Category Archives: Writing, the Passion and the Pain

Thoughts on being a writer

My Fling with Fabio

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Prompts are a favored way of getting my mind engaged, setting aside whatever “project” I’m working on which may or may not be stalled, and opening myself up to a challenge. I am always surprised by what I write when I sit down to approach a random topic that is presented. This short short story was a prompt from our writers’ group. Sally authored the prompt. I chose to write it as a letter to a former lover. It was silly and fun.

  • The title is “Fling with Fabio”
  • In this story, you must use the words:
  • Churlish
  • Gallantry
  • Lame
  • Senescent
  • $5.00 (or use a five in another creative way)
  • and a quote of your choice from Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1

Dearest Fabio,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever written. I know that sounds like a lame cliché. Still, the truth is that most of our relationship has been cliché — from the beauty, the passion, and those glorious mornings sitting on the deck of your condo on San Diego Bay drinking our $5 lattes and watching the sun peek its head above the horizon, sending shivering shards of light across the gentle waves of the Pacific.

You were, are, and will always be my gallant lover, but your senescence has become a problem. I don’t wish to sound churlish, but when you cuddled me and called me Shirley, I knew we were done.  

I would like your remembrance of me (which will be irrevocably short due to your lapses) to remain of our good times, our joy, our gayety, our desire.  As Romeo said,

“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears.” Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1.

Forever yours,

Julie

I especially love my reference to the sunrise above the horizon in the West on San Diego Bay, where the sun decidedly sets every day. It was an intentional faux pas that added to the silliness.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover

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This was written from a prompt for the critique group I’m in. The prompt was to rewrite something from a favorite children’s story, add to the story or change it in some way. At the same time I was considering the prompt, Hurricane Helene struck the East Coast. The two ideas came together as I wrote.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover.

Alice was snuggled close, her head on my chest. Her hand on my cheek.

“I can’t sleep Grammy,” mumbled the toddler who had been fast asleep for four hours. Slivers of lights from passing cars and trucks flashed through a wedge in heavy curtains at the window of our motel room. The roar of trucks on the highway, a sound that made the room quiver, woke her.  I was amazed she slept as long as she had.  We were on the way to my home in Georgia and stopped for the night to get respite from the very stressful day. Hurricane Gianni had torn through the Florida town where Alice, her Dad, and Mom lived. I had been staying with them for a long weekend. The storm tracker indicated that Gianni was due to hit only the edge of land about one hundred miles south of their town. Suddenly it took a swing northward and inland, a giant locomotive ripping through San Colima. Tyler, my son, and his family live on the edge of town and were not in the direct path but the debris from the leveled town flew into their neighborhood. A grand piano crashed through the roof and landed in the middle of Alice’s bedroom. Fortunately, we were all in the underground hurricane shelter at the high school. We returned to their house to find the devastation. Luckily only two rooms had been seriously affected, Alice’s and the guestroom where I stayed. Wind and water had done more damage through the open roof, but the house was mostly intact.

“Take Alice and go back to your house Mom, Tyler said. “We’ll stay and help our neighbors then come up to get her when things are sorted out.” We hastily put things in a bag for Alice and I packed up a garbage bag with soggy clothes from my battered suitcase.

There was no electricity or water when we left to drive the three hundred miles to my home in Georgia. After a couple of hours on the road, the trauma of the day caught up with me and I needed to rest and regroup. I stopped at several motels along the highway but they were all full of people fleeing inland from the hurricane. The old Flamingo was the only motel with a room available. It had seen better days but at least it was a refuge for the night.

“This room is at the end of the building close to the road,” the clerk said. “It can get a bit noisy when trucks drive by.”

Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in no shape to continue driving and Alice was cranky even though she had dozed off and on as we traveled toward Georgia. “I’ll take it. I’ll only be here a few hours, then back on the road again.”

It was about 4 am, I had rested but only snoozed a bit as I held Alice close. She began to squirm and whimper. “Grammy, I’m hungry.”

“OK Lambkins, we’ll get back on the road as soon as it’s light and find a place for breakfast. I have an apple and graham crackers for you now. Come snuggle and have a snack until then.”

“Read me a story,” she said.

“What story do you want?”  I knew perfectly well which one she would ask for. We had hurriedly tossed some of her favorite books in her bag along with a couple of stuffed animals and what dry clothes we found under the smashed dresser in her room.

“Alice in Wonderland,” she said. It was the book I read to her at least twice each time I stayed with them or when she came to visit me. In the four years of her life, she must have heard it five or six dozen times either by me or her parents reading. She knew each page and would correct us if we read it wrong or missed a word. Sometimes she would ask for just one scene. “Read the tea party, or read who stole the tarts, or off with their heads.” She would say when told there wasn’t time for the whole story.

“Gotta go potty,” she announced.” I retrieved the book with its colorful cover of Alice and the Cheshire Cat, the Queen, and the White Rabbit, from her bag while she went to the bathroom.

She came back to the bed, stopping to grab her pink and brown giraffe that had been her crib companion since she was born. It went everywhere with her.

“Ok. Where shall we start?”

“All the golden afternoon,

Full leisurely we glide;

For both our oars, with little skill,

By little arms are plied..,” *

My Alice started with the beginning poem as she nibbled on a cracker.

I opened the book and started to read. It had been tossed about in her room. Some of the pages were crumpled and water damaged but the hardback book was mainly intact. Something wasn’t right though. Glancing at the rumpled pages I noticed pictures I didn’t remember being in the book, but I began.

“…when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close to her…followed by three little pigs.” I read. And there on the page was a picture of the white rabbit in his tight-fitting plaid jacket and three little pigs dressed in red, blue and yellow jackets following close behind. 

“Grammy, there aren’t three little pigs in this story,” Alice objected.

“Look at this picture.”

She glanced at the page. “Hmmm,” she said and settled back on the pillow.

Then as poor Alice in the book shed a pool of tears because she couldn’t get out of the hall, she heard footsteps running and looked up to see a wolf dressed in a red cape. She peered out from behind the curtain that hid the door to the garden. “What big eyes you have,” said Alice to the wolf. “The better to see you with, my dear,” said the wolf.

“Grammy, that is the wolf from Red Riding Hood. How did he get into Wonderland?” Again, I showed her the illustration and again, she accepted the modification with no comment.

And on and on, the book had characters from Peter Rabbit, the Frog Prince, the giant from Jack’s Beanstalk, Snow White, and the three Billy Goats Gruff. Some attended the tea party with the March Hare and the Mad Hatter, some played croquet with the Queen, and some showed up at the King’s court to defend the Knave of Hearts.

Every once in a while, Alice would stop me reading to peer at the pictures – strong evidence that what I was reading was true because the illustrations verified the words.  “Grammy,” she said. “I think the hurricane jumbled my storybooks.” As the story ended, Alice had fallen back to sleep, snoring lightly, clutching her giraffe. I, too, was able to close my eyes and fall asleep. Restoration and renewal for a new day, a new adventure, a new Wonderland.

*Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

And I Fly

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Our writing group writes to a prompt for each meeting. A recent one was the challenge to write an anaphora poem. First I had to look up what an anaphora poem was. Anaphora is a literary device to emphasize meaning or create rhythm in poetry or prose by using a word or phrase repetitively.

It is exemplified by Charles Dickens’ – It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity… giving a rhythm to the opening paragraph of Tale of Two Cities.

Or Martin Luther King’s – I have a dream…. repeated nine times in his speech delivering his dream of hope for our nation.

Or William Blake’s poem London: In every cry of every Man, In every infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban,…

This is my attempt at anaphora.

And I Fly

I fly in dreams

Across landscapes of imagination

Reaching for adventure.

And I fly

I fly across time

Unbounded through memory

Yesterdays as fresh as flowers.

And I fly

I fly with my mind

Examining my interior world

Life an unending mystery.

And I fly

I fly with words

Extending my thoughts

Through story and poem.

And I fly

DIANA – the magazine

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I had so much fun with this idea, that I passed it on as a prompt to our writer’s group. The prompt was to envision yourself as something other than a person. Tell your story as if you were a building, a musical instrument, a machine, or any inanimate object. I chose a magazine.

Diana – the magazine

This magazine has been in print for seventy-eight years and witnessed many important events of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century. The slick glossy cover has transformed over the years. It has a more homey feel now.

The magazine has all the requisite sections including:

an Opinion Section where thoughts about current politics and local events are offered and discussions are welcome;

the Food Section offers luscious recipes of all kinds (the editor reserves the right to modify them at will);

the News Section where the daily events are downloaded and recorded for posterity;

the Puzzle Section where the conundrums of everyday life can be sorted and resolutions proffered;

the People Section is where relationships are explored and developed, gossip is encouraged if it has a positive vibe, and Grandson news is at the top of the page;

a write-in Advice column is active;

a Pet Section includes articles about cats, dogs, horses, guinea pigs, hamsters, rabbits, and bearded dragons. Recently added are articles about wildlife including javalina, coyotes, bobcats, deer, and a variety of birds. We may have to start a new section called Nature;

an Amusement Section contains articles full of unbounded happiness and optimism with lots of laughter and good humor;

during the 1980s and 1990s, the magazine had a robust Travel Section with mainly national and some international reporting. This section has been devoid of recent articles (travel having lost some of its former luster with delays, restrictions, and bullshit), but the management hopes to include more in the future;

the Sport Section contains sailing, skiing, horseback riding, and baseball articles with Baseball reporting the most invigorated at present (basketball news is rejected). Walking, as a sport, developed as physical limitations to the machinery producing the magazine became evident;

the Music Section explores popular music from the 1940s through 1990s, an emphasis on the 1980s, a modicum of present-day composers and singers, with a nod to the classical genre, especially Debussy and Vivaldi; Elvis, Sinatra, Alan Jackson, and Jimmy Buffett are prominent contributors;

a very active Literature Section features interviews with contemporary authors, along with reviews of books old and new, both fiction and nonfiction, and special interest in history. Stories and poems are published in this section;

a Wisdom Section was added in 2000 in acknowledgement of and engendering discussion of all things of a spiritual nature; a response to the natural facts of our human condition as we age;

a supplemental In Memoriam Section is published semi-annually in recognition and appreciation of those who made significant contributions to the magazine over the years but have moved on to a cosmos beyond this.

This magazine was initiated in Wichita, Kansas in 1945 and thrived there under loving development for about twelve years. Then the headquarters moved to Bellevue, Washington for a period of forty years. A co-editor was added in 1964. Then three satellite editors came on board in the late 1960s, adding extra depth and heart to all the articles produced.

When the machinery started locking up due to the cold and damp in the early 1990s, the magazine relocated to Tucson where it is currently ensconced in a more conducive environment. We plan to continue publication for the foreseeable future. The times they are a-changing, and we look forward to an interesting second quarter of the twenty-first century.

This magazine will no longer be featured at the front of the magazine section of the newsstand, taking a more unassuming place for discriminating clientele near the back.   

*photo is AI generated.

Wish

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A writer can find inspiration in anything. As I was taking my walk this morning, I noticed a small piece of paper lying at the edge of the street. I picked it up. Litter, you know. I’ll throw it away when I get home. Then I looked at it. WISH. It looked like it was from a student’s vocabulary worksheet. Inspiration! Why did I happen to find the paper? What did that word say to me? There are messages even in trash. What is a WISH?

Will
Intent
Spontaneity
Health

I continued to walk and these words came to mind. Will, Intent, Spontaneity, Health. To make a wish come true you need Will. Intent is a reason, a goal, to keep the dream alive. To be able to fulfill the wish you need to be Spontaneous as options appear before you. And of course, you need Health to enjoy the WISH when it is achieved. I’m sure I’ll discover a story in there at some point. Stay tuned.

You may think of other words that speak to you about WISH. I’d love to know some of them.

The Storyteller – A Beginning

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Once upon a time…

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good, she was very very Good
And when she was bad, she was Horrid.

That was a rhyme my mother told me many, many times when I was a child. I believe she meant it to describe me. Of course, I think of myself as a totally sweet, big blue-eyed, curly-headed little girl with a streak of adventure. I’d do almost anything on a dare. But I was also kind to animals and did mostly what I was supposed to do. I think the operative word there is “mostly”. I strayed occasionally although not really on purpose. I didn’t INTEND to be naughty. It just sneaked up on me.

I remember very clearly a time when I caused some chaos – unintentionally of course.  I was in first grade, six years old. I walked to school each day with my friend Billy Baird who lived next door. He would come to my door, or I would go to his in the morning and we’d set off together for the three blocks to Woodland Elementary School. One day, I stopped by his house and his mom told me Billy was ill. He had a cold. She asked me to tell our teacher that he would not be at school for a day or two. I was a bit miffed because I had something really important to talk to Billy about. I went to school and when I arrived, a funny thing happened.

My teacher asked why Billy wasn’t with me.

“Well,” says I. “Billy had a terrible accident. He is very sick, has a bad high fever and broke his bones and wouldn’t be coming back to school maybe for the WHOLE year.”

Our teacher was very worried, a reaction I expected. At recess, I repeated the story to other classmates expressing great emotion and concern. They too were curious about what happened. I declined to give any other details, telling them I’d let them know more later. I think I believed I could get some mileage out of that attention if I continued to add to it daily.

After school, I walked home. My nanny gave me my snack and I played outside and all was well until my mother arrived home from work.

“What exactly happened at school today?” her voice was stern and accusatory.
“Ummmm.” I couldn’t think for the life of me why she was mad. “We played skip rope at recess. I got to do double dutch,” I offered.
“What about Billy?”
“He didn’t go to school today. He was sick.” I still wasn’t catching on.
“How sick was he?”

Now a light was dawning.

“Aaaaaa.”
“Did you tell your teacher he was in an accident? Did you tell her he’d be out of school for the rest of the year?”
“Aaaaaa.”

Now remember – this was in olden days before instant communication and cell phones. How in the world did SHE know what I said at school?

“You told a lie, Diana. A whopper. You have to apologize to Billy’s mom, the teacher, and the whole class.”

My knees turned to jelly. My insides churned. “It was just a story.” I stammered.

“It was a lie and many people were concerned”, she repeated. “Your teacher was very upset and after school called Billy’s mom to find out what happened to Billy. Mrs. Baird, called me at work and let me know what you did. Now you have to face up to it and let everyone know you are a liar.”

She marched me next door to tell Billy’s mom I was sorry. Billy stood behind her with a big smirk on his silly face. I stuck my tongue out at him as my mom turned to leave after a brief conversation with Mrs. Baird. I went to bed that night hoping the angels would take me to heaven.

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die (please, please) before I wake
I pray to God my soul to take.

I survived the night and, with extreme reluctance and a very dry throat, walked to school with my mother to tell the class that I told a story. No, Mom insisted, I lied.

It seemed an injustice to me that my story was more interesting than Billy’s, but I was being punished. After all, I didn’t hurt Billy. He was fine. No harm, no foul. He went back to school the following Monday (I didn’t walk to school with him) and everyone crowded around HIM telling HIM I had lied about his cold. HE was the big deal, not me. It took a few days for the storm to pass. I was shunned by all except my best friend Lois who forgave me instantly. Finally, everyone seemed to forget about it and life continued in its pleasant middle-class suburban way. But the storyteller in me grew and grew. And now I can write stories, and no one can stop me.  Did I learn a lesson? Guess not.

Le Mot Juste

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Writers are always in search of the right word, le mot juste. Words are two dimensional objects, flat symbols on a page, that writers use to express thought. A writer selects words that make a scene leap up from the page and come alive, three-dimensionally, in the mind of a reader or listener; words that create a character the reader can relate to; words that elicit an emotional response to make a reader think more deeply, laugh or cry. Words convey meaning and ultimately tell a story. It is the job of the writer to carefully choose words that activate imagination. Whether written or spoken, words are vehicles of communication; the transportation of ideas from one mind to another.

I learned about words from my father. He may not have been a writer, but he was a reader and he loved language. He was witty and enjoyed telling stories. When I think of him, I always think of books. He had a dictionary, along with stacks of books on the table and on the floor beside his chair at all times. They weren’t necessarily books of profound thought or philosophy, although many were. Often they were the paperbacks current in the 50s – a Mickey Spillane mystery, an Ian Fleming thriller. He read like most people breathe, constantly. He wasn’t limited to any particular genre or author. He just read.

We got our first TV in 1957 but he rarely watched it. Some of my favorite memories of my dad, however, were centered around one TV show, Omnibus.  It was a staple in our home every Sunday afternoon. I remember my father calling me into the living room and sitting beside me on the sofa to watch the live presentations devoted to the humanities. It was hosted by Alistair Cooke, a cultured, erudite British journalist. They recreated scenes from Shakespeare and other playwrights starring popular actors of the 50s such as Orson Wells, Helen Hayes, and Christopher Plummer. Cooke interviewed prominent public figures and historians. The shows provided analysis of opera with Brenda Lewis, a history of music with Leonard Bernstein, interpretations, and examples of dance by performers like Gene Kelly and Agnes de Mille. My dad made sure we watched that program together so he could explain to me, a six-year-old, the importance of the works highlighted. I don’t remember how many seasons the show ran but I know we watched it for several years.

I’m sure that was when my love of words was born. I know my love of Shakespeare’s plays came from those programs and my dad. He was a reader, so I was a reader; checking out books from our school library and devouring books my parents bought for me. I wrote my first novel at the age of seven on school lined paper with a #2 pencil. It was called the Girl Friends Mystery. I wish I still had it. It must have been a pip. From that time on I wrote in diaries, journals, and on odd bits of paper, notes with story ideas or comments on life.

When we moved to Tucson in 1997, I took a writing class and joined a group that wrote stories and poems that we shared with each other. Two years ago, I started writing a blog to share my reflections, stories, and poems, with a larger community. It has been so much fun. I love getting feedback. The comments of others always spark new thought and new ideas for writing – a continuum of word exchanges and the search for le mot juste.

Age Appropriate

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It has been said to me several times in the last year, “Wow, publishing your first book at the age of seventy-seven. That’s a big deal.”  I beg to differ. My age has nothing to do with writing other than I hope I have improved over the years. It’s as if my life culminated in this book. No, it hasn’t. If truth be told I have written enough over the years to compile as many volumes as the Encyclopedia Britannica. Publishing was never a priority or even a thought. I have written for seventy-eight years, no actually seventy-one years because my first novel was at the age of seven.

When we moved from Bellevue, Washington to Tucson in 1993, I jettisoned my journals, notebooks, and pages of writing to lighten the load. Boy, how I wish I had some of that back to fill in memories that are hazy now. Teen diaries with social events prominent, newlywed adventures, then pages of notes on my children as they grew up. Some pages were complaints, some were gratitude, some were hopes, some were sorrows – most were filled with the joy I felt watching my kids grow.

Of course, as writers do, I accumulated more journals, notebooks, and loose pages of writing in the intervening twenty-six years. They are not systematic or categorizable. I grab a notebook or journal when the spirit urges and start writing not caring what came before. I have journals with entries from 1997, 2005 and 2020. They are not in order because I start writing on whatever blank page I open to, so a 2017 entry may be before a 2005 one and heaven forbid if there is any theme articulated. This unstructured whimsy pattern is my life. My brain cannot do linear for more than a few minutes at a time.

Is there a right and wrong to writing? Absolutely not. Writers have to write. It is like breathing. It is an imperative to living. Age is not a factor in writing. There is nothing that says you can’t write after you are fifty or seventy or one-hundred. You don’t need an MFA or be on the best-seller list to write. Until I moved to Tucson the only writing class I had was a Freshman 102 class at WSU. A young professor tried to introduce newbie English majors to the idea of creative writing.

After we were settled in Tucson, I saw an ad for a writing class that sounded interesting and I thought it would also be a way of meeting people in my new town. I had no idea that class would introduce me to many other adults who loved to write “just because”. Indeed, I thought I’d be the only one there who wrote just for myself because “writer” meant a higher level of achievement than what I felt I had. Thankfully, I was wrong.

I met several people who love words and love putting them in some kind of order to tell stories. Our writers’ critique group was formed from a few people in that class and four of us stayed together for over twenty-five years. The book we wrote is to encourage other writers to create and maintain critique groups as a way of expanding and enhancing their writing experience. Creativity stays with you throughout your life.

Getting back to the age issue, I once knew a woman who dressed “inappropriately” for her age. She was in her late sixties, then early seventies when I knew her. She wore medium-heeled shoes with lacey bobby socks, fancy dresses that barely touched her knees and her long grey hair was done in braids, ponytail, or pigtails with ribbons and delicate butterfly clips depending on her whim and the time she took to get ready in the morning. She was petite, with a trim figure and her clothes looked good on her body, but they would have been more “appropriate” on her granddaughter. She was the hostess at a high-end restaurant in the town where we lived. She was courteous, on the ball, and did her job with confidence. She was NOT a nutcase. She was an individual. She loved people and it showed in her manner, her care with customers. I’m sure the first time people saw her, they were taken aback. I know I was. But after observing her over several years I knew she was authentic, not an act. I moved from that town so I’m not sure how long she remained in her job. I do know she had plenty of energy and enthusiasm for it and did it better than women who were in their twenties.

My point is people age differently, some are old at forty while others maintain their lust for life well into their eighties, even nineties. My grandmother was an example of someone who never let age determine her life trajectory. She was widowed at fifty-eight. She had no pension and social security was minimal. She went to live with and care for her elderly parents who lived into their nineties. When her parents passed away, two of her sisters (a widow and a divorcee) and a brother (a widower) moved in to share the family home and expenses. Four siblings in their seventies and eighties acted like four siblings in their teens. They teased, argued, hassled each other, and laughed in equal amounts. It was hilarious to visit them. If you overheard their conversations, you would never believe they were senior citizens. They all sounded like fourteen-year-olds.

Grandma developed congestive heart failure later in life, but it didn’t hold her back. She was a woman of boundless faith. The day she died she had been out helping her “old people”, those friends in their sixties and seventies (ten to twenty years younger than she) who relied on her to drive them to appointments and shopping. She went home after a busy day and said she didn’t feel well enough for dinner. She was taken to the hospital later and died of heart failure that night. Not once in my life did I ever hear her say anything about her age or infirmities. They were just not significant factors in her life. She created the best of each day she was given without excuses. I adored her for many reasons, her kindness, her generosity, her “get on with it” spirit, and aspire to be like her. She embraced the gift of each day. Age is a number not a state of being. A spirit cannot be defined by age.

At the Diner

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We had lunch at a local diner, one sunny February afternoon. We frequent that diner because it is nearby, has very friendly staff, homestyle cooking, generous portions, and reasonable prices.  The diner is open daily for breakfast and lunch. The décor is Midwest farm kitchen. There are pictures and photographs throughout of farm life, fields, and animals. There is a plethora of chicken and rooster statuettes everywhere. The main room has two dozen tables and a lunch counter with another dozen stools. There are two extra rooms for overflow, used mostly on Sunday mornings or when clubs have meetings. We are so grateful that the diner was able to stay open for the two years of the covid panic. So many mom-and-pop businesses had to close.

Just after we were seated at a table by the window, I observed a woman, 60ish, cross the parking lot and come into the diner alone. She was short, pear shaped and wore a dress with a leafy green on green print and brown “sensible” shoes. She carried a pink purse, a blue hardbound book, and a plastic grocery bag that looked packed with something. It could have been clothes or trash, I don’t know, but it was tied up. She placed her book and purse on the counter and went to the bathroom with the grocery bag. I assumed by her casual leaving of her belongings that she was a regular. I often see solo diners eat at the counter, but I’ve never seen a lone woman there. She returned without the plastic bag and assumed her tall chair, ordered iced tea and lunch, and opened her book. I saw from my table across the room that it was a Patricia Cornwell mystery – big letters on the cover.

My husband and I talked about our niece who was visiting from Montana as we waited for our food.

A tall man, over six feet, also in his 60s, possibly 70 entered the diner. He had on a blue plaid wool long-sleeve work shirt, blue jeans, boots and wore a camo ballcap that he didn’t remove. Lanky would adequately describe him, loose limbed and thin.  He passed by the woman. Neither acknowledged the other. He threw his leg over a counter chair, two seats away from the woman. He looked very much at home at the counter. The waitress took his drink and lunch order. Both the man and woman faced straight ahead. The woman reading her book. It looked like she had just started it – only a few pages in. When their waitress brought their lunches, they began to eat, still not looking at one another.

I glanced over to them as I ate my lunch. After a couple of bites of sandwich, the man looked at the woman and made a comment. Since I was across the room, I have no idea what was said. The woman acknowledged his question or comment and continued eating her sandwich and reading her book without turning to look at him. Again, he said something and again she answered without looking his way. He continued to eat and talk looking in her direction. After about five minutes she looked up and smiled at him. She said something in return. Encouraged, he turned his swivel chair so he directly faced the woman. His talking became more animated. He used his hands, then his arms with broad gestures, to illustrate what he said. She looked up at him more often and the conversation became mutual – a back and forth dialogue. Finally, she closed her book and gave her full attention to the man.

I watched this human interchange from across the room as it slowly unwound. It was enjoyable to see the two people, who I assumed were strangers, find something in common to talk about as they ate their lunches.

“What’s going on?” my husband queried when he saw me chuckling quietly while I watched the couple at the counter.
“I am watching two people getting acquainted.”

He looked up for a moment then, uninterested, returned to his sandwich.

The waitress gave each of them their bill as they finished their meals. They continued to talk for a minute or two then the man got up, paid, and left the restaurant. The woman followed a few minutes later after buying a sweet from the pastry display cabinet to take with her. My husband and I left also.

I felt I had watched an entertaining play unfold before me during lunch. I suppose I could make up the dialogue but the scene, even without words, was enough. It was like watching a silent movie.

That’s what writers do. We observe. Stories, scenes, and characters come from everyday incidents. Imagination fills in the blanks, the dialogue, the prologue and the epilogue. I’m sure the two people I saw that day will join the many other characters who live in my mind’s village and have a story of their own one day. What was in that plastic bag?? Could their story be a mystery? a little romance? a fantasy? a political thriller?

What have you observed either at a restaurant, in line at a grocery store, or walking in the park? Stories are born from these scenes. You don’t have to know the dialogue, that’s what your fertile imagination will create.

Haiku Month

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February is National Haiku Month. There is a month for everything, I guess. I’ve never been much for writing haikus. I was intimidated by the 5—7 – 5 restriction: three lines – the first with five syllables then seven and finally five in the last line. I didn’t tackle them. Our Writers’ Forum has a haiku contest each year. We have some natural haiku artists. Haikus spill from their brains seemingly without effort.

I decided to try it this year. Now I’m writing haikus in my head as I walk each day. I walk in the natural environment of a nature preserve or a town park, sometimes just around the neighborhood, as I practice the 5 – 7 – 5 mantra.  Traditionally haikus are written about nature. I found myself composing more about human nature. These are a few I came up with. I didn’t submit any of these for the contest, saving that until February 22.

Soft lips spoke lies as
Crystal drops rained from her eyes
In thorny goodbye.

His side undisturbed
Grief o’er flows her hollowed heart
Their bed as witness

Bodies in congress
Rhythmic movements of urgent
Longing and loving

Sunrise unwraps bright
Spires dressed in layered colors
Grand Canyon morning

I’m still wrestling with one that I cannot make fit the haiku scheme.  Any ideas?

A nun’s story                                  4
Nineteen to thirty                            5
Lost in hopeless addiction             7
Found change of habit                   5