Have you run out of ideas to write about? You might be ravaging magazines, reading books and articles, beating yourself up in the pursuit of inspiration. How do you finally decide on a topic?
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It’s interesting to note that past and over-explored themes keep coming up in new writing, like: world wars, civil wars, racial discrimination, idealized love affairs, and romanticized train journeys etc. etc.
Idealizing the Past
All the mentioned topics are interesting and it seems they have a bigger appeal because they happened in the past, a time marked in literature, history, film. Yet, only because those times seem far away and something not personally witnessed it doesn’t mean the present should be annulled.
You own the present, and living it should consequentially shape up majority of the stories you write. What seems boring to you now may sound intriguing to the future generations.
Marking the Zeitgeist
The Zeitgeist (spirit of the age or spirit of the time) is the intellectual fashion or dominant school of thought which typifies and influences the culture of a particular period in time.
Defined as such, it almost reads as a responsibility of the writer (or any artist, for that matter) to portray the culture of his/her age.
There’s so much to be captured anyhow: high technology, globalisation, the boom of new media, modern politics, international relations, global warming, mobbing, modern social problems and so on. Add the universal themes (loss, love, fear, death) to your unique personal experiences and personality/talent to the previous and the result is—capturing the Zeitgeist.
That’s all there is to it really: present reality portrayed by a personal point of view, through unique lenses, and fictionalized as wished.
As publishing (self-publishing that is) booms rapidly, if many do capture the Zeitgeist, perhaps our time will be known as a special movement. Information Age maybe? I guess it’s time to hurry up and provide up-to-date writing to justify the name.
Are you writing about the present? What are your thoughts on Zeitgeist movements?
PRACTICE
Write for fifteen minutes about a situation that happened to you today. It doesn’t matter if it’s mundane; the only criterion is to be current and portray the present culture. Feel free to fictionalize as many elements as necessary to add flavour to the story. Also, if you post, be sure to comment on a few practices by other readers.
Thanks for introducing me to the concept. It’s new to me although I may have read it in the past and just didn’t understand it back then. 🙂
I tend to be a past-oriented person, so when write fiction for myself, I stick to my Romeo’s and Juliet’s. (Did I write that right? LOL)
This’ll be an interesting practice. Thank you!
You’re welcome Glori; glad you like the concept.
President Obama was walking into church as I was leaving for
work, on this day of his second inauguration.
Michelle was sporting bangs; the President wearing a blue tie; the girls
bright in dresses the color of jewels.
My uncle predicted riots in the streets when Obama was first
elected. Not a citizen, he said. Not a Baptist, for sure. From Chicago, he said, mafia capitol of the
world. My uncle bought two new guns and
loaded up on ammunition and said he’d protect his home should the gangs break
free and head to the hills where he lives in a doublewide with a creaky old dog
named Eastwood. And I thought, It will take a lot to get the folks off Facebook
and into the streets, but I didn’t say it.
Radicals like my uncle think we’re one bad speech away from anarchy. Conspiracy, I believe, is the only acceptable
form of hysteria in men, so what can you do?
I am following a truck this morning whose tailgate is the painted
like the Confederate flag. The road winds
down a mountain and into my small town. It is loud with signs, many hand
lettered: $19.99 oil changes; fried chicken and a biscuit, $1.99, Jesus is
Lord, nails are $34.95 a set. There are
church signs as well. Where I live, the
1st Baptists and the 1st Methodists have been overrun by churches with names
like the Blood Bought Tabernacle and New Life and The Club. I try to stay away
from places that don’t say what they are right up front. I’m a Methodist. Or I
was. There was a meeting last night, the pastor announcing we’re giving up our
little church with the pine floors and the stained glass windows. We’re moving
into the city school’s performing art center, where fake Elvis performs every
Valentine’s day, where there’s a sound system and stadium seating, and a
concession area, my god, a concession area.
And We’re not Mt. Olive anymore. We’re Momentum, the same name as the swing
dance studio my friend runs just blocks away.
At work, we’re finishing up the edits on the February
edition of the magazine I work for. Our designer,
buff from karate and running and eating about as much as my 92-pound Aunt Edna
does on a good day at Broadfoot Nursing Home, is munching on a Grapel, which
explains to me is a Granny Smith injected with grape concentrate and sold in packs
of four. That one pack costs more than I spent on dinner.
As for me, I’m drinking Granny Smith hard cider from a jelly
jar. That’s enough for now on the differences between our diligent designer and
me.
We are discussing Martin Luther King today. Who dreams like that anymore, we ask, and we all shake our heads, not knowing what to say. One of the
libraries here sent out a notice that they’d be closed for MLK Day/Robert E.
Lee Day, so the topic is noteworthy.
The world sways back and forth. Facebook grows fat on
comments about the end of days. The hard
cider helps, though not as much as I’d like, so I go back to the magazine’s
poem page where the rhythm of the words swell on the page, deep with meaning,
fraught with pathos.
Fantastic Marla – you have evoked the flavour of the day beautifully.
Thank you.
do those apples really exist. are you a momentumist now? So many questions, so many wry smiles, so many changes.
Good practice Marla
Suzie, I’ve not committed yet to the Momentum movement! Guess I’ll go a few times and see. And yes, the Grapel is real, sold at Walmart.
Your writing contains a clairvoyance I admire
Thank you.
Great practice Marla. I like how you’ve included different parts in it as well, and the uncle sounds hilarious.
Thank you!
Zeitgeist practice:
Retired or not, I’m still a Covey devotee and begin every day by pulling out my schedule prepared in advance to maximize my time. The schedule is on a Nexus 7 tablet now, along with icons I haven’t begun to decipher. I see nothing out of the ordinary for the morning, at least. Litter box, load of laundry, then plug in the assigned DVD for the daily exercise program. This program is one of the hyper intensive cardio types. Forty-five minutes a day, no equipment or gym membership needed. Just me and the DVD and the sweaty guy yelling, “You can do this!” Guaranteed to build muscle and lose weight. Husband and cat find something outside to do.
As I power jump I think of my younger brother who called to say he too is retiring this year. The financial penalty of delaying another year or two outweighs the benefit to continuing work for him, and he’s a practical man. He has always worked hard with amazing energy and creativity. Now, though, he doesn’t know what he will do with his time. There’s nothing he can think of, really. Really ?
(Touch the floor – leap up to the right, touch the floor, leap back, touch the floor leap up to the left, touch the floor…) His quandary is a totally alien concept for me. I who have put writing aside so many times over the years, thrown rough drafts and ideas onto paper, then floppy discs, then thumb drives and left them there like so many orphans waiting their turn for attention. I have never experienced not longing to do writing, gardening, making bread, making music. What must such emptiness feel like? I who must have a schedule so I won’t neglect other important things do not understand. I can’t wait to get to the work each day, more than what I can complete in a lifetime. I pity him, pray for him as I touch the floor, leap up and jump forward. Pray he’ll find his way.
Beautiful writing. I love your description of exercise. The ending is wonderful.
This is great! Although I am a little worried that you are describing my life!
Good descriptions, had to look up Covey – we don’t do that in IRL. Like the energy!
This is such a fun read. Painful but enduring. The last two lines tie things up neatly. I am glad to have read this, not a moment wasted.
I enjoyed the speed at which I could read your writing. It was easy to read and understand. You captured well the tension between you having too many ideas to pursue versus your brother who seems to be floundering and in need of some. I was left wondering if you’d finished any of your pieces and had them published? Perhaps your brother could become an editor? 😉
Thank you so much to each of you who read and commented on this. I’m new to this group and look forward to working together on craft. Yes, one little orphan story has made it’s way through and was published at Beneath Ceaseless Skies. Many siblings remain in the womb, metaphorically speaking. 🙂
Loved the exercise and thinking combination bit – it does capture how we do things nowadays. Zeitgeist for sure.
Dammit, why did I open the door to the Mormons? I usually keep my house locked up and hide behind the privacy curtains. But I thought it was the cupcake lady and I really wanted my Red Velvet Delights! So, without glaring through the peephole (that makes everyone look like those fish eye dog posters), I threw open the door holding a twenty dollar bill. Bad idea.
It’s not that I hate Mormons. The thing is, I already know about the religion. I watched that episode of South Park. I read about them on Wikipedia. So believe me when I say, I know ALL about the Mormons. Anyway, I just wanted to sit alone and eat my cupcakes.
I guess I could have turned them away. I could have said “No thanks, I’m already full on Jesus.” But I’m terrified of confrontation. It’s the part of me that I hate the most. Some of it comes from my father, handed down on a frilly genetic plate. But the rest came from out there (I’m waving my hand out the window right now). Thieves sue the people they rob. Murderers sue the people they kill. Who’s to say these Mormons won’t file a lawsuit if I slam the door in their faces? Maybe the sound of the door or the feelings of neglect would cause emotional trauma. No, I couldn’t risk it.
Once they were inside, I admit I didn’t listen to a word of the Mormon Bible (they prefer to be call Later Date Saints, or The LDS). Instead, I was busy imagining escape scenarios. I thought about standing up, running into the back yard, leaping my vegan garden, and climbing the fence. But what would they do if left to their own devices in MY house? It’s nothing against the Mormons. If someone did that to me, I’d probably steal the 50-inch TV they bought to pacify the children. Besides, what kind of lawsuit would they file if someone got injured?
I thought about faking a seizure but wasn’t sure I’d be comfortable getting mouth to mouth from a stranger. Although the shorter one was kind of cute. He was like a Justin Beiber without the long-in-the-crotch pants.
Then it hit me! The perfect excuse! I sat there and kicked myself (which was difficult). All I had to do was tell them that I was already Mormon. Then I could have encouraged them to spread the word to those who needed it. Not me, no sir!
I thought about saying it right then and there but I already told them I was Catholic. I could have said I misunderstood the question (“Oh! I thought you asked what difficult religion I knew how to spell!”).
In the end, I signed up to be a Mormon. They left full of smiles and gratitude so I guess it felt kind of nice. But what am I supposed to wear to a Mormon Mass? Or is it a service? Or a session? I’d better go Google it before I embarrass myself.
This was a fun read. It really captures the spirit of today.
We are sooooo nice aren’t we! love the escape scenarios.
I am CRACKING up! Maybe because I grew up in Utah and am ohhhh so familiar with that door knock. I also loved the little thoughts in parenthesizes… funny funny stuff!
Cute and yet a nice little pic of what we do to be diplomatic without facing our own truth. Whatever that is. I’ve listened to Mormons and am a late to the table Catholic.
So funny. Cute picture of inner monologue in an uncomfortable situation.
I awoke around 9, the envy of other young mothers. Joe and I “share” the children as if they are pieces of the past now divided amidst furniture, the 401k, mysterious card board boxes fought over and claimed during our divorce. Things went better than they could have, after all we were uncontested.
They will be here by Tuesday dinner or there will be war. The will come bearing the items they would have chosen to grab had they been caught in a house fire. Not surprisingly, those beloved items they have tended to all their lives. The five year old tucks her sock doll, now patched beyond recognition, within her coat vest. The middle child a girl doll held by the fat wrist, dangling behind her, and the oldest a new fantasy book, perhaps a small gift for me.
These things have become so dear in the lives of our children that as father and mother we text furiously about their whereabouts and curse one another when a child is sent off without them. They have become the glue that now binds us. Without them the children have become a tribe of wandering nomads, uphill and against the wind. Like the skin horse they tell my children’s simple stories, of having been loved raw and left to age on their own.
Great practice Li! I have a friend that texts with her husband all day at work (well, every spare minute) about those exact same kinds of things, the children’s toys, reminders to take out the chicken or call the doctor. Very current and true to life.
This is wonderful. The part about texting says so much about the exes, about their fury and shared love for the children.
I like your writing style, it has a poetic flow to it. Keep up the enchanting style.
Very poetic indeed. Great practice Li.
I like the things everyone else mentioned and also the fact that you kept it short and sweet
A hundred years ago, well not that long but long enough ago, Alice got caught, Alice’s parents and Fred’s parents decided there would be a wedding. no one asked Alice.
The Mass was beautiful ,everyone said, no one said anything about shotguns but Alice felt one the next morning.
She woke next to her new husband who turned to her, lifted himself up on one elbow and drew back the other arm. Alice went to her mother. She said “You’ve made your bed lie in it”
Alice lay in that bed, each bruise hardened her heart that little bit more. Five babies were consummated in that lie of a bed. Each day Alice tended to her family and squirrelled cash into her own account.
A few years later she bought her father’s bar and made it profitable. She continued to make money and she continued to hide it. She survived the hidings, Her eldest boy hit her when he was sixteen.
She kicked son and father out on the same night. They left by the back door and went into the bar at the front. Alice served them drink as if it was any other night, the consummate actress.
Making money consumed her. She had stocks and shares in the Bank of Ireland. They shared her money around different financial products. It was safe and it produced interest.
In September 2008 she lost everything. The shares were worth nothing, the stock worth zero, the bar lost its license because Fred and his buddies would never leave and the new Garda Sergeant would not bend rules. Her children, her pearls in the mud were used to the material life went to live with their daddy.
Her cup that had runneth over with money was dry.
Alice moved into a bedsit, slugs slid up the damp walls, as condensation dripped down. For six months she stared at the rotting wallpaper, her bitter and twisted heart had shattered like the Snow Queen’s.
She blamed her husband, she blamed her mother, she blamed her children and the banks, she blamed everyone else. She sulked like a little child in a play pen. Her robust frame became smaller on the diet of vodka and it so she started taking in her clothes, again and again.
And she wrote, she wrote endless novels and sent them off to publishers who didn’t bother to reply. The more she wrote the more she became sober, the more she thought clearly, the more she wished she had been born today.
Women are no longer fallen, or up the duff or the junction. Marriage is an option not written in stone. Men get put away for beating up their wives and mothers, well they know better now. The more she wrote the better she got.
She had written at first to get published to make money, but as the years rolled by she realised that money isn’t everything and enrolled on a creative writing course.
She still isn’t very good at it but made some really good friends, she is off to meet one of them now for coffee. As she puts away her laptop she thinks of her daughter, 39 weeks gone, refusing to live with her boyfriend, refusing to marry, a strong robust red headed woman. “I made that” she said
Wow. Thank you, current and poignant.
I so didn’t do as I was told in the prompt. Guess that is zeitgeist in itself. I used to do as I was told!
Uninterestingly enough we had a snow day. and I cleaned the front room come kitchen come living room come office come dining room i.e. one room. I used powdered flash just like my mum and beeswax polish just like my granny not quite so “now”
I want a snow day…
Tomorrow will be snow day number three, my house has never been so clean, now to think of a word for wednesday!
I still love it. You always make me emotional with your writing.
Very well told. I like the matter of fact tone. It fits with the hard life Alice has lived.
Brilliant. I love the line about “that lie of a bed.” I love how writing saves this woman and how her sees hope in her daughter.
Suzie, you always grab me with your writing. I instantly care about your characters and there is such urgency in your writing.
very, very, unfortunately Alice exists.
My practice (and a taste of my day):
Julie walked into the clinic, glad to leave the icy chill of the January wind behind her. Absently, she went to the reception desk and took a number. 41 it read. Suddenly a voice caught her attention and Julie zeroed on the nurse who had just uttered the word “ignorant.”
“Well, I think you’re ignorant,” replied a blond, woman who was sitting off to the
side of the waiting area, away from all the other patients. Julie saw the faces
of everyone on the woman who was speaking. Everyone looked tired and bored and Julie felt the thickness of the hositilty and impatience in the air.
The nurse was now defending herself, saying something about how it was ignorant to be rude when she’d only been trying to explain why there had been such a long wait time. Julie then stood from where she had taken a seat and leaned forward to look around the blond woman who was sitting by herself to see what number they were currently serving. 18. The surprise must have registered on her face because the woman who’d been arguing with the nurse spoke up.
“I’ve been waiting two hours,” she said with a pointed look, “so if you have some
place you need to be later, you might want to go somewhere else.”
Julie nodded in acceptance of the comment and took out her iPhone. She did not want to get involved with this woman who had been rude enough that the nurse had lost her temper enough to call the woman ignorant. Julie worked with the public herself, and she knew that people could be inconsiderate and rude about things they had no understanding of, she’d experienced it herself. So she simply her took her seat without a word and proceeded to check her emails. Delete. Delete. Delete. Now what?
“Yeah, two hours waiting here and she calls you ignorant,” a man said suddenly leaning towards the blond woman. “So you’re ignorant for telling the truth.”
Julie glanced up between them, wondering what was going on in this lab today. Usually the place was fairly empty and the nurses were quick to call you to the back for your blood work. So what was going on today that there was enough hostile energy in the room to make her feel tense? And for two people to be at the end of patience’s rope?
“Yeah, I’m ignorant when it’s clear they don’t know what they’re doing back there. It shouldn’t take two hours to do a simple procedure, but I’m ignorant,” the blond
rejoined in dry agreement. The man stood up, muttering something about needing
a smoke and the woman replied that she’d call him in if they actually called
his number.
Julie looked up at the woman, not wanting to get involved in the situation, but not
wanting to sit for the rest of the afternoon waiting to get her blood taken. “What
number are you?” she asked quietly.
“Twenty-five. They were still at the nineties when I came in two hours ago,” the woman told her. Her expression clearly said, get out
of here and don’t waste your time.
“And you’ve been here two hours?”
Julie asked, still not sure whether she ought stay or leave.
“Yep. But I’m ignorant, in the middle of her apology she calls me ignorant, when she ought be apologizing to the whole room instead of giving me this slap on the wrist apology,” she replied.
“What’s taking so long?” Julie wondered. She had the bad habit of needing to know when situations struck her as ridiculous. Even though she didn’t really need to know.
“They’re incompetent,” replied the blond.
Wow, thought Julie, deciding, too much negative energy for me. She stood up and swung her purse up onto her shoulder. She didn’t want to sit around for two hours, the blood test wasn’t that
important that it had to be done today. No way was she sitting in here with
people who were moving from impatient and annoyed into angry hostility. She certainly didn’t want to be around when people started shouting at each other. She thanked the woman and walked out.
Excellent description of one of those days when you just wonder why any of us bother. I like how Julie makes her own choice not to stay in the negative atmosphere.
Thanks John. I was glad to get out of there.
Reminds me of many similar personal situations I’ve been – waiting at the bank, in hospitals, at the lab, in shops. I liked the dialogue and how you portrayed the annoyed woman.
Thanks Sophie! Glad you liked it.
Such a great description of how the negative energy can spread. I also like the choice to get out of it. Reminds me of a recent experience at Trader Joes.
I’m glad I was able to convey the feeling of the negativity spreading. It was exactly how it felt like in that room, which was why I decided to get out, because I didn’t like the feeling in there. Thanks Plum!
She listened to John Mayer in his song belief. “Everyone believes their way is the way it ought to be. From emptiness to everything. We’re never going to stop the world, we’re never going to win the war, if belief is what we’re fighting for…”
She struggles between two thoughts of school: Minimalism and Zeal. It depends upon her mood and who she shares space with at a given moment.
On her way to Mass, eyes filling behind sunglasses, she emotionally picks out shards of glass from broken skin….wounds from a friend.
Leaping from one crisis to the next, she contemplates the bridges successfully crossed, and future crosses to carry. How long, Lord?
Her young son in mind, she thumbs a Rosary and prays for hope.
She concludes that she has no choice but to do the minimal. That is to practice zeal. To appeal to her God. To trust in His mercy.
Effective communication in few words. Great job.
Thank you very much for reading, Karoline.
I agree with Karoline. So few words used, so much expressed — with the immediacy of thought and the depth of emotion of one who suffers but chooses to trust zealously. The “shards of glass from broken skin… wounds from a friend” is powerful, masterful. Good work.
How exciting, this compliment! Thank you. I didn’t expect it.
Powerful practice Susan.
Gosh, Thank you, Sophie.
I got into Dad’s beat up blue Ranger truck that is older than I am with my purse sitting in my lap. He got into the seat beside me wearing one of his baseball caps and turned on the engine.
It sputtered.
Ol’ blue’s roaring days were long gone. Every time he changed gears the truck lurched back a little bit, but after a while driving was smooth and steady. I didn’t look into the mirror to see how my hair was. I knew it was a ponytail disaster without confirmation. Instead I admired the winter afternoon. It was warm enough to be strange but that’s normal in the southern states.
I rummaged through my purse to find my library card and smiled. I had been wanting to read “The Book Thief” for months now, and I was itching to get my hands on it. It was a short drive to the small, community library but lo and behold, the parking lot was empty, and I suddenly realized, “It’s Martin Luther King day.” Of course I forgot. That’s what I get for being unpatriotic.
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This made me laugh, because I used to drive an old truck about like the one described, but also because it reminded me of the Christmases — yes, there have been more than one — when I rolled up to my favorite cafe, shocked that the parking lot was empty, the building locked up tight. That’s what I got for not bein’ in the spirit!
We had an station wagon, back in the day we called Ole’ Blue. I hate it when bookstores and libraries are closed. Hey, at least we are a nation in relative peace. There was little tumult going on. I think Martin Luther King would have liked it that way.
Oh no, a closed library. Good practice though.
I also used to drive Dad’s old blue pick-up truck. There’s such a disconnect when something like this happens. I hope you get your book today!
Nothing worse than finding the library closed!
Excellent post. This is an intriguing idea and a great way to encourage finding inspiration in the immediate and the everyday.
However, might framing this as “writing for the zeitgeist” put writers
under too much pressure to capture some kind of profound meaning or
spirit in their everyday observations, rather than just telling the story for the story’s sake? Just a thought.
Thanks for pointing this out Kate. I had the same questions in my mind. After some deliberation, I do think that the profound meaning is in the mundane itself. I’m sure what Bukowski wrote for example didn’t seem to him to have a deeper meaning at the time, yet people found it refreshing for speaking directly about the conditions and times he lived in. Just my thoughts anyway – trying to avoid the pressure. 🙂
I do agree with you, Sophie. The mundane has profound meaning in all kinds of ways. The trick is, I think, is to forget that while you’re writing or at least not strive too hard to make it obvious and let it come out in the story as something for readers to find there themselves. Thanks for replying – this post has had me thinking all day! 🙂
As he and his fellow members filed out of the room at the end of the meeting, he reflected on his unfulfilled pledge for this year. These past months have just been unbelievable, the reverses, the hike in rent, his resumption of the smoking habit; feeling guilty, feeling anxious . . .
A hand on his arm. “How are you doing?” It’s one of his friends here, an older lady, she’s on the chaplaincy team, and never fails to ask how things are going in these past rocky months. “Uh, okay.” As he looks at her, her eyes film with what could be tears. “Well you remember that I’m thinking about you. We have got to go through these hard times TOGETHER.” He thanks her, a warmth filling his chest as he wills his face not to crumple into that of a crying child.
An hour or two later his phone rings. It’s the same lady. “Do you need food?”
“Well, uh . . . ”
You meet me tomorrow at the center where we went to that meeting a year ago. You remember?”
Yes . . . ”
“You meet me there at 1:15 tomorrow, I have some food I don’t need, I’ve been going through my cupboards . . .”
Next day as he drives, he listens to coverage of the Inauguration on public radio. The President speaks of inclusion, as if with a capital I. It’s hard not to entertain a certain cynicism as he listens, but he’s with the man in principle. He’s on a narrow connecting street. He rounds a blind curve heading uphill, and there on the right side of the road is a young-looking African-American man preparing to cross the street. He slows the car to a crawl, expecting the man to walk out in front of the car. It happens so often; you really have to be on guard. Surprisingly, the man stops and watches him as he rolls closer. It’s clear the man’s going to wait for him to go by. He’s almost amazed. He raises his right hand in a friendly wave. The man grins and waves in return.
It’s Martin Luther King Day. And Inauguration Day. And the survival of hope.
Very current – good job John.
I knew she wanted to go to the mall. But not so sure she wanted to go with me. We’ve been on eggshells since she entered the teen years last fall and became wise to the world thanks to the gritty, snarky posts of bewildered high school kids on Instagram. I watched her as she entered my room with an air of frustration, averting my tired gaze as she checked her text messages and then looked up at the ceiling as if someone else would hand us our day’s agenda.
But I was already into my day– all set to watch the pomp and circumstance of the swearing-in of the 44th President of the United States of America.
“I know you want to go to the mall. Please let me take you. We never go shopping together anymore. Let me eat my breakfast in peace and finish watching this and as soon as it’s over, I’ll get in the shower and we’ll go.” I said to her.
“But, mom, I need to get a special outfit as I’m the co-host of the party.” she responded and then left the room as I reminded her to please not keep her iphone in her back pocket, my voice trailed off realizing she didn’t care about any possible radiation or microwaves from cell phones– nevermind what Dr. Sanjay Gupta said on CNN one time.
I looked back up toward the TV screen in time to see Dr. Jill Biden standing alone in the Carriage House archway, wondering how she would be introduced. And there was former President Jimmy Carter and his delicate wife Rosalyn Carter– both introduced.
It seemed to me that our politicians were all getting a bit older, slower, more fragile. Briefly studying the faces of Boehner and Gingrich it occurred to me that they looked lost, as if for the first time in their lives they really didn’t know what the future held.
Then after taking a few bites of my eggs and english muffin, swishing it down with alternating Earl Grey tea and Simply Orange juice, I watched as the First Family’s adorable daughters were carefully shepherded in by a higher up, along with their always stern-faced (probably overbearing?) grandmother.
The full golden bun of glorious hair pinned up on the back of Michele Obama’s (I assume) sister-in-law made me jealous and long for my own locks to return.
I cried as the poet recited his beautiful poem, especially when he spoke of his mother the cashier who worked at her job to provide books for him and his brother to read and enjoy.
And then the President was sworn in… with only a slight tremor as the cold air seemed to take his breath away when he said: “…of these United Stat….es.” But he got it out. No need for a re-do like in 2008, thankfully.
I studied his face, too, and wondered for a fleeting moment– at some point– if he actually thought the Tabernacle Choir was singing about him and not to him or for him when they sang The Battle Hymn of The Republic. Surely not. I shrugged off my hyper-critical thought as I took a few more bites of the plump Jimmy Dean sausage, cognizant of the clock on the nightstand next to me.
What I did see in his face, decidely, was a “fake it til you make it” brashness or boldness to get his agenda done in this term. He spoke with determination to deal with Climate Change head on. And he cradled the Entitlement programs in a way that made them seem like seed money or start up capital for the middle class.
He was determined…. bordering on arrogance.
But the songs were sung and the crowd dispersed and I knew I’d need to put down my iPad and get in the shower… just one more Tweet if the internet connection didn’t fade out on me. One more email to respond or delete.
Finally, I dragged myself away from the pull of social media and planted my feet firmly on the steam shower floor, dreading to wash my hair (knowing that it would take a good 30 minutes to dry it out and put in the sponge rollers to make the frizzies be smooth in Houston’s humid winter weather. Climate change, yes.
We drove quickly to the mall, listening to that song that comes on every hour: what are the lyrics? The tune is so catchy, a bit of rap. “I’m gonna buy some (cigs)? I’m gonna buy some clothes…” The drum beats steady and the guys sing in unison a chorus and then the horn makes it sound like a retro song from some bygone era. I hoped my daughter and her friend didn’t understand the lyrics as some of them sounded very bad.
We quickly headed toward our first store and I vowed to myself that I would not be so vigilante. I didn’t let them know that I worried about terrorists, bombs, mass murderers, kidnappers, and all sorts of terrible scenarios. Watching 24/7 news cycles comes with frazzled nerves and hypervigilant attitudes.
No, instead, I let them walk ahead and have some freedom. Albeit it was an uncomfortable situation for me– eyes glued in their general direction until they safely returned by my side.
We ended the day with an 8-count of nuggets and plenty of fun conversation about pics stored on their phones, people they recognized from school (who were also hanging out at the mall), and making strategic plans for our next shopping trip.
She found her outfit (with only a little bit of help from me) and I’m okay that she is foregoing her acquaintances Bat Mitvah to instead co-host her BFF’s birthday party.
As if I’d never be able to comprehend such a challenging assigment.
You really captured the zeitgeist Tara. Great job. I liked the combination of current politics, social media frenzy and the universal teenage attitudes.
Hi Sophia, Thank you for the feedback.:) And thank you so much for taking the time to read it.
This is my first time using the egg-timer. As soon as I pressed the egg timer button, it seemed the seconds were ticking away faster than time itself. So I wrote it directly on the site instead of into a Word program. I’m not sure how others here do this task.
It was very fun. I think I probably wrote for 25 minutes instead of 15. Next time, I will stick to 15 min.
I find myself wanting to see a redlined edited version so I will know what I did wrong– did I use a passive voice? Too many adverbs, etc. I suppose I can edit it myself using the advice from Joe’s book and what I’m learning from “On Writing Well.”
I think you did great with writing this directly on the site. I liked the stream of consciousness feel to it. I usually cut and paste from a Word program, but the spacing comes out strange. I know we’re not supposed to worry about the “passive voice and adverbs” in this practice, but I also find it difficult to turn off the editor brain.
Thank you, Plum. I appreciate you for reading it ( as it was long). I tried to put in paragraphs, but they disappeared upon hitting the post button.
It’s interesting, if not a bit disconcerting :), that you noted the “stream of consciousness feel” to my writing. I once had a boss– years ago– mention the same thing after I shared my feelings about a bad day I’d had at work.
I think my biggest obstacle/ tendency is to want to say everything.
What I’m hearing is that I need to get better at summarization.
Thank you so much for your supportive and constructive comments. 🙂
Kind regards,
Tara
Personally I love the stream of consciousness. It often reveals something we didn’t know we were trying to say. And it leaves us with a lot of material to pick and choose from. Always better to have more than less. I had to get used to the idea that we are posting a “practice” here and not a “finished product.” Hope to see more of your posts!
Hi Tara, I’m glad you’re actively participating here. Most of the readers write for longer than 15 minutes, I would think, so don’t worry about that. The idea is to get yourself going, and then the longer the better. As for the technicalities, I didn’t notice anything big to be honest: use of adverbs – good, and generally the practice read well. Try to focus on the creating part, and the editing can always follow later on.
Hi Sophia,
Thanks for your reply. I assumed that 15 minutes was the maximum time allowed. How funny. Thanks for clearing that up.
I wonder how much time most people spend on theirs? ( to answer my own question, I suppose it would vary based on personal schedules, amount one wanted to share/write, and one’s interest in the given topic.)
Dr. Pascal holds the plastic spine in his hand again, and slides closer to us on his rolling stool. He points a slender finger in the crevices as he talks.
“A second option is the laminechtomy. What we do is go in and remove the bone here,here and here. That reduces the stenonis that is causing the pain. But with
degenerative arthritis, the stenosis will eventually return after 3-4
years. “
“If I only knew how many years I’ll need, ” says my white-haired mother who already bears the scars of abdominal and skin cancer surgery. She is trying to make a joke, but he only nods thoughtfully.
I try to guess how old this doctor is in his almost too fitted suit. Is it Italian? I am sure he can’t be more than 29.
“Do you mind if I ask how long you’ve been doing this?” my mother asks.
“Four years,” He answers.
I notice that he actually looks at her when he is talking. Most doctors and nurses assume that my mother is confused when I enter the room. Even when I explain I am only here to make sure she can hear everything, they continue to talk at me. He is different, and this will be our un-doing.
“You seem like the perfect age. Just enough experience, but young enough to
have steady hands,” says my mother.
“Wait, I’m sorry. If you remove the bone, what holds her up?” I ask.
“Yes, you’re thinking along the correct line. At your mother’s age, the
arthritis is quite advanced, so she would likely be de-stabilized with this
option. The best option would be the Lumbar Fusion, where we then insert screws here, here, and here to fuse the bones together. This is also the most
invasive, and it’s a five hour surgery.”
My Mom has been on this Earth for 31,829 days. I know this because I looked it up online at Robert D. Smith’s “20,000 Days and Counting” calculator. It seemed a fun thing to do at the time, but now I wonder if can she really spare 5 hours?
When Dr. Pascal leaves the room to consult with the other doctor, my Mom turns to me.
“He seems so nice. Where are they all from here? “
“He seems to be from America, Mom. I didn’t hear an accent, did you?”
“He looks Indian, don’t you think?”
“Mom, are you seriously considering this? I thought you were going to ask for more physical therapy and a refill on the pain meds. “
“Well it doesn’t hurt to hear the options. If there’s a chance I could ride my bike again, and do more. I just feel so lazy.”
My Mom has no qualms about riding an adult sized 3-wheeled bike around the neighborhood. She loves to fly down the street and feel wisps of youth and freedom.
“I know, but there’s no guarantee. He’s a surgeon, so that’s the only option he’s going to offer you.”
I am annoyed that her non-surgical doctor hooked the surgeon out of the hallway so quickly, to start talking surgery.
“We’ve already tried physical therapy and those shots in the spine did nothing,” she says.
“I know, but you walked in here dead set against surgery. I know you. If
you start to consider it as an option, you’ll make a quick decision or leave it
in the hands of fate.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like that time when your appointment got cancelled, and then you decided it was a sign that you shouldn’t have the cataract surgery, and that was that.
You never rescheduled.”
“What does that have to do with . . . ”
“And the skin cancer. You decided to have that done within a week,
without really researching the recovery or what would happen to your nose. You said if they cleared you for surgery, you must be meant to have it done.”
“Well, I don’t think I make decisions like that! I just don’t want to become any more of a burden to you than I already am.”
“Mom, you’re not a burden.”
“Well I don’t want to make things harder on you and make it so you have to do more for me. I never wanted to bring all of this on you.”
I want to tell her that I’m not worried about my own inconvenience, that I’m worried she will die on the table, or never walk again. I want to tell her that it breaks my heart to see her in pain. But the door opens and Dr. Pascal re-enters the room, and I tell myself this is why I didn’t say these things.
He hands her the prescription for a CT scan and x-rays, and tells her to make another appointment once this is done. He uses his “smart board” to
show us how to access his website to see vivid details and videos of each
surgery.
We thank him and shake his hand again. My Mom is right, his hand is
steady. But as we walk down the hallway, I know that we are at the top of a slide and my 86 year old Mother is about to push us both down. It will be a slick
fast ride, and she’ll try to grip at the shiny edges once we’ve started, but it
will be too late. We’ll crash at the bottom and limp away with whatever parts are left to piece together.
Hi Plum,
I liked your use of dialogue to tell your story. I found myself relating to both characters– you and your mom. It is very obvious how much you love and care for her. I hope the surgery goes well and she’s able to ride her three-wheel bike again soon!
Thanks Tara, I hope so too!
Every time I have been a in a medical situation I find myself completely bewildered at the medical jargon and stop trying to make sense of what I’m hearing and just trust the speaker of the impressive-sounding words, your piece communicated to me that helpless sense. I too hope the surgery goes well, and it has made my day knowing that I can keep riding my bike throughout my life like your mum!
Thanks Carmen,
Mom will be happy to know she’s an inspiration!
It wasn’t that I didn’t get the job.
It was the way I found out that really got to me.
I scrolled down a webpage. That as all it took. Bright red
letters welcomed the newest addition to their team, someone who wasn’t me. I
got no email, no phone call, no nothing.
My girlfriend had been in and out of the hospital for a
whole week. Tendinitis, allergic reactions, steroids, blood clots; shit was
crazy. I read all of 1984 in the ER’s
waiting room. Wonderful stuff. Depressing too.
Stress is a funny thing. It seems insurmountable all the
time, but we actually handle it pretty well. If we didn’t the world would be in
chaos. So for all the stress I felt at her illnesses, piled on with the writing
deadlines, and the harassment from the people at my job, I felt I was holding
on. By my fingernails, but still.
Then I read those red words, and everything crashed down
around me.
I marched out of the office, my mind empty. Where was the
sadness? The pity? The anger? A homeless person approached me, “Got a
cigarette?” She asked.
“Fuck off,” I said. There was the anger.
“Okay,” she replied and walked away.
I got in my car and sat there. No one came out of the office
for me. I could drive away, go back home, get drunk and play video games until
my eyes bled. I didn’t.
Eventually, I righted myself. Redirected my emotions and
channeled them into something positive.
Still, you have to wonder about the little big things.
Single words or phrases we see or hear that can punch the air right out of us.
For all we have to deal with, our days are ordered for the most part. We have
our daily tasks, and the things that revolve around them. Throw one wrench in
the gears though, one eyelash, and everything seems to fall apart. We’re
fragile that way.
Very poignant exploration Jack. Love it.
I like the last two sentences the most, but that is because I enjoyed the whole piece.
It IS amazing how we manage to hold it together sometimes. My favorite line is “the little big things.” I had a similar experience where I found out that I didn’t get the job only when I saw a new advertisement for it in the newspaper. This was after I had “volunteered” at the job for 5 hours, at their request, to see if it was a good fit. You tell your story well.
My weekly visit to the counsellor. An aspect of my society
which has become uncomfortably common place and important.
‘So you mentioned you were upset yesterday. Why was that?’
She was a kind woman, but she was tough on me sometimes. Pushed me because she knew I could take it.
At the suggestion I talk about my feelings, I immediately wrung my hands, umm-ed and ahh-ed, crossed and uncrossed my legs in the space of a few seconds.
‘Well, why don’t you start at the beginning of the day? Were you upset when you woke up?’
I sighed. I had settled with my head hung into my hands and tried to speak. I counted them off on my fingers. One two three four.
‘Four things upset me yesterday morning,’ The lady across the room did not reply but looked at me expectantly.
‘I went for a run when I woke. I saw a group of women running – jogging – together. They depressed me. I don’t mean to deprecate them but… well I guess I do. They were wearing ridiculous outfits, faces full of makeup and neatly fixed hair!’ I said, growing angry at the memory.
She did not seem to understand. ‘It reminded of the state of gender relations! It was very depressing,’ I said gloomily.
She nodded and waited for me to go on. ‘So then, I got home, cursing those women for being willing victims and perpetuators of inequality. But then, I realised I was looking in the mirror. Checking my self out, seeing the results of my run. I was being vain, I was being part of that system of inequality! That was the second thing. And then I wondered whether this inequality was inherent in mankind,’
It was coming out with more pace now, I sounded like a kid complaining. Though I suppose that’s what I was. ‘And that was the third thing that upset me – that every single person might have this inbuilt, genetic or biologic inequality,’ She still did not seem to be comprehending.
‘Well, that idea has the potential to undermine every single equality and anti-discrimination movement that has ever existed!’ I spoke emphatically, surprised this last point wasn’t obvious.
‘And what was the fourth thing that upset you?’ She asked patiently.
I gave an unenergetic laugh. ‘Then I took my antidepressant. And remembered the statistics you gave me about how popular it was.’
When I didn’t continue, she pressed on: ‘Why was that upsetting?’
I stared back at her, mildly indignant and insulted. ‘I am not heartless! How could the thought of others, in this case thousands, of people being hurt not upset me!’
I gave a short moan and my head went back to my hands, while the counsellor continued to look on at me puzzled, and I think slightly amused.
I can really picture this scene, and follow the thought process. I like how you used humor with a serious topic, and how you structured it with the “4 reason” up front.
This post is exactly what I needed! I have just recently decided to really get serious about making a career of my writing, but I am stuck. Everything I write seems so mundane. It’s good to hear it may just be me being too hard on myself. Thanks!
***
Oh seriously? I can’t sleep again? I picked up my phone and
illuminated the screen. It was bright enough to make me squint after the
darkness of my room. Ugh. It was only 3 am.
Well, I had a rule. If I couldn’t fall asleep in 30 minutes,
I would get up and start my day. After all, it wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty
to do. And if I didn’t get up, I would lie in bed, irritated I couldn’t sleep
which would just make it harder to sleep which would make me more irritated.
So what happened? You guessed it. I tossed and turned for
what felt like an eternity and looked at my phone again. Screw it I thought, I’ll
get up and try to get some work done.
I went out to the kitchen and fed the cat, mostly so he
would leave me alone. Then I switched on my computer so it could boot up while
I made some tea. Once I sat down I checked some email. Click, click, click,
delete through the spam. Then I read the two emails that contained content I
actually cared about.
Ok, cared about may be a little strong.
When I had spent a sufficient amount of time stalling, I
finally decided to get some work done. After all, I was so backed up, if I didn’t
do it now, I would be staying late all week again. I sighed. My life was
becoming one long series of work, watch television, sleep, and repeat. It was
getting depressing. I really needed some excitement.
So, I decided then and there, instead of signing into my
work account, I was going to plan a trip. I didn’t care where at that point,
but I was dying. I had been home from my last trip a grand total of a month and
for me not to have another one in the works was unheard of. And I knew that was
exactly why I was feeling so down.
The thought of my next trip instantly perked me
up. New places to see, new people to meet, new culture to experience; it was
what I lived for.
Why I write today is fairly easy to explain. All my life, I was into arts even if I did not want to admit it. I hated my artsy side at first but as I was growing older I eventually found the artworld as much as a fascinating subject as a boring one. I needed to challenge myself and even after taking 4 years of classes at the Art Instruction School I was still feeling as if something was missing. Even after my bachelors degree in multimedia with a minor in artistic production I still felt like there was a big hole in my soul. After I thought it through I discovered that I needed to challenge myself in the only field that I found most difficult which was the writing artform. It was not easy but since I do love a good challenge I decided that this was the way to go for me.
Even with my learning dissabilities in languages and logic I still decided that this was the road to take and so far I have not been disappointed one bit. I truly love writing now and when I do need an idea, the sources of inspiration are not what is lacking around me. I can either think of a theme, a movie, a previous book I read, a television show I might have seen not long ago, about a character, a style, any source is possible.
If I still struggle with finding a topic to write on, I can simply take a story that has already been writen and rewrite it differently. All in all every way to write is a good thing right? As long as I continue to push myself over and over again and that I constantly read I know I will be ok in the end.