Silver Thunderbird

Prompt #4- Write about a car.

       Just before the start of school in 7th grade I was lamenting the poison ivy scabs that still oozed out of her chin despite my best efforts not to scratch them.  My dad came almost dancing into the indoor/outdoor flag stone floor of our kitchen.  I turned to him and threw the front door open wider motioning for us all to come and look.  I peered behind him and saw my mom’s maroon station wagon that he had bartered a whole summer of roofing to get, and next to it I saw a new car.  Well, truth be told it looked like a very used car but definitely new to us.  It held some similarities to the 1985 Camry that had died about the time Dad began his roofing for the station wagon. “It’s a T-bird,” My dad gleamed.  “The Shoemachers
      “Why?”  I asked taking a bite of my peanut butter toast.
      “Why?!” He echoed. “They are classic cars!  Marc Cohen ‘Silver Thunderbird?!’” I knew the song and I double checked.  This car could not truly be a Thunderbird.  It had no chrome, no fins, small lights and looked nothing like the bat mobile. Dad headed into the living room to play the CD. He was all about CDs in 1997.  I was skeptical but he had given me almost all of his cassette tapes in favor of the “Compact Disc.”  My mom still listened to her records on the record player and those songs were my very favorite.  I wished she’d let me play them.  But in no uncertain terms I knew that if I ever touched the record player I would instantly break the needle and then it could be months before my mom could harangue my dad into getting her a new one.  He slipped Marc Cohen into the entertainment center that he had built from scrap wood from various side jobs. 

    “Why were Rick and Lynn getting rid of it?”  My mom asked, wiping her soapy hands on a dish towel.
    “Aww, you know Rick, he doesn’t really work with his hands. Some small electrical problem and he’d just as soon get a new car.”
         I marveled at this.  “One man’s trash is another’s treasure” held Biblical status in our house and that was saying something.  I looked at my mom, for I knew she did not ascribe quite as whole heartedly to the axiom.  The pressure in the room suddenly made my head hurt, the same way the atmosphere warned me when a thunderstorm was coming. My headaches were totally debilitating but they were also what had taught me the joy of escaping to my room with tea and a good, easy read.  No-one would knock, knocking would make it worse.  So, I crept upstairs and tucked myself under my comforter.  It was a little scratchy but looked paint splattered which was exactly the motif I’d begged to instill upon my entire room.  It was not to be.
        
My sister came in, up from a nap, or a session of reorganizing her books across the floor of her room.  She wore the sesame street ABC comforter that I’d handed down around her like a cape.  She lay down next to my bed. 
        “I can’t read out loud.”  I told her flatly. 
        “Ok,” she shrugged. She produced her LiteBrite miraculously from the folds of the well worn canopy.  She settled down against the spray painted metal bars of my bed.  We’d rescued it from the trash and it’s fancy wrought iron work reminded me of “The Little Princess.”  I liked to imagine waking up to a surprise feast one morning.  I’d even imagine eating and enjoying a tangerine which was something I’d never done.  Anything with seeds was anathema to me.  I gagged at the thought. 
    
    “Do you want to make a radio show?” She asked.  Sometimes we’d hide in my wardrobe; I was fairly certain one of these days we’d be allowed to enter Narnia but until Aslan deigned to see us, we made radio shows.  We had a cast off cassette player from my dad and a good amount of blank tapes and those we’d tape over. 

NaNoWriMo Recap

        It started as just a camaraderie thing.  I knew there were several writer friends doing NaNoWriMo and i; e always wanted to write a novel so why not do it in a month?  I'm crazy like that, right?
       Plus, I was spurred on by the adrenaline from the Boston Book Festival.  So, I figured I'd participate, get some words on the page which is notoriously difficult.

         I didn't take it very seriously at first, I didn't jealously fight for my writing time.  I wasn't willing to get up early.  At first, it was just a jumble of moments, no real order or plan but they were all moments that mattered to me. 
          They were all part of my story .  I began to realize in a new way how skewed my relationship with God has been, how much I have not changed since I was a child, how much I refuse to change.  How deep the wounds and brokenness go.  As I'd write I'd wonder, "Has there ever been anyone so messed up as me?  Making deals with God and bargaining a way to avoid my pain."  Then I'd reply (to myself) "SO many, I know, all of us, broken and bruised….human after all.  Only human and him all knowing but how can we ever heal?  How can we ever change?  How can my story be any more than just a mess of mixed up doctrines and false assumptions."
         I decided to start taking things a little more seriously and realized that I love writing at the Library.  I feel so inspired and though the books do distract me for a while, once I set down to work things go much more smoothly, efficiently.  I also notice I don’t watch music videos at the library.  I just listen to instrumental music and focus on the writing.  Sometimes I only put one headphone in so I can be aware of my surroundings.  Music videos seem inappropriate at the library and I suppose they are addicting and distracting even at home. 
     Trying to find the right music added to my guilt over falling behind on my word count.  First, it was wine and then scandalous pop song videos.  But it was also what I was writing.  I felt a guilt that was heavy and demanded healing when I wrote about my ex boyfriend, when I relived sweet moments together, re-imagining them with rose colored glasses but the process also forced me to confront why we didn’t end up together.  It wasn’t just that he smoked weed and drank or didn’t care about women’s rights. A cynic could accuse my husband of those things as well (albeit in the past.)  No, it was that this boy I loved at first,  did not love God more than he loved me.  And to write it off as anything else would be dishonest. 
          And I began to take writing more seriously, I began to take the themes and questions I was wrestling with and weave them into a fictional quilt filled with very true moments.  But then fatigue set in. Each word was like a slow crawl to the finish.  I  could not seem to get my words down and the words I did get down felt cliche and ambling.  I was  annoyed at myself but refused to give up.  I had written so much already; probably more than in the past two years combined or at least equal to it.  There was already so much to edit and to play with.  I think that will be the fun part.  If only I could figure out what music to listen to. 
       Before I could believe it, it was already the last day.  The very last write in on the last day.  I had 5,000 words left to write and so little energy.  The leader of my writing group put these two pins in front of me and told me to choose.  I could continue this story next year or next month or I could finish it in the next 3 hours.  I began to write feverishly.  I wrote and I wrote.  I set my timer and every half hour I'd give myself a cookie...literally.  I tried extending scenes that felt short and adding description where it was lacking.  I was scrambling. 
     Then, at 11:43 with 22 minutes left of the month I finished.  I would not say it is a truly complete novel.  But it is a love story that I am proud of.  It is more than a start it has a beginning, middle and end.  I can't believe how long it took and how hard it was and yet how worth it.  I felt like a winner and when people ask me what I've won, I show them the pin.  Because really that is enough, more than enough. 
        I gave myself  a whole week off.  But part of me doesn't want to lose momentum.  I want to keep "writing like my pen is on fire."  So, I think I will.  I think I will always write.  It is part of me. 

The hat

 Prompt #2 “He couldn’t take it anymore.  This was the last time he was going to let her”

 “He couldn’t take it anymore.  This was the last time he was going to let her” hurt herself.  The scabs disgusted him. Her perfect porcelain skin clawed into thumb-sized pox.  He’s watch her do it.  Her eyes would start to scan their surroundings restlessly.  She’d shift in her sit, cross and recross her legs.  Then, reach her dirty, ragged nails to the nape of her neck and quickly scratch an imagined itch.  She’d pull her hand down and then thoughtlessly reach up again finding a razor sharp edge to her claws and drag them across her chin or hairline with enough pressure to draw blood.  He’d reach to swat her hand down but it was too late. 

She was hooked now, her hand would surreptitiously search her scalp for dead skin to pull away, old scars to reopen, any way to let the panic inside ooze out.  She’d examine her hands.  Unaware of him now.  He’s hit her again, swatting just hard enough to startle her back to reality.  Once, during a movie he’d asked her to sit on her hands and she had dutifully obeyed just until his attention was riveted back to the screen, then she’d reach back up to her face, digging deeper and deeper pits, aiming for arteries, examining old pus with detachment. 

He’d get so mad and she’d cry helplessly.  They even made a pact one hopeful date night.  She agreed that for every time she drew her own blood she’d stick on a huge floppy hat regardless of the time or place. The intention was two-fold to block her access to her most prone areas but also to shame her into breaking the habit.  The next day, he stopped by for lunch and she guiltily let the brim of the hat fall over her eyes as she cried salty tears into the sandwich they were sharing. 

“Don’t you want to stop?” he asked.
“Of course,” she wailed.
“Then, why do you keep doing it.  You know it’s going to get infected.  I listened to a podcast the other day where a girl dug a hole so deep into her own head that they could see her skull.  It was so infected they couldn’t get it to heal.  Is that what you want?”
 She shook her head vehemently.  “I’m so scared that’s what is going to happen.”
“Why?  That’s ridiculous!  It’s your choice, it’s not like it happens without you knowing.  You are doing this to yourself!”  He allowed some scorn to harden his voice.  His eyes flashed and cut her heart.
“It IS like it is happening without me knowing.  Most of the time it’d totally subconscious.  I hate it but once I start I just can’t stop.”
“Of course you can….you’re not a zombie or something.  You can’t stop because you think you can’t.  Mind over matter.”

She rolled her eyes, and scratched an imagined itch by her wrist, she made an X in the skin pressing diagonally with her thumb in one direction and the other with as much pressure as she could muster.  No relief, she scratched absently looking for a more tender spot, an old wound, preferably near some nerves. 
   
   “I’m not really hungry…I don’t feel good.  Do you mind if I go for a quick run?” she begged. 
    “Sure,” he replied. Flicking on the TV.

  She threw on the same thing she’d worn the day before, old sports bra, the Rose Bowl Race for a Cure Shirt and running shorts.  She contemplated the day old socks but didn’t have the energy to go searching for new ones.  She had to get out.  She ignored the smell, pulled them on, dragged her headphones off the dresser in her room and gave Will a quick kiss on the cheek before she scanned her iPod for her running mix.  She walked until she found it, stuck in her headphones, hating the way they felt in her ears.  She began to jog. 

Strabismus

Prompt: Write about a time you tried something new. (500 words)

    Leaves were something new.  Her six year old mind marveled at their meticulous veins and arteries.  The overlapping details stunned her senses.  Until this morning she had lived in a watercolor world, trees were topped with green in the summer, orange and yellow in the fall and suddenly were bare branches in the winter.  This spring she’d seen nothing at all. Dr. Tom had explained the procedure with cartoons, diagrams and even an episode of Sesame Street.
    But nothing had prepared her for the reality of waking up; screaming and clawing at a sharp needle pinning the back of her hand.  Worst of all was the total darkness, she flailed to fight that too but her eyes felt taped shut.  She finally drew a breath, and then another that wasn’t a scream.  She kept breathing counting each minute of this eery eclipse. 
    It had been that way for two weeks.  Her cassette player automatically flipped at the end of a side so with eyes bandaged like a war veteran she listened continuously to the first installment of Prince Caspian, picturing it in her mind to stay sane. After another two weeks the bandages were removed but she wore dark glasses and kept her eyes shut most of the time.  As her mom weaned her off these children began to cry when they saw her at her in the park, backing away as if she had scalded them.  She asked about this and her mom reminded her of Dr. Tom’s warnings.  Her eyes would be bright red- blood shot for a few weeks after the operation.

    Then this morning she had opened her eyes and seen.  There outside her window, drawn in sharp focus hung emerald green leaves.  There were more than she could have ever imagined.  It took hundreds to comprise the whole of even one tree’s foliage.  She took time studying the individuals feeling silly and sorry that for so long she had only known them as a crowd. She looked beyond them briefly and was stunned by the sight of the sky.  The clouds.  The clouds were not flat white things painted on the vault of blue.  The sky was so much nearer than she had ever imagined.  She wondered at the varied depths and distances of the air and atmosphere. 
    She lay her head back on the pillow and resolved to ask for only a skylight this summer.  She knew her dad could do it. He was constantly pulling off other people’s roofs and re-roofing them. Besides she knew the ceiling above her was still damaged from the chimney fire over the winter.  She sighed, imagining the perfection of watching the stars pass overhead as she fell asleep.  Perfection.  Perhaps they also held secrets she had never before known.

Boston Book Festival

    It should have been a no-brainer for me to be attending the Boston Book Festival for the years that I’ve lived here.  But no, I regret now that I missed 9 seasons of an amazing and FREE cultural experience.

But that’s what friends are for. 

    While changing over my laundry at the Big A laundromat (Names may have been changed to protect…well….me I guess) Anyway, while carefully shifting armloads of damp clothing careful to not lose any baby socks, I heard a booming voice behind me, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”  I smiled to myself.  Matt of the laundromat, and more importantly Matt the writer.  In short order, I had apprised him of the most efficient dryers and he had convinced me to attend at least the Writer’s Idol portion of the Boston Book Festival.

    And so sitting in a room jammed packed with aspiring and perspiring writer’s I calculated the chances of my first page being read and analyzed by the agents at the front.  250 submissions, and 20-25 to be read.  It was certainly better than playing the lottery, or not submitting anything at all. 

    As piece after piece was read, I gathered some important insights.  For example, I was quickly schooled about cliches I didn’t even know were cliche.  Sure, after reading thousands of pieces of middle and high school writing I knew better than to let “the sun shimmer” or the “water sparkle.”  But I had less of an idea that I should avoid starting a submission with: a dream, the weather a flashback, how the post office works, a therapist’s office. 

    The most important thing of all is to write.  And I’ve realized that it takes a village to do just that.  So, I’m back in blogosphere, giving a big shout out to each of you amazing readers, the author over at https://candidsandwanderingwords.wordpress.com and to my writing friend’s from TMWC.  So very many thanks!  Now to try NaNoWriMo….

Through the Eyes of Grief

Thank goodness for the Writer's Collaborative in my city otherwise I might never get words down on paper. Our leader gave us a prompt called:

"Sweet And Sour"

Her instructions were to: Describe briefly a lake or a backcountry mountain trail (in other words, a beautiful natural setting) as seen by a person who has just lost a parent in a sudden, unexpected death. The last time this narrator saw the parent, they argued violently. In your narrative do not mention the death, the parent, or the argument. Do not tell a story. Simply show us what the lake or forest or street looks like to someone under these circumstances. 500 words.

When I was small we used to vacation up at Squam Lake in NH.  Those are some of my best memories but I also remember being terrified of the loons up there.  That terror is nothing compared to how I would feel about losing one of my parents.  I thought the loon was also an appropriate symbol because I would probably lose my mind if I lost my parents.  So, without furthur ado, here is what I came up based on this very very difficult prompt:) 

At dusk, a loon broke the water of Big Squam Lake.  His slick black and white coat stained the ripples with incongruous contrast.  It’s said that loons love shiny things.  If they encounter a human they’re likely to gouge out the eyes first, fixated on the gleam.  The teeth are next, depending on what condition they are in.  This loon had recently killed at least three minnows devouring the meat along with the sheen of their scales. 

The sun was setting now and the light made even the roughest rocks shimmer. The water slid off the loon’s back, eager to get away from his violence.  The loon dove again, slicing the dark water, pretending to disappear, only to pierce the surface just as the turmoil had settled.  A trout hung limply from his beak.  The bird’s eyes glittered like garnets. The beak itself shone and dripped. Each drop sunk back into the wake as the loon made his way to a pine needled shore.  

The yellowing sheaths of pine plants stuck to the bird’s flippers.  He threw the trout to the ground with a thud.  Dander of the wooded beach exploded upon the impact of the big fish.  It’s dead eyes no longer had a gleam but the beak of the crazed loon shot through the socket nonetheless.  The dagger beak then went to work impaling the body of the catch.  The gills ripped apart, the liver wrenched out, the heart cleaved into several pieces.  The red eyes served as fierce sentinels as the loon tore the body into mangled chum. 

The water lapped up to the blood soaked ground.  The remains attracted only scavengers.  They circled above, crept and crawled from below.  The loon did not bother to fight them off.  He turned away and returned to the glassy water.  The shore looked much as it had before, but the hum of scrounging insects twisted the land. The smell of fish just before rot drew crowds of vermin to the darkening waterfront.  The water too seemed unaltered but the war wail of the red eyed loon reverberated across the lake.  The warbling wail warned children to shut their eyes tight, to shroud that fatal gleam.  It commanded them to close their mouths around their pearly teeth, to protect their new found smiles.  

Night was fully formed on Big Squam Lake.  The loon’s white flecks reflected the moonlight and his black feathers faded into the shadows cast across the water.  Still, the gleam of red shone from his eyes and he wailed until the trout was nothing but a skeleton waiting to be bleached by the sun.  He called into small hours and beyond.  He whooped against the water that held him afloat.  And his signal went out to others, whose red eyes shone and whose voices hailed back the wail of the loon.  

The Animated Kiss

One of the most enjoyable parts of raising children is reliving what have become mundane everyday events as exciting “firsts.” 

I remember a friend telling me how awesome it was the first time her son saw a dog.  I mean, yeah, dogs are crazy creatures and so getting a glimpse of a lab for the first time must have blown his mind.  So, I try and watch out for these moments and while the trash truck is no longer the highlight of my oldest's week I am surprised by the things I forget he has never seen.

For example, when we watched his first Disney animated film with him , I, of course, picked my favorite; Beauty and the Beast.  I want to instill at an early age that brains are better than brawn or beauty.  I also wanted it to be extra educational so I rented it from the Library in Spanish.  This was very confusing since the story is set in France.  So we have like Frenglish going on.  I’m pretty sure that most of the story was lost on him.  But he loved the fight between Gaston and the Beast.  He has a strong sense of justice but a tender heart so the Beast exposing Gaston for the coward that he is yet not dropping him to his death was just right to him.  (Oops sorry spoiler alert).  

But then, Gaston sneaks up on the Beast and stabs him to death.  At this point I am a little uncertain about my choice to let him watch this.  But it’s okay because Belle is by the Beast’s side and tells him she loves him before the last rose petal falls.  Then, magic.  I am not sure how to explain this to a (then) three year old, so I said it was a type of special medicine where they shoot light out of your extremities until you get better and an added benefit of this medical procedure is that if you are a Beast the light therapy transforms you into a long haired French prince.  Again, keep in mind the movie is in Spanish and my son is 3 and not bilingual.  

Next comes the part that I had totally blocked from my mind.  G rated movies allow....gulp...animated kissing!  Horror.  What am I going to tell him about that?  My husband and I are not the kissing in front of your kids or anyone or ever type so my palms are sweating like crazy.  “Ugh No!!!”  I inwardly cringe and imagine all the awkward questions that will likely ensue.  All this as the Prince/Beast is spinning about.  

And then Belle holds his face, and he brushes away a stray lock of her brown hair.  The music crescendos.  Inwardly, I am in a fetal position trying to think of a distraction but I can’t seem to find my voice.  And then they kiss.  And somehow Disney makes the animated kiss just as sensual as a human one.  Their faces are practically one.  It seems to be lasting for at least 10 minutes.  I still can’t think of anything to say.  Then, at last it’s over and everyone is happy and all I can mutter is, “Why would they do that?” Like I don’t know what a kiss is. Like I haven’t conceived three children.  My approach is to play dumb.

What is that weird face smashing?  Must be part of the strange firework light therapy.  

Let’s never speak of this again.  

(Probably another bad mom moment)



Based on Prompt #2 from my writer's collaborative...Say It With a Kiss

Kissing uses all five senses, which makes it an extremely sensuous act. It is a beginning and an end—the kiss hello and the kiss good-bye. There are a variety of romantic puckers (passionate, wet, teasing, rough, slow), as well as thrown-across-the-room kisses, tentative kisses, friendly pecks, and the reluctant ones that children give relatives or parents' friends. The poet Tess Gallagher's book Portable Kisses evokes a buffet of smooches.

Your first kiss is often etched in memory, and so is the solitary, experimental kind that you may have practiced on your arm, your pillow, or up against the mirror. Do you remember when you first found out French kissing involved touching tongues? I thought I would gag if I tried it, and I couldn't figure out how adults, who were forever concerned about germs, would willingly do something that seemed even more likely to spread a cold than drinking from someone else's soda bottle.

Write about kissing. Besides being fun to write about, it is an especially good practice for writing scenes between two people. (Approximately 500 words)

Bad Mom

Prompt #1 from The Writing Collaborative

"Word Choice: One Syllable Words

Write a response (fiction, nonfiction, a scene, a description of a person or place, ect.) that is roughly 500 words and is made up of ONLY one syllable words. This exercise highlights the importance of word choice and pushes the limits of your vocabulary. You may even have to break out a thesaurus! "

When we walk, arms full of books, I try to keep my kids with me.  But right now the boy is out in front and the girl is way far back.  I am torn in two.  I yell at the far one, call to the slow one and then turn my eyes to the baby I hold and my phone.  

       Her eyes are closed.  A smile plays on her small lips.  I grin and try to take a shot of her sweet small face when an old maid walks by.  Her hat is fur and her eyes dark lined. 

“Get off your phone and get your kids!”  She snarls my way. Her paint red lips look cracked.

I look in front, I look back.  Where I saw smiles and slow walks I now see the rush and threat of the busy street.  My heart beats with shame.  

“Witch,” I think (but with a B), but I know she is right and it hurts.   My shame grows.  I feel the title mom turn into the curse “fraud.”  I cringe and call once more to my small one who has run out in front. I turn off my phone to grab the one in back.

But, a new plain clothes judge gets off the bus and shouts, “Whose kid is this?  Where is her mom?  It is a shame, a shame the way some moms don’t seem to care.”

“She’s with me,” I call, “She’s okay.”  My girl smiles and takes short strides my way. But she is too close to the bus.  She may fall or worse this new rat may snatch her up. 

“It is not okay” comes the reply from the cavy queen.  She vents her shock and rage.  I reel from the force of her cold call down.  Much of what she says is true.  Risks I can not count come to mind.  I can not keep them safe.  Three is more than I can watch all at once. What can I do?  I am flawed.  I fail.   At last, she gives me a shake of the head and a silent boo. 

I can not move.  A pain grabs my heart and my breath is short and weak.  

My kids still smile and make their way at their own pace.  The fast boy stops in his tracks at the red WAIT hand and the slow one hops over each crack.  I love them all so bad it hurts.  

I start to breath a slow plea to God to give me grace, to help me just to be.  I ask the Son of God to let me take one step and then the next.  I ask Him to take the blame, the guilt, the fear that hold my feet in stone blocks.  

And He is there.  He is real.  I pick up my small girl and hug her tight.  I walk to my first born son and hold his hand.  I look at my baby’s face and her eyes are still closed in peace and sleep.  

Writing Update

Here is a letter I wrote to my friend a few days ago.  As I was writing I felt like I was writing to everyone who reads this blog, so I decided to post it.  

Hey--
     So it has been entirely too long since we talked!  We need to catch up.

     No word on my Glimmer Train submission but I have been writing.  I hope you have been too!   If there is one thing I've learned from reading "The Artist's Way" this summer, it is that everyone has something to say.  I mean you can paint it, glue it, dance it, sing it or write it but I (mostly) loved the challenge of writing 3 pages every day.  It definitely forced me to be more disciplined about writing. And it opened my eyes to the opportunities all around me.  Most of them are at the library which I love!  #nerdalert

          I was really wishing you were with me tonight because it was the very first meeting of the Writer’s Collaborative I joined!!!  The way it is set up is in a workshop style which means each time we meet we have all read one person’s piece (at least twice) and written comments.  The one we read tonight was a totally spooky Stephen King-like horror story.  I actually liked it which is very unlike me because usually blood and gore are not my thing.  Probably the closest thing I’ve read to “horror” is Harry Potter.

       But this workshop was such a cool experience. Everyone got there super early.  I was on time (which for me now that I have three kids is super early) but I was the last one there.  Plus we had a prompt that we could write about as optional homework and everyone did it but me!!!  Help me not become a slacker.  The prompt was...

Word Choice: One Syllable Words

Write a response (fiction, nonfiction, a scene, a description of a person or place, ect.) that is roughly 500 words and is made up of ONLY one syllable words. This exercise highlights the importance of word choice and pushes the limits of your vocabulary. You may even have to break out a thesaurus!  

           Anyways, I really need to get serious and write something that I can put up for critique.  I mean it takes courage to write but then to sit (silently) in a room while 20 people discuss what they thought was awesome and what they found to be BS (baloney and salami) takes a real solid backbone.  The main thing I loved about the format was that it was like being in a book discussion and in a writing seminar at the same time. I was reading really good writing (almost everyone in the group is published, excepted yours truly #pennedbutnotpublished.blogspot.com) and learning new writing techniques like new ways to hook my reader.

       So my next blog post will be my stab at the one syllable story prompt.  Until then....onward and upward!

( And I'm always looking for guest writers, so shoot me whatever you are working on if you get a chance:)