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Get Busy, Missy

After last week’s Freshly Pressed whirlwind of fun, I’ve finally settled back into some kind of normal, which feels a little bit like this:

At least, that’s the face I made this morning after I saw Wordsmith.org’s choice for the word of the day (which I couldn’t even pronounce right):

onomancy. noun. Divination by the letters of a name.

Who needs Cardio in the morning when you have a word prompt like that to get your blood pumping.

Like a nervous contestant in a Spelling Bee, I stalled for time by begging for details. I read this note following the definition:

Some parents name their children after careful consideration of onomancy to assure the best possible future for them.

Though helpful, the note didn’t make today’s writing exercise any easier. Then again, writing isn’t easy. If it were, I’d be cranking out more than one post a week.

I’d have that novel finished by now.

Heck, I might even have your novel finished by now.

But I digress.

Here’s to practicing what I was preaching by turning onomancy into some kind of story…any kind of story…boy, oh boy.

*****

An Exercise in Naming

Some days Marilyn would wake up calm, confident, and feeling like God. Other days she would storm out of bed and tear through the house as if she were the Devil on a losing streak, kicking trash cans and cursing laundry.

Pregnancy had brought on a surge of hormones and, with it, a sense of power offset by worry. She ate whatever she wanted, but she questioned the affect of each morsel as it slid down her throat. Her emotions made her feel invincible and then suddenly depressed, so that she wondered if she might give birth to someone bipolar.

Her keen sense of smell made working the perfume counter precarious for the first trimester, but it was the simple question from her co-worker, Bethany, that sent Marilyn’s stomach into convulsions long after the morning sickness subsided.

“What are you thinking about for names?”

Marilyn covered her mouth with the sleeve of her white cosmetic coat and took off for the bathroom.

“Names,” Marilyn repeated when it was all over, and she wiped her mouth with toilet paper. She shook her head as she turned on the faucet to splash water on her face. When she headed towards the door and saw her reflection in the full length mirror, she pulled her shirt taut over her growing belly.

It wasn’t as if she had ignored the idea of a name; she was simply afraid to make a choice. Suppose she picked the wrong one, a name like Hercules with so many expectations attached? Of course, she wouldn’t name her baby Hercules, she told herself. But, even “Donald” might mark the baby for failure if he grew up believing he had to be a financial tycoon but couldn’t pass High School Economics.

A name says a lot about a person. She thought of Jackson, the baby’s father. Jackson had brown hair with loose curls and manicured nails and a smile that forced her to say yes. Yes, she’d love to attend a wine tasting with him. Yes, she’d said as she packaged up the bottle of Coco Chanel he just bought for someone else. He was irresistible.

Marilyn still teared up at the thought of his mocking expression when she told him the baby was his.

“Baby!” he’d said, a little too loud over dinner at Antonio’s Little Italy. “Impossible,” he laughed.

He took three huge bites of his Creamy Penne Pasta – even the words made Marilyn weak in the stomach – and he left without paying. Marilyn got stuck with the bill and a permanent reminder of the night he took her out, got her drunk, and ignored her mention of “precaution.” She should have listened to her mother, who’d said anyone with a last name for their first name couldn’t be trusted.

Marilyn did not want to screw up her baby’s name.

She spent the next few weeks scouring the shelves at every book store for every book on baby names. She researched sites on the internet. She wrotes lists and asked her co-workers and customers to vote for their favorites. She even asked her mother.

“Gertrude,” her mother said.

She went back to the perfume counter for advice.

And then, her water broke.

Bethany rushed Marilyn to the hospital with just her purse and her insurance card. The list of names sat next to the cash register under a sample bottle of Eternity.

Marilyn gave birth to a healthy seven pound girl with a full head of straight blond hair. The next morning, Bethany showed up with flowers. Marilyn sat in bed with the baby resting in her arms.

“So, what did you decide to call her?” Bethany asked.

“Helen,” Marilyn said. She kissed the baby’s forehead.

“Hmm.” Bethany pulled the list of names from her purse. “I don’t see that one on your list.”

“No,” Marilyn smiled. “It just came to me, like someone whispered her name in my ear when she was born. Helen.”

“Maybe it was just the drugs,” Bethany cocked her head.

“Maybe.”

But Marilyn hadn’t felt this sure of herself since the year she turned twenty-one, moved out into her own apartment, and bought herself a couch to celebrate. Marilyn cupped both hands underneath Helen’s small body and held her up. Helen kicked her feet and opened her eyes.

“But, what does it mean?” Bethany asked.

“It means, she likes it,” Marilyn said. “Helen.”

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You Mean, You Have to Practice?

“A thousand books on tennis won’t improve your serve, but a thousand serves will.”
~ Rick DeMarinis, from an excerpt of his article printed in The Writer, November 1985, and reprinted in the November 2010 issue.

~

As I sat in a hallway at work the other day, I overheard someone practicing the tuba. The music climbed the scale with perfect tone but then squealed and tumbled into low vibrations, like the sounds of a diesel truck unwilling to start. I flashed back to a recent conversation with my son.

“Mommy,” he said, “I want to play the trumpet.”

“That’s excellent!” I cheered. Then, I rattled off stipulations and requirements that he ignored until he heard the word “lessons.”

“No, mom. I don’t want to take lessons. I just want to play the trumpet.”

Oh.

Right.

My son and I are not so different in that way.

“I just want to write a novel.” How many times have I said that before?

In the beginning, I didn’t have time for books about the craft or a writing class or advice about failed first novels.

“I just want to write,” I repeated.

But, writing – like tennis or trumpet playing or…anything, really – is rarely done well the first time or the first hundred times. To hone my writing skills, I needed diligence, a willingness to learn, and a daily commitment.

And, I needed to practice.

I understand that now, so I practice my writing in several ways.

1. Morning pages. Every day I write one to three pages — of rants, self-doubts, or goals for the day. Often, I start off by reminding myself what day of the week it is, a challenge in itself sometimes. Occasionally, I record a milestone, like a draft complete or a short story’s Honorable Mention.

2. Letters to my best friend. Inspired by Lynn at The Letter Jar, who is on a mission to compose 365 letters in 365 days, I began writing letters to a dear friend with two small children. Phone calls are near to impossible when you have small kids at home. Besides, a hand-written letter is a treasure after a long day of laundry, meals, and redirection. While it’s a different kind of writing, it draws out my creative side just the same and often leads to story-telling. Plus, I reconnect with my dear friend in an old, and more intimate, way.

3. Writing exercises. Every other Wednesday, I face a strict deadline to post a story, by midnight, based on a word prompt. While the deadline is self-imposed, I have good reasons why I don’t blow it off: 1) I am motivated to write something new, 2) I stretch my writer’s mind by forcing myself to write outside of the box (a psychopomp might stand at your death bed wearing a hooded cloak or he might just show up in a Mets cap), and 3) each attempt at the exercise reinforces my commitment to writing.

4. Submitting. I’m not talking about submitting to my inner editor or the lackadaisical attitude of my muse some days. I mean, that whenever and wherever I can, I submit a completed story. I’m a firm believer that there’s much to be gained in the practice of writing cover letters, following submission guidelines, and crafting the ever-painful three sentence bio.

5. Reading. Nowadays, on top of novels and short story collections, I do read books and magazines on and about writing. Then, I translate my experience as a reader into my perspective as a writer, by writing a post about an inspiring article or interviewing a guest author.

6. Writing workshops and Author Readings. Workshops help me grow as a writer in the areas of craft and in giving and receiving feedback (which complements all lessons learned about writing). Also, when I attend an Author Reading, I learn the art of not sweating buckets or passing out while standing at a podium, in front of a roomful of peers, reading your story.

(Lordy.)

What kinds of exercises help you practice your writing?

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Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Clarity

Every other Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). The goal of the exercise is to write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – and post it by midnight. Past pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

~

Today’s word:

gamboge. noun: 1. A strong yellow color. 2. A gum resin obtained from the sap of trees of the genus Garcinia, used as a yellow pigment and as a cathartic.

I wrote the word of the day on a post-it this morning, and that alone sparked a story.

*****

Clarity

Gretchen stood in front of the mirror, armed with pencils: one to line her eyes, one to line her lips, one to add hash marks to her eyebrows in an effort to fill them in.

She was tired of her old self, and she wanted a new look. The woman behind the cosmetics counter had told her that cobalt blue, firetruck red, and burnt ember would bring out her inner beauty. But, after ten minutes of careful application, she looked in the mirror and realized that she still appeared undefined. Colored in, yes, but still flat. In fact, she looked ridiculous.

She ran her finger over both eyes to soften the blue line. She blotted her lips. The eyebrow color was stubborn, so she ruffled her bangs in an effort to tone down the brown. Then, she walked into the kitchen, grabbed a pack of post-its and her felt tip pen, and wrote down her morning affirmation: You are beautiful.

“Blech.” She pursed her lips.

She scratched out the words and tried again: You are special.

“Pathetic.”

She tore off the post-it, crumpled it, and sent it sailing across the room right into the trashcan. She thought for a second, and it came to her: Your makeup does not define you.

“There.” She changed the period to an exclamation point and slapped the post-it on her day planner.

On the bus ride to her office, Gretchen stuck the post-it on the back of the seat in front of her and opened her planner to run through her day. The bus stopped at the intersection of Wright and Capital, and Gretchen looked out her window to see a young woman surrounded by a mass of auburn hair.

The wind must have picked up. The woman held her coffee out in front of her while she tried to brush her hair out of her face. She was laughing, and she was beautiful — her hair lifting and dancing. Her eyes stood out even without liner. Her freckles gave her more color than blush. The woman caught Gretchen’s eye and smiled.

Your makeup does not define you!

Gretchen ran her finger across the words.

The bus jerked out into traffic and Gretchen’s planner fell to the floor. By the time she picked up her stray notes and receipts, the bus had stopped outside her office building. In a flurry to exit before the doors closed, Gretchen left the post-it on the seat in front of her.

An hour later, a man named Richard stepped onto the same bus and took a seat towards the back. The bus was empty, except for him and an elderly gentleman up front. The old man wore a suit and had his arms wrapped around a briefcase. He winked at Richard.

“It’s gonna be a good day,” he said. Richard managed a weak smile in return.

Richard was four months into his release from serving time for his third DUI. He was one year sober and had a medallion in the pocket of his new pants to prove it. He’d gotten help while he was inside, and his social worker had given him a letter that highlighted his changes in that last year. Richard’s grip on the letter was beginning to wrinkle it, so he loosened his fingers.

On the back of a seat some rows in front of him, he saw the yellow paper. He leaned forward, so he could decipher the words. He puzzled over the message for a minute, and then his head bobbed in agreement.

“The past is the past,” he said to himself, “it does not define me.”

He popped some Tums to settle his stomach, said a quick prayer, and stepped off the bus. As he studied the height of the gray office building, the wind kicked up and lifted his letter from his hands. He reached for it and ran after it, but the wind carried the letter higher and higher, the paper twisting and twirling. It sailed around the corner and out of Richard’s sight. He looked at his watch. There was no time to chase after the letter.

He stepped off the elevator at the twenty-fourth floor and told the receptionist he was here to interview for the data entry job.

“Ms. Gretchen Wilson, please,” he said with a smile, as he wiped his forehead. The receptionist led Richard down the hall.

In her office, Gretchen studied Richard’s resume. She paused and pointed to “Felony” and “DUI.” Richard brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder. He rubbed out a scuff on the toe of his shoe. He cleared his throat.

When Gretchen looked up, Richard spoke. He was honest and humble. He said he was willing to start anywhere.

“We can’t hide who we are,” he said. “I can’t make up for my mistakes, Ms. Wilson. I can only make a new future.”

Gretchen smiled. His eyes were telling, she thought — focused, sincere, and kind.

“Well, Mr. Martin,” she tapped his application papers into order. “I like your attitude, and your honesty.” She reached out her hand, “Why don’t we give it a try. You can start on Monday.”

He left the office spirited and full of hope. Gretchen followed him out and told the receptionist she would be back in ten. She stood outside her building. She felt good about giving Mr. Martin a chance. The wind rustled her hair and she closed her eyes. She thought of the woman with the dark brown eyes on Wright and Capital.