Ludicrous

Hooray!  My first current piece!  I was stuck, and I mean really stuck, to get started writing anything.  It had been so long since I'd attempted to write any fiction that I didn't even know how to start.  All my writing in the last few years has either been academic for my masters or personal reflection for my other blog.  What I finally decided to do was use an exercise that I've often used with my own students to get them writing.  It's what I call a quick write.  I randomly choose five words from the dictionary and give my students five minutes to write something that makes sense using those five words.  Whenever I do this in my class, I always write with the students and share what I've written first before asking them to share.  I always enjoy doing this and it's a sure fire way to get my writing juices flowing.  Not sure if it's the five minute limit, or the random list of words that gets me going, but it works every time.  So, here is my "quick write" using five random words from the thesaurus as a basis.  I had the majority of it written in about 20 minutes, but spent time going back over and crafting it to my liking.  The title of this piece is actually one of the words that I chose from the thesaurus and it's how the file saved on my computer, so while not entirely fitting to the story, I liked it.

he somber mood in the boardroom suddenly changed.  What I had thought was a possibly ludicrous idea was now being scrutinized with seriousness by the others in the room. 

“And how, exactly, do you propose carrying this plan out considering we are looking at an extremely tight timeline?”  The board chair stared me down over the top of his reading glasses with condescension, pen tapping a quiet cadence next to the budget papers that lay strewn about in front of him.

I squirmed in my seat, chagrined.  How was I supposed to know how to carry this plan out?  After all, I was only invited to attend the board meeting by one of the members to possibly give insight into the budget dilemma from a teacher’s perspective.  I didn’t really know anything about million dollar budgets or how to fix them; I just had ideas in my head that seemed to make sense.

“Well, I suppose that would be for the board to work out?” It came out more as a question than a statement and I was disturbed by the squeak in my voice giving away my unease.  I had been told many times before that I came off as confident.  I was certain now was not one of those times.  Agonizing under the unwavering stares of the other board members for further elaboration to my statement, I quickly gathered my scattered thoughts. 

I leveled my gaze at the chairman.  “Preliminary reports from the state don’t mention a timeline.  If I understand correctly it is this board that has set an arbitrary timeline.  What I propose is that the board review my idea in further detail through a prospectus I can provide by tomorrow afternoon.  After that, the formation of a special committee to outline a plan and a timeline can be considered.”

The chairman raised his bushy grey eyebrows in surprise and momentarily ceased the tapping cadence of his pen.  He looked around the table.  “Well, then.  Do we have a motion for a prospectus to be submitted?”

A mumbled motion and second were heard while appreciative glances flicked my way.  Inwardly I smiled and patted my self-confidence on the back, congratulating it for returning at precisely the right moment.  My self-congratulation was interrupted by the gruff voice of the chairman. 

“Please have your prospectus to me by tomorrow afternoon at 3:00.  This board will work with all expedience to review your ideas and consider the formation of a committee as quickly as possible as we feel strongly that time is of the essence in this matter.”  These words were followed by an emphatic pause, obviously directed at me.  Taking this as my cue to leave, I rose quickly and made for the door, my self-confidence flagging.  As my hand reached for the door, the gruff voice of the chairman interrupted my exit.

“Ms. Waters, if this board decides to pursue your idea, I hope that you will consider being on the committee.” 

I turned to find the bushy eyebrows of the chairman raised at me once again, but this time the eyes above his reading glasses regarded me with…approval? 

“Of course,” I replied and turned to leave, a small smile on my lips.  Untrimmed eyebrows and gruffness aside, I could tell we would get along just fine.

Driving

This is the second piece that I wrote many years ago.  In fact, if I remember correctly, the original version of this was written when I was in high school.  

he gentle bumping of the car as it hit seams in the bridge had the effect of lulling me into a sleepy trance.  I lay reclined, quietly, in the passenger’s seat, feeling the heat of the sun across my lap and right forearm.  There was a slight whirring noise that came from the fan, and I could feel the almost-too-cold air of the air conditioner blowing into my face.

            One final big bump and I knew we had left the bridge.  Now the tires played a new tune on the asphalt highway, and I relaxed as I listened to the dull humming song of the road.

            My legs felt uncomfortably sticky on the vinyl material of the seat.  Trying to get more comfortable, I barely lifted each leg to break the sticky seal the seat had taken.  The noise and sensation of it reminded me of removing a band-aid that had been stuck too long.

            I heard no noise from the driver except an occasional shift in his seat, and the radio was so quiet as to be barely heard.  A note or two would reach my ears, but never enough to help me identify a song; just separate notes here and there wafting over me, not trying to compete with the incessant hum of the road.

            The car rounded a corner causing my body to lean limply to the side, and finally the mixture of sounds lulled me to sleep.

Shadows

I'm feeling like adding a couple more pieces that were written many years ago that I particularly enjoy before beginning on new material.  This piece I wrote with thoughts of my grandmother who passed away from cancer when I was twelve.

he hospital room is dark but for a thin slice of brightness that creeps under the door from the outside hallway.  A woman in her mid 40s sits slouched, sleeping in a chair next to the hospital bed, her magazine momentarily forgotten as it rests open on her lap.   

            In the bed lays a shadow.  The shadow is a woman, but this woman hardly leaves a dent in the mattress or gives away the outline of a body in the sheet that covers her.  Her head is wrapped in a turban.  Her face beneath the turban is creased and thin.  Her breathing is shallow, rattling in her chest.

            The door opens letting the thin slice of brightness spread across the floor, and small hospital sounds are allowed in the shrouded room as the nurse enters.

            “Mrs. Webb, it’s time for your medication.”  The nurse leans far over the shadow in the bed, speaking loudly into its ear.  The woman in the chair rouses and stands to look down at her mother.

            “Mom, wake up.”

            The nurse leaves the sick woman’s bedside to cross the room to the window, which is heavily covered by the plain hospital curtain.  She pushes the curtain back, setting loose a stream of sunlight across the room and the bed, sending the shadows fleeing for the corners.  The only exception is the shadow in the bed which still lies motionless, the creases in her face seeming to recede deeper as the sunlight touches them.

Trout Fishing

Okay, it's kind of cheating, but I'm posting a piece I wrote some years ago.  This was for an assignment on using description.  I really like the imagery it gives so I'm posting it here in the hopes that it will inspire new writing.  Plus it reminds me of fishing with my Dad and I've found my best writing is related to what I know.

t was still dark when Dad woke my younger brother and me.  Sleep clung to the back of my eyes like fly paper as I slowly got out of bed.  Trout season had begun. 

The lake was nestled cozily between hills of Douglas fir and hemlock.  The sun was just beginning to color the clouds pink that lay low over the bristles of trees on the ridgeline.  My brother and I stepped out of the warmth of the truck into the cool, early-morning air.  We helped Dad carry the army green raft down to the water’s edge.  The musty scent of the old rubber drifted up to my nose and reminded me of other fishing trips. 

My brother and I tucked neatly into one end of the raft, Dad climbed in and shoved off from shore.  I could feel the coldness of the water through the thin raft bottom, but I felt snug and secure in my bright orange life jacket.  On the other end, Dad rowed steadily.  Up ahead a stand of snags emerged from the water.  Dad knew there would be others hiding just below the surface waiting to rake the bottom of the raft.  He pulled heavily on one oar to steer around the marauders. 

The sky was turning a beautiful shade of rosy-orange as the sun began its slow ascent.  Robins, warblers and chickadees twittered melodiously from the trees on the shore that slid past.  Some flew like Kamikazes over the surface of the water to snatch a bug breakfast.  Every now and then, a fish would burst out of the water to catch a hovering insect.  

Far out into the lake, Dad opened a dirty Styrofoam tub of night crawlers.  He pulled one slimy worm out, pinched off the right length and threaded the wiggling mass onto a hook.  This routine repeated once more, my brother and I both dropped our hooks into the unbroken surface of the lake.  Dad passed each of us a small thermos cup of hot chocolate.  The smell of the hot chocolate mingled with the musty raft smell and tickled my nose.  I brought the steaming cup to my mouth and the taste of hot, watered-down chocolate burned the tip of my tongue.  In the other hand, I felt the gentle tug-tug-tug of the fishing pole as the spinner flashed brightly in the water while we trolled around the lake.

The rhythm of the raft as it rocked to each oar stroke soon made me sleepy, but a sudden and violent tug on my fishing pole quickly pulled me awake.  The end of the pole dipped down low to the surface of the water.  As I reeled my line in, the fish on the other end fought to get away, but Dad scooped it up in our net.  The silver scales of the rainbow trout flashed in the early morning sun.  I traced the stripe of color along the length of the fish and felt its smooth, wet skin. 

I smiled in anticipation as I imagined the tasty dinner it would make that night breaded in cornmeal and fried to a crispy, golden brown. 

The Journey Begins...

riting has always been something for me.  I know that sounds like an unfinished thought.  I wanted the end of that sentence to read "...something I enjoy" but that's just not quite true.  The fact is, writing is hard.  Writing is work.  Writing is elusive.  Writing is frustrating.  But having written is oh so satisfying.  And this is the rub, so to speak.  While I enjoy the look of my words on a page, the satisfaction of seeing my thoughts and ideas incarnate, the real act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) is a struggle.  The title of this blog comes from Lord Byron's quote:

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think."


That, for me, is the romanticism of writing; that as writers we can spur thought.  Granted, few people have read my writing, and I don't expect that this blog will lead to many more readers. But even revisiting my own words and reflecting on them has led to new avenues of thought for myself.  Through this blog I hope to not only explore my ideas through writing, but I hope to provoke thought for myself and others who may stumble upon this page.  Perhaps through thought I can push myself to new limits in my writing and hopefully discover that the journey is at least as satisfying as the destination.