"Now I feel a new power to write, the sentences just pouring out. I feel the books in a stack inside me. I have only to open them up, open myself up, and read off those words." - From Sam Savage's The Cry of the Sloth
How much I long to be experiencing these words, to be so filled with inspiration that I can't keep my fingers still! But I'm dry, and have been for quite some time now. I keep telling myself it's because I'm so busy, but really? My busy consists of a lot of sitting, dreaming, reading, watching the Bachelorette, playing with my hamster, and trying to elude boredom. So clearly, "busy" is not an excuse I can honestly use. You'd think with all this free-time I'd be wrapping up a novel! But no, instead I live off others' words and wish that I had written them.
I suppose I need more discipline in my writing life. Josh gave me a great book filled with writing prompts, but I've hardly broken the surface. It's called Old Friend from Far Away by Natalie Goldberg, and it's a great book; I highly recommend it. Let's see--why don't we do one together!
Give me a memory of your mother, aunt, or grandmother.
In Maine, Mom ordered lobster. It was fresh from the sea and stared at her from the plate. When the waitress set it down, Mom turned the plate with the tips of her fingers so that the eyes faced Dad. I was so fascinated by this boiling red animal that I could barely eat my shrimp. I'm surprised, even to this day, that Mom even attempted to eat a creature that, but for its being boiled, could've walked off the plate and snapped a fork in its claw.
Mom picked at the lobster valiantly with all sorts of utensils, laughing and ewing the whole time. The tail was good, she said. But then, she busted open the midsection, where the lobster housed its now-cooked dinner. The substances inside were grey and mushy, and a shiver ran down my spine. Mom quickly pushed the plate away, sticking out her tongue. Our waitress laughed.
Before the dissected meal was removed from the table, though, Darwin ripped off the antennas and made them dance across the table, sometimes swirling them in his water glass while he made sucking sounds.
Alright. Now it's your turn!
In Maine, Mom ordered lobster. It was fresh from the sea and stared at her from the plate. When the waitress set it down, Mom turned the plate with the tips of her fingers so that the eyes faced Dad. I was so fascinated by this boiling red animal that I could barely eat my shrimp. I'm surprised, even to this day, that Mom even attempted to eat a creature that, but for its being boiled, could've walked off the plate and snapped a fork in its claw.
Mom picked at the lobster valiantly with all sorts of utensils, laughing and ewing the whole time. The tail was good, she said. But then, she busted open the midsection, where the lobster housed its now-cooked dinner. The substances inside were grey and mushy, and a shiver ran down my spine. Mom quickly pushed the plate away, sticking out her tongue. Our waitress laughed.
Before the dissected meal was removed from the table, though, Darwin ripped off the antennas and made them dance across the table, sometimes swirling them in his water glass while he made sucking sounds.
Alright. Now it's your turn!
Hi! This is Tiffany. Here's my memory I just thought of today:
ReplyDeleteI remember how I never really like the rain or riding in the car during a really rainy day. What distracted me from the glum of the dark day was a talent I thought only my mother possessed. She would take her finger and tell me to watch the rain drop. She could trace the rain drop until it collided with another and another and another, until it was too heavy to go slowly. What was amazing about this event was that my mother could trace the drops expertly. To this day I am still trying to figure out how she did it.