WYA Challenge: Day 4

WYA

“Good Writing is supposed to evoke sensations in the reader—not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” ~ E.L. Doctorow

The house is quiet when I walk in from work. But his truck is in the driveway, so he must be here. As I shrug off my coat I see him in the kitchen. Oh, how sweet. He is cooking dinner. Cones of light shine down from the vaulted ceiling, steam swirling upward, quickly dissipating. The rest of the house is dark and I feel like I am watching a play. The gentle clanking of metal against metal and the hiss of hot oil echo in the room.

It’s always in slow motion when I remember this. It felt like slow motion as it played out. Maybe a part of me knew what was coming and tried to fend it off any way I could.

When he sees me, he turns the burners down and walks toward me, telling me that M. called. I remember thinking it was odd that he called instead of H.

But mostly I am focused on his face. I  haven’t seen this face before. We’ve been married for only a few years. I realize there is so much more for us to learn about each other.

When he reaches me, his hands wrap gently, oh so tenderly around my arms. I still have no idea what is going on. No idea what he is about to say.

But when the words leave his mouth, they feel inevitable.

“B. is dead.”

Inevitable.

But not true.

A part of me knows.

A part of me repels the idea. The words.

“No, she’s not.”

He nods, not wanting to say it again.

I shake my head, wrapping my own arms tightly around my body, as if to keep it from imploding, chanting the same words over and over.

No, she’s not.

No she’s not.

Noshesnot. Noshesnot.

Until they no longer even sound like words.

Until they are merely sounds vomiting from this new, deep, raw sad of part of me I didn’t even know existed.

•   •   •   •   •   •

Creativity Check-in

How much did I write today?

2 1/2 hours

 

What did I work on?

Morning Pages

Healthy Living Journal

WYA Dig Deeper and Writing Prompt

 

Times of day:

3:30 5:30 in my nook

5:45 – 6:15 at my computer

 

Mood: 

A little tired. Had a lazy day. Too much TV. Left me mentally sluggish. And I waited until too late in the day to work again. Mornings are prime time for me.

 

Greatest Obstacle:

Put off writing until my mental energy was oh so low.

 

Greatest Strength:

I showed up anyway and wrote.

 

Creative affirmation:

Each day that I write is day that I didn’t quit.

 

Write Yourself Alive: A 30 Day Challenge

Day 13 of #WriteYourselfAlive Challenge

photo-98
(A short piece based on 3 random photos in my instagram feed)
A jumble of letters lay on your desk. Your baby rests at your feet, smiling and snug in her bouncy seat, just content to gaze up at you. But you break the gaze and it feels like a tiny piece of your heart snagged on the moment. That moment of turning away from her to your desk. From her to yourself.

Your palms press into the smooth wood. Sitting here feels foreign, like you don’t quite fit here anymore. Not like you used to.

Not like when you could stay up until 2 AM because the words were just spilling out of you and who would walk away from that for mere sleep?

But now.

Now sleep is precious. You hoard moments of sleep like a vagrant lost in the depths of the desert hoards drops of water.

Now you gladly trade words for sleep.

No wonder you no longer fit here.

You swipe up a handful of the letters, shaking them in your palm like dice, feeling and hearing the solid yet delicate clink of ceramic edges gently colliding. Maybe if you shake long enough actual words will emerge from the letters.

Maybe a whole story will tumble onto the desk like the elusive Yahtzee you played as a kid.

The misshapen cubes fall out of your hand, landing on the desk, scattering into an incoherent pattern. No story. No words. Just random letters adding up to nothing.

You glance down at your daughter and see her eyes have closed. She is asleep. You know you should follow the rule of new motherhood and sleep when she does. But rolling those dice in your hands has left your palms itchy. That familiar twitching of your blood and cells beneath your skin tugs at you to show up to the page. You remember it doesn’t matter what you write at this point. Just write. Just show up and who knows where you’ll end up.

Maybe in the skin of an old woman sitting on a bench in the grocery store next to the mechanical horse.

Maybe you’ll end up in a memory of your grandma knitting a pair of slippers with pom-poms that bounced off the front of your foot with each step.

Or maybe you’ll end up on a boat with children, gliding through space, parting the stars with the bow, leaving a swath of stardust in its wake.

You never know where you’ll end up unless you show up.

You pick up a pen.

You open a notebook.

You begin.