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Wednesday’s Word

In the hustle and bustle of the first week of school, I’ve struggled to find time to write. I’m tired, unfocused, disorganized.

So, here’s an exercise I’m giving myself (and you too, if you’re in need of a reason to write):

It’s called “Wednesday’s Word of the Day.” Click wordsmith.org on a Wednesday, see Today’s Word, and let that word be the inspiration for a story.

Yesterday’s word was “wildcatter.” I like that word, wildcatter. If I say it with a good Southern drawl and a little attitude, I feel a sense of power.

Wildcatter.

But yesterday was Tuesday, and this is Wednesday’s word. Plus, I couldn’t think of a story with wildcatter in the mix. So, on to Wednesday:

Frogmarch.
verb: To force a person to walk with arms pinned behind the back.

The word itself sounds silly, but the meaning brings a disconcerting visual to mind, for me anyway.
Here’s my story, flash fiction, with frogmarch taking the lead.

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After six Miller Light’s–on top of the two or three drafts he drank at the bar before–he jumped the railing and ran, arms flailing, across to center field. Security swarmed in from all directions, cuffed, and frogmarched him back across the infield. He grinned in response to the cheers and camera flashes, even as security jerked and pulled him through an unseen door into the bowels of the stadium.

She stood there, in the crowd, laughed nervously, and perspired.

“Helluva boyfriend you got there!” Someone hollered two rows back.

“Idiot, more like it,” an angry fan protested, “they were just about to score a run!”

She waited five minutes, maybe less. It felt like ten. Then she gathered jackets and her purse and left his half empty bottle. After asking a few ushers “where” and “how much trouble,” she gave up on trying to bail him out and went home to wait for the call.

When he did call, she diligently picked him up. She was nervous. He was perspiring. And he was angry.

It’s just the drinks, she repeated to herself, as he yelled from the seat next to her. Then, she slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He flew forward just enough to bump into the dash. Obsenties flew. Accusations. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. And her eyes darted left to right to left again, searching for security.

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grief erupts slowly.

It isn’t the anniversary of her death.

Nor is it fall, the season I usually start to feel her absence.

But, grief doesn’t run on a calendar, so that I can cross off weeks or months until the fog lifts. Grief rises to the surface, intermittent, unpredictable, like bubbles in a bed of lava.

I’d had an argument. One that couldn’t be dissected on my own. In the car, I reached for my cell phone and thought, I’ll call her quick. It’s been a while.

“We had a fight,” I would tell her. “What am I supposed to do?”

Then, the rise, the burst, the sting. I put the phone down and placed my hand back on the steering wheel. My chest sank in a long exhale. My head floated.

It’s early this year, this hurt. I’m not ready.

I count back, almost nine years ago, and remember. The look on my husband’s face when he had to say the words: your mother died. The shock. The quiet, as I shut out the world for a while. The first time I smelled her favorite brand of perfume at the mall; I laughed in horror, because my mind flashed back to the funeral home. Months later, in a store fingering votives, I could have swore she was standing behind me. Once, at a conference, a woman approached her friends and started talking about dinner. In my peripheral vision, she looked like my mother. With my ear turned, her southern accent mimicked my mother, too.

When confused or full of doubt, I still look for her. I will her to visit me in my dreams. Or, I pick up the phone without thinking. Even after so long, the loss still upturns my heart and mind. So much, that I sit down, write another story about her, and try to rehash those last conversations in person and over the phone.

Why did I say that? Why did I hang up so fast?

And, where do I go from here?

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The Science of Writing

I came upon this article from Real Simple Magazine the other day, where Jonah Lehrer writes about the science of thinking. He mentions indecision, which leads to panic, which I relate to well:

  • I can’t decide what I want to cook for dinner (because, really, I don’t want to cook dinner). Then, the kids ask the dreaded question: what’s for dinner? I panic.
  • I fall into half an hour of quiet time. For twenty minutes, I consider the pros and cons of doing this, that, or the other. Then, I realize I have ten minutes left to start and finish whatever I decide. I panic.
  • I want to insert a third bullet here, because I think three is better than two. But, I can’t decide which anecdote fits best. Oh, boy.

With interest, I read Mr. Lehrer’s 10 tips to streamline my thinking and rid me of constant doubt. At one point, he suggests I “consider alternative points of view.” So I did.

I re-read his article through my writer’s eye and honed in on a few correlations between the science of thinking and the science of writing:

He says, “Tap your emotions.”
My writer’s mind translates, Don’t just regurgitate them into a journal, channel that resentment or frustration or elation into a good story.

He warns, “Don’t think under pressure.”
My writer’s eye twitches. Pound out and publish that blog post too quickly, and you’ll spend the rest of the night in bed staring at the ceiling, in a panic.

He suggests, “Be skeptical of your memories.”
My writer’s mind preaches, If working on a “he said, she said” memoir, start wearing a wire. Even if your brain falters, your digital recording won’t.

He encourages, “Go ahead and daydream.”
My writer’s brain fantasizes, Write like you’re getting paid for it.

He advises, “Think about thinking.”
My writer’s head nods, Write about writing.

Then, my writer’s eye squints, And get back to rewriting that novel, missy.