Holding on to the obvious and overlooking the essential

The story I’m working on right now depends on survivors holding on to the obvious and overlooking the essential. In other words, the most important objects in a character’s life are ignored by her survivors because they latch on to those things that have an obvious intrinsic value or the sentimentality of a known family-story association.

Look around your personal space. Look at the things that you treasure. Would your family or loved ones treasure them as well? Would a stranger treasure them? Do you have any objects in your space that are important or significant for you but would appear innocuous or worthless to someone else?

If you died or disappeared and someone, even someone very close to you and very familiar with you, sorted through your things to remove objects of sentimental and financial value, what would be left? Would something important to you be left behind? 

I’m finding it almost impossible to be able to look at my possessions objectively. Would you pick up this green plate on my desk? The one that holds a smaller bowl of paper clips and a chapstick and charm bracelet? You might. It’s finely worked and stamped on the bottom. Perhaps you’d pick it up to check its value, but you wouldn’t know that although I associate it with my mother, it’s not as important to me as the gargoyle on the top shelf for maternal remembrance. What about these giant rubber bands that hang from my lamp? They’re cool and were sent to me by a good friend. I think of her every time that I look at them, but would you pitch them into a box of random office supplies and not give them a second look? Would you know that the foot-shaped paper clips remind me of Sonar birthdays? How about the mustache on the face of the computer? Would you pitch it when saving the Mac, tossing along with it a memory of Halloweens and silliness?

What objects would I overlook in your space? 

10 Things: Witch

It’s Writer Wednesday (#WW) over in Twitterdom, so let’s do 10 Things to get our writer cells working. I say a thing. You say 10 Things that pop into your head or out the end of your pen. Ready? Set?

WITCH

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These are my 10 Things. Your mileage may vary.

1. Wicked Witch. For L. Frank Baum, she was a cackling, green-skinned thing, out for vengeance for her sister against Dorothy and for power against the Wizard of Oz. Gregory Maguire complicates her, building a biology and psychology for her in which wickedness is only one interpretation. Rhetorical and political only.

2. Amy is the name of the witch that haunts my stories, but I don’t really know who she is or what makes her unique. Should I make her a knitter? Or perhaps more like Nancy Drew, sleuthing and meddling?

3. Witchy Woman. Is that The Eagles? What is that song even about? Does the point of view LIKE her witchiness? Fear it? Hang on, I have to go listen. 

4. Hermione Granger. My favorite witch. Bookish, awkward, brilliant. The most loyal friend. And aside from one jealous meltdown, she does not crumble from her responsibilities even when upset. 

5. Which witch? A grammatical conundrum. A question in which we wonder what the correct use of the word is in a particular written context.

6. Witchy Poo. She was a costumed cartoon of a witch who looked just like the cartoon Helga. Orange hair, striped socks and vultures. Oh, and warts. What did she even want from Pufenstuf? I don’t know, except that he was afraid of her and I want some socks like hers. 

7. Bewitched. The domestic witch who used her powers not for the improvement of society but for domestic bliss, against the wishes of her wilder and more sexual mother. Conservative shift? Then her daughter is wilder as well?

8. Sabrina the teenage witch. Which I never watched. Not once. But somehow my brain knows the actress’s name is Melissa Joan Hart. Why do I know that?

9. Willow. Nerdy to evil. Hetero to lesbian. Shy to invidious. My other favorite witch. Both she and Hermione relied heavily on books for their power and craft.

10. A Discovery of Witches was the last witch book I read.

And now, you see, I’ve come to the end of my 10 Things and only talked about pop culture witches. What about historical witches? Religious witches? Multi-cultural witches?  

10 Things: Mac

A stuffy head and creaky fingers are making my words flow like molasses today. What I need is a little writing EXERCISE. Join me? Let’s do 10 Things. I say a thing and you share the first 10 Things you think of when you think of that thing. It’s easy. Find my things after a polite pixel partition. Anyone can play!

10 Things: MAC.

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My MAC things? Certainly.

1. Hi. I’m a Mac and I’m a PC. Actually I’m a Mac. Or rather, THIS is a Mac.

2. Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. Big Mac. Why do they call it that?

3. Mac. A nickname for my step-father. A frequent nickname for people with a “Mc” or “Mac” surname or more generally for anyone of Irish or Scottish descent.

4. A generic epithet, like ‘buddy.’ Hey mac, can you spare a dime?

5. Mac, a Scottish Terrier from a Disney movie. Which one though? Lady and the Tramp? Can anyone confirm or deny this correlation?

6. Mac… Mack… macintosh rain coat. Splish splash.

7. Mac. Macadam. McAdam, the person credited with the use of macadame, a type of paving that I associate with black top parking lots. I learned this word from Janet Evanovich. True story.

8. macmacmaccamcamcam A backwards camera? Yes, reaching now. Can. I. Pull. Out. Ten???

9. Mac. Macademia nuts! From Hawaii. My grandma Flora brought these to me sometimes when she came to visit. I thought she had such weird snacks. I realize now that she was excited to share exotic foods with me. 

10. macmacmacmac HEYYY Macarena! Sonar X6 can dance the Macarena (though he knows it as the calendar song from school. Try it. Sing the months of the year—in English or Spanish—to the Macrena tune. I’ll wait.). But he doens’t know how to Hustle. A parenting lapse. I’ll fix that this weekend. 

Sleep.2

I am in bed reading a book. After I left the bed and sleep so reluctantly this morning, I am now equally reluctant to get here and give in to sleeping. Just one more page. Partner breathes slowly next to me, his body warm and familiar against mine. I try not to flop around too much so I don’t wake him, but I have to shift the book from time to time so my hand doesn’t fall asleep. I like to read in bed, because it’s quiet. But also because in bed, I can hold the book close enough to my face that I don’t need to wear my glasses.

My granddad used to tell me that reading without my glasses for a few minutes every day would make my eyes stronger. I think about this every time I put down my glasses and pick up a book. I don’t know whether granddad’s advice was reasonable, but it’s a caring little bit of him that is always with me. 

I know, as I turn the page that I should be sleeping. Just one more chapter. Section. Page. I know that it will feel good to turn out the light and squeeze myself closer to Partner. I know that the warm blankets will feel good on my cool arms, but I savor this silent aloneness for a few more minutes. This quiet buffer between the business of my day and the oblivion of sleep. 

Sleep.1

I am asleep in my bed. I am sleeping well. I am warm and cozy. Ok, I’m not really asleep. An hour ago, Partner’s alarm went off, and he got out of bed. He went off to do whatever he does when everyone is asleep. Grind coffee beans in the laundry room so he doesn’t wake anyone. And listen to NPR in his bathrobe. I’ve often thought of joining him during this early morning quiet time, just to sneak extra minutes for us. But I don’t because I don’t think I’m much of a morning person. The real problem is that I can’t give up this. This delicious warm drowsy darkness where I’m asleep enough to be oblivious but juuuuuust awake enough to appreciate it. 

When Partner’s alarm went off, I scooched over to his spot to better reach the clock and then drifted back into the semi-oblivion. When my alarm went off five minutes ago, I hit the snooze and sprawled out flat on my back to wait out my five minutes. I am still more asleep than awake, though I can hear Partner finishing his morning shave in the bathroom. I am dimly aware when he gets into the shower moments later. 

When my alarm goes off a second time, I hit the snooze again within the first two wonks. That’s what the alarm sounds like: wonk wonk wonk. I don’t immediately move though, and the thought of turning off the alarm clock and going back to sleep always crosses my mind. The next thought is always a mashed up brain-image of all my responsibilities, pummeling my consciousness like a prickly cold snowball. So I get up, turn on the light, wondering why I do this every morning when the bed and sleep are so perfectly enticing, so druggingly cocooning, wondering how anyone else manages to get up when the alternative is snuggly bliss. Wondering just how many people choose the bed instead.