writing doodle - thanksgiving

Long distance telephone calls were like gold: precious and rare.  Letters were written when to expect a long distance call so that everyone would be there, egg timer in hand, and the phone could be passed from person to person in three minute intervals.

"How high can you count?" Susie's father asked.

"Thirty," six year old Susie said.  She didn't always get the numbers right, but she tried, and thirty sounded impressive to her.

"Very good."  He beamed at his daughter.  She might be a math prodigy or become a scientist when she was older.  "Do you want to learn how to dial the phone?"

She nodded so hard her head bounced off her chest.  Only the big kids ever got to dial the phone.  This was her foray into new things.  Maybe she could sit at the adult table at Christmas instead of with all of the little kids who blew bubbles in their milk. "What's the number?  What's the number?"

"Eighteen twelve."

Susie studied the dial and didn't see a number eighteen anywhere. She could count the numbers but she couldn't always read them.  Finally she found the hole that had the number eight in front and put her finger in it and started to draw it to the top of the dial.

"What are you doing?" he asked.  She said she could count to thirty so eighteen shouldn't have been hard.

"It's eight-"

"No.  Eighteen starts with a one in front of it."

"Oh."

Maybe she wasn't going to be a math genius after all.

Speaking of Love ...

Last weekend, I had a chance to go to a writers seminar in Phoenix.  The keynote speaker asked how many of us had always wanted to be writers?

I couldn't say it was true for me.  I was one of very few in the audience who hadn't felt the pull from kindergarten.  I stumbled into writing a couple of years ago, but I've always loved a good story.

In grade school I wanted to be a fairy godmother and a storyteller - and in that order.  That was about the size of it.  Give the kid a wand and an audience and I would have been content for life.  

Did  you know there are precious few training programs or jobs available for fairy godmothers?

Until recently, there were just a scant few story telling programs.  My advantage was the stories told to me, almost exclusively, on summer vacation.  My sisters and I pestered aunts, uncles and grandparents to explain people in the pictures and the stories behind them.  There were stories about horse drawn buggies that were driven in the snow by my great grandfather if he was needed to deliver babies.  There were others about watering holes and who swam there a couple of generations prior.  Then there were the stories about relationships and love.  

A year ago, I combined stories from my grandmothers and aunts, twisted them and wrote "How Did You Know?"  It was accepted by Bright Light Multimedia for their current anthology:  Speaking of Love.  It was officially released today.

I'm still looking for someone to make a real, working magic wand.  While I wait, I think I'll continue to twist a few tales.

writing doodle - Zero for the lack of a title

Three minutes and counting until my next shift started and I’d barely staggered through the door unshaven and unprepared to face the world.  If Sarah had been working at my usual coffee place this morning, I wouldn’t be pushing the margin quit so closely.  Sarah has never pushed me to the head of the line, but she and I have a telepathy about coffee and she knows when I need an extra shot of espresso or two to jump start my morning.  It has never hurt that when she sees me, she starts my order ahead of time.  Who the hell gave her a Monday morning off anyway?

“Well Zero, you look like shit,” Manny said.  He glanced at his watch and tapped its face to emphasize exactly what time it was.  Until about a year ago, he had more wild weekends than anyone I knew.  Since he got married, and who would have ever guessed that would happen, he assumed I’ve taken up his mantle.  I hadn’t but I did drag it around with me from time to time.

“Yeah, well mornings are God’s way of punishing his children for having a good time.” I didn’t believe it, but I’ve never been a morning person and this morning in particular hurt like hell.                                                                                       

“Long night?”  He smiled as he took a sip from his own coffee cup. 

“Oh, yeah.”  I rolled my chair away from the desk and sat heavily.  Before placing my hands on the keyboard and opening the morning litany of e-mail messages from my boss, I closed my eyes and tried to remember if anything the night before had been worth it.

“Doesn’t look like it was a long night in a good way.”

“When Carol said she was coming over Saturday night after Hal’s bachelor party with something that was guaranteed to keep me up until dawn, I was thinking one thing and she was thinking something completely different.”

“And she was thinking?”

“That I’d know how to handle a bitch in heat.”

“That could be fun.”  A year ago he might have smirked or made some lascivious comments.  Now he seemed to retreat into the mists of time and get a small, satisfied smile.  Rat bastard.

“No. She meant a real bitch in heat. She brought me the puppy she begged me for six months ago.” And Carol gave me back everything else.  Clothes, cheap ass jewelry, a picture from an art fair.  She went to a florist, bought a beautiful bouquet of flowers and then microwaved them to make her point.  It was over.  Again. 

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Probably keep it. But now I’m regretting that I didn’t give her a real dog like a Rottweiler or a German shepherd.”  No.  I had to get her one of those purse dogs so she could be just like her friends.  The beige pile of fluff was a Chug, part Chihuahua part pug and weighed all of seven pounds.  Most of that was teeth.  None of it slept last night.

Last night the dog whined, cried, peed on my rug, and ate the throw rug in the kitchen. Well, maybe she didn’t eat it, but it lay in several heaps this morning.

“Does she have a name?”

Sure.  Pain in the Ass.  Garbage Disposal.  Chewing Machine.  Ankle Bighter.

“Princes Ann-Margaret.”  Did I really say that out loud?  It wasn’t like I named her.  Maybe I’ll just call her Pam.

writing doodle - dusting off the keyboard

Kate pulled the dust rag out of her apron pocket and flicked it over the typewriter keyboard.

Of all of the things in her home, this was the most sacred item she possessed.  It was worth more to her than all of the faded baby pictures that belonged to friends, piles of old holiday cards, or programs her children had performed in long ago and far away.

The typewriter is where she learned how to be in touch with herself and her imagination.

Sure, she had a computer now.  But it wasn't the same.

The old manual typewriter was uncompromising and exacting.

Each strike of the key was solid and firm beneath her fingers.

Each strike of a key brought things into clearer focus.

Each strike of the key released something in her soul that needed to be free.

The computer with its programs was too easy.  There was no need to contemplate each word or phrase. If she didn't like it, she could delete some or all of it and there was no proof of what she had done.

The computer didn't feel permanent.  It felt temporary and easily replaceable.

Maybe perfection is overrated.

an excuse not to update NaNo

Yes, I'd like to be more disciplined in NaNo and other aspects of my life.

This is a very worthy way to waste five precious minutes of NaNo writing time ... I think even my father would be proud (minimally) because it isn't blue humor.