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Falling

It’s Wednesday. Wordsmith.org probably published a great word of the day today, but I wouldn’t know. I am currently south of the Mason-Dixon line, sipping as much sweet tea as I can get my hands on, reviving my southern drawl, and loving my family I haven’t seen in a very long time.

Access to a computer is limited, and time with family precious. So, here’s a rewrite of a quick write I wrote last spring on my draw from a word bag: falling.

***

Dollar in. Dollar out.
Dollar in. Dollar out.

“Dammit.”

I un-crease the corners.

Dollar in. Dollar out.
Dollar in. Dollar out.

“Come on.”

I rub the dollar along the edge of the machine in a heated effort to straighten it.

Dollar in.
No return.
I roll my eyes.

“Finally.”

My stomach grumbles as I scan the rows, bottom to top. There, A2, bag of Munchos — salty like pork rinds but a lot less cruel.

I press the “A” and ignore the committee in my head as they shout.

Trans fats!
High blood pressure!
Msg!

My stomach flip-flops with hunger pains and a fluttery reminder of the walnut-size baby growing in my belly.

She wants those munchos as much as I do, I justify as I punch “2.”

The metal spiral holding the bag begins to turn, turn, turn, loosening its grip. The bag leans to the left and slips, but not enough.

I lean towards the glass.
The turning stops.
The bag sticks.

Heat rises from my gut to my face and I place my sweaty palms on the vending machine.

The Munchos taunt me — a hungry, pregnant woman in desperate need of some salt. My palms slide down and I turn away. Dejected, I walk back down the hallway to my office, where the yogurt I arrogantly shoved aside waits for me, patient in its offering.

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The Magic of Storytelling

Arundhati Roy wrote a beautiful and heart-wrenching story, The God of Small Things, which won her the Booker Prize in 1997. Though the book is fiction, what she writes about a Kathakali play, as the main characters Estha and Rahel watch it in the History House, is universal.

“The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don’t.”

I finished reading Arundhati Roy’s book the other night, and the story sat with me for a long time. I knew the fate of the characters as the story unfolded, but I read anyway. The end grabbed my heart and pulled me down for a while. It was painful. But, for me, closing the book and wandering through the rest of my day with the characters at the forefront of my mind is clear evidence of a great story (even if it hasn’t won an award).

A different author wrote a blog post on a different subject, but it resonated with me as much as the quote from Arundhati Roy’s novel. Michelle Davidson Argyle, aka. Lady Glamis from The Literary Lab, reflects about knowing when we’re writing honestly:

“Magic. That’s what seems to happen when I manage to get honesty into my writing. It’s like a memorable, catchy song where everything comes together and it makes me feel a mixture of emotions that reach more deeply than I thought was possible. I look into the mirror and I see me, but I don’t see me. It has become a creation that took on a life of its own. My honesty gave it that life.”

I’ve settled into the magic of a great story many times. And,I’ve ridden the magical roller coaster of honest writing a few times, when the details of a story pour out in smooth succession: thrills, chills, and elation.

Those are the reasons why I love literature, and why I keep coming back to writing.

***

Roy, Arundhati. The God of Small Things. New York, NY: Harper Perennial, 1998 (p. 218). Print.
Argyle, Michelle Davidson. “That Song was Dinner.” The Literary Lab, November 19, 2009. Online.

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Pulling My Head Out of the Sand

Today is Wednesday – mid week, mid month – and I’m avoiding my NaNoWriMo novel. Tamora Pierce wrote a great pep talk for NaNo-ers this week, who (like me) are spending their valuable writing time reading emails and blogs. She listed several questions I can ask of my characters to help get my creative juices flowing again. I read her talk and thought, yes. I will ask those questions. Definitely.

But today is Wednesday, and Wordsmith.org doesn’t put their word of a day routine on hold for NaNoWriMo. I’ve committed to write on Wednesday’s word of the day, nevermind I’m easily distracted and willing to do  just about anything…even vacuum the cobwebs from the corners of every room in my house.  Wait, that’s NaHoCleMo.

Anyway, Wordsmith’s word of the day today is expiate: a verb meaning to atone, to make amends for.

So, I hereby expiate for leaving my NaNoWriMo characters in a lurch this week.

To my dear friend Millie, who prefers to live life watching others through the glass pane of windows, I am sorry I left you at that party, in the middle of a crowd, vunerable and windowless.

To Mr. Millstead, who I continue to address as Mr. Millstead. Eventually, I will get back to my draft and figure out when and where I can start calling you by your given name, and therefore let your character fill out and your face color up.

To Marcie, who’s pissed off at the world and likely at me, since I have given her minimal dialogue and few appearances in the novel thus far. I realize you have much to say, and I intend, wholeheartedly, to give you your day.

To Mrs. Wilson, who showed up in the beginning in a lovely opening scene and was cut, by this author’s swift and indifferent hand, in the first few days. You were kind enough to revisit the story and even willing to let your name take the limelight.

My dear characters, in my first draft of Missing Mrs. Wilson, I promise (with my right hand on my heart and my left hand in the air) to write my way to 50,000 words, even if it takes me until Christmas.

***

Phew, that’s a load off.
Now. Enough stalling. Back to that novel.