The first day of English class on my very first day of college in September,1964, I arrived at Thompson Hall, the ancient brick edifice that housed the English Department. Built in the 1890’s, it was the oldest building on campus. Everything about the building was massive and was intended to remain a steadfast educational guidepost through generations of students.

I took my seat in anticipation of learning brilliant new insights into Chaucer, Shakespeare, Austin, and Hemingway. In high school, Mrs. Lupton instilled in me an almost fanatic love of literature. I teetered on the brink of becoming an English literature maven or a primary school teacher. Neither came true since I retired after my freshman year from academia, fueled by hormones, romance, and a super stud boyfriend, to become a wife and mother –but that is a whole different Oprah for a later time. The boyfriend, now husband, lasted much longer than my academic career would have – we are still together.

The teacher arrived, a youngish handsome man in a sport coat, open-collar white shirt, and gray slacks. Ahh, thought I. He will be a pleasure to spend a semester with. He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and addressed the class, giving his name and academic status. I have forgotten both in the intervening sixty-five years.

In an authoritative voice, he gave the class one abrupt directive. “Look at that door and spend the next forty minutes writing about it.” He pointed to a door that took up space in a wall at the front of the classroom next to the huge blackboard. “Place your essays on my desk as you leave class. I will see you Wednesday at this same time, and we will discuss your essays.”

Then he left. There was a murmur in the room, but the students, freshmen all, eager to begin their academic career with a win, began writing. Me, not so much. I spent at least fifteen of those precious minutes glaring at the oversized – at least ten feet high, heavy door meant to convey authority. It wasn’t the door out of the room, the exit. It was a door to who knows what: a closet, another room, a stairway, a secret cavern? This is when imagination, figurative language such as simile and metaphor, and sensory details became the most important part of learning. We were thrown into the deep end of the pool without practice or instruction. It was very deep and extremely cold. Staring at the grain of the wood, the dark stain which became variegated as I observed it, and the ancient hardware of knob and lock, I finally mind-merged with the door so it would give up its secrets.

Sad to say, I don’t know what became of that essay. I do remember I managed to write a few unworthy pages. However, it was the beginning of my love of prompts – words, sentences, or pictures untethered to anything in particular that lead your mind and pen into labyrinths of imagination. Prompts can blow out even the most stubborn writer’s block. When you get the right side of the brain humming with the magic of ‘what if’, you can then employ the left side to organize those ideas.

The door remained an object of fascination every time I entered that classroom.  I can conjure that door in my mind to this day. Is it the end to an event or idea, a door slammed closed; or is it the beginning, an invitation to a new adventure, a new concept?

What did Dorothy see in OZ? How did Wart learn to see the world in The Sword and The Stone? What did Alice see in Wonderland? What did Milo observe through the Phantom Tollbooth? Employ the kind of vision that a writer uses when creating a poem or a story. Look with the eyes of a stranger. It is possibly the most difficult part of writing, the most challenging and ultimately the most satisfying.

My recent prompt for our writers’ group was to discover something sublime in something ordinary. Look around the meeting room and find an object, then describe the object in an interesting way. Write continuously without taking the pen from the paper for ten minutes.

This is my contribution:

The Library Clock

If popularity were judged by how many times a day someone is watched, I win the library popularity contest hands down – pun intended. I could not count how many times a day I am glanced at and outright stared at. I keep my hands in front of my face, an attempt at modesty (false though it may be since I am rather handsome) – but the stares continue. I am the library meeting room clock, a simple white-faced, wood-framed, battery-operated clock.

My batteries are changed on January 5th every year like clockwork (another pun intended-I’m full of them), so I never slow down. I am not dependent on electricity during storms. I am faithful to my duties regardless of external circumstances. Being an Arizona clock, I am thankfully relieved of the whole Daylight Saving Time fiasco. I cannot understand what geniuses concocted that stupidity. Technically, I am here to measure time, but I covertly measure aspiration and reality – without comment. There are occasions when I wish I had a chime, a buzzer, or something I could employ to register my approval or disapproval. Through it all, I remain calm, reliable, and only slightly smug.

In contradiction, I am always running in a room that I cannot escape. My room is in almost constant use. It has the largest capacity in the library, holding up to seventy-five people for a gathering.

Time management can be an issue for the humans that use my room. I am the professional witness to the gap between what people schedule and what people do. I’ve seen a writers’ group go beyond their two-hour limit on a number of occasions. Once, the librarian needed to come in and shoo them out so the staff could prepare the room for the Mystery Club book discussion group.

What I love about being a clock high on the wall is what I observe in my room. It runs the gamut from serious to ridiculous. For instance, a few weeks ago I watched citizens voting in local elections. For twelve hours, people flowed in and out of my room, making decisions for their city that would resonate for years. A big deal.

On the other hand, I watched as an HOA group spent at least one of my hours haggling over where trash bins should be located at or near curbside. I must say, during that hour I was stared at continuously. My ticking may have sounded a bit more judgmental.

I receive the most attention when a teen group gathers for a math tutoring session. Last week, one young man looked at me every 15 seconds for two hours. If I could blush from all the attention, I certainly would have. I pride myself on not being conceited. 

                ~end of ten minutes.

I will probably complete, edit, and revise this for a longer essay.