Write about Chicago.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments section.
And if you post, make sure to give some other Practitioners some feedback.
This prompt is somewhat selfish, since I’m actually going to Chicago tomorrow, along with a few other Write Practice readers, for the AWP Conference. If you’re going to be there, let me know. I’d love to meet you in person.
Anyway, here’s my practice:
Tomorrow, I will fly to Chicago. I will get off the plane and get on to a subway train and clack clackle into the city—all things go—listening to Sufjan Stevens—all things know.
But just now, the birds cackle out my window sounding like a dozen angry infants, and I wonder if it would not be just as good to stay, to listen to birds all day, and forgo travels and tribulations. Cackle cackle.
Several months ago, I rode a racing bike through the streets of Chicago. The redbrick buildings flew past and a thousand pizza joints and lager bars flashed their neon signs in welcome. I breathed in the crisp city air so deep I think it stuck there, in my lungs, and am only today breathing it out again. Yes, there goes that Chicago breath gone. And now my lungs pang empty, wanting for it again. I guess I’ll go.
My thought is this. I’ll take the high streets. You take the low. We’ll canvas the neighborhoods and business districts with flyers proclaiming ourselves, and wait for the parade to start at four o’clock, when all of Chicago will burst out of their homes and crowd around us and lift us onto their shoulders as the princes, if only for a day, of the city that sleeps only when the wind ceases to blow. Yes, for a day, we will have the city for ourselves.
And then home, to soft beds, with Chicago still lodged in our lungs.