knew that because she had looked ahead. They advised against it in the foreword of the book. Work through it in order. Don’t skip ahead. Handle each task in turn. Don’t get overwhelmed. But she had been a back of the book peeker her whole life. Not about to change now.

So she had one assignment with two tasks left to do. Then she would put the workbook and the accompanying documents in the official, postage not included, mailing tube and send it all off for her final report. Just one more chapter to go. One last assignment to complete. She was sure she had done everything else exactly right. Over achiever, remember? She flipped to the front of the book and ran her finger down the chapters like a check list. Done, done, done, done, done…yep. She had done them all. And now it was just this last chapter. One more assignment. One last easy thing to complete. Easy enough to do. Just open the book and start.

She was really thirsty though. And a snack wouldn’t be a bad idea either. Proper hydration and nutrition were important right? No sense starting on an empty stomach. It only made sense. She made her way in to the kitchen. When she opened the refrigerator and saw the empty shelves and spotless interior she had to laugh. It had been the second to last assignment after all. Clean out the fridge. If she wanted a snack she was going to have to go out and get one. And that was probably stalling a bit too much.

She went back in to her office and opened the workbook.

“If you could choose, what would your last sentence be before you died?”

That was the chapter header.

Tasks to complete in this assignment:

Using list of contacts from Chapter 2 write a brief note to each of them saying goodbye. Make it one or two sentences only. This should not be a repeat of the Chapter 3 notes. (Chapter 3 had been instructions and bequeathed items, as she only had 3 contacts and very limited items it had not taken her very long to complete). This should not be a repeat of Chapter 4 burial and services instructions. Each note is simply a time to say goodbye. The benefit of a short note is ease of remembrance for the recipient.

At this point she looked at her bulletin board. She had pinned her collection of notes received there. The first one she received she had memorized. The second as well. Now there were 43 notes on the board. She only had to write 3 herself. There weren’t many people left to send them to. The notes she wrote would be sterilized before being sent off to their intended recipient. They were pretty sure the virus couldn’t live on paper anyway, but just to be safe they would do whatever it was they do with the paperwork to make it safe.

As if any of them were safe.

She had thought she was going to be okay. For a very long time she was. There was something to be said for being antisocial after all. Her extroverted friends, notes 1-20 on the board, dropped like flies right at the beginning. Her introverts took much longer. And now she had 3 left. Three goodbye notes to write to people who would then have one less note to write themselves.

“If you could choose, what would your last sentence be before you died?”

This was the final assignment. Three notes to others and then her last words. They were memorializing them all for any possible future generations. Future generations. The more optimistic believed there would be survivors. She wasn’t sure anymore. Would there be a new Adam and Eve? Or were they all Lilith? The end of the line.

The notes to her contacts went quickly. She had received so many of them herself that she knew at this point what to say. What would help. Or what seemed to hurt the least. “I love you. Thank you for being in my life. Try not to be scared.” That was it. Each note got the same message. She thought about personalizing them, but those were the true basic lines. She loved them. She was grateful for what she had been given with her time with them. She knew they were terrified that they were next. And they were next. From the moment the first deaths occurred they had all been put on a list and they were just being checked off one by one. Like this workbook. Here are your assignments. But instead of contacting next of kin and getting your affairs in order is was “Infect the Johnsons. Then move on to their next door neighbors the Jones. Don’t forget their new baby.”

Entire families gone in a few months. Or worse, staggered. Like hers. Their son had gotten ill first. Before they knew it was a death sentence. He had died quickly. They had been in shock. Didn’t know how to move on. The doctors didn’t know at that point what was happening. Nobody did. It was a virus. It was unexplained. It was random. They were so sorry for their loss. Then her husband came home from work with a fever. By that time they knew. If you got sick, you died. It was contagious but they didn’t know how. They still don’t know how it’s passed. His entire office was gone within 4 months. There were drug therapies then. It was put in the water supply. They weren’t given a choice. All the drugs did was prolong the sickness.

Now they knew, you had 6 months from diagnosis to death. The drugs would keep you asymptomatic until the very last. So you had time to get your affairs in order. Here take this handy workbook we’ve compiled to make the end easier. Tidier. Less hassle for those left behind. Because, let’s face it, there aren’t many left behind to take care of things anymore.

“If you could choose, what would your last sentence be before you died?”

And now she had this one last thing to do. She thought it was cruel. After all, there was no choice here. They were dying. They were done. It could very well be their last sentence. She understood the psychology. If you could have a little bit of control over the uncontrollable you would be more at peace. So pick your final words. Choose your last profound thought. What do you want to leave to future generations?

She looked around her now very tidy apartment. Her bulletin board with last notes. Her spotless kitchen. Her meager belongings set out with notes attached. Her workbook, almost complete. She had no control. It was going to happen soon. There was no more putting it off. No matter how she procrastinated. No matter how much of an over achiever she was. It had all fallen apart. It had all ended. First her son. Then her husband. Now her.

“If you could choose, what would your last sentence be before you died?”

If she had known, if she could have chosen, if…

She picked up a pen and wrote:

“Hold on, honey, Dad and I are going to come with you.”