First Line Frustration February 6, 2013

First Line Frustration

 Sssss….BOOM!

The line of skyscapers began their slo-mo crumble to dust.

OR

The lion’s golden eyes bore into mine from six feet away,

stirring in my mind images of ravaged gazelles on the Serengetti.

OR HOW ABOUT

Alice shivered, not so much from the cold, but from the sight of the corpse, 

seemingly resting his head on the table.

So?

Do I have you?

Have I hooked you?

For just a few lines more, anyway?

Crap.  Most likely not.

There is nothing new under the sun, 

So we dress up the old in clown shoes,

(or make the clowns explode)

Hoping to draw attention to our little selves,

And our little creations.

 

 

(I’m taking a writing class and for our assignment we’re supposed to come up with a first line that will ‘wow’ a publisher, something new, fresh, exciting, that makes them want to keep reading.  Understanding, of course, that pretty much everything has been written about already, and presented by greater, more creative minds than mine.  No pressure.

 

Human Pincushion February 4, 2013

The bruise encircles a pinprick on my thigh, the site of yesterday’s injection.  I must have screwed up, placed the auto-inject pen at a slight angle instead of going straight in.  Plus, yesterday was my left thigh’s turn to get lucky, and it’s a crapshoot how things turn out then.

To give myself  the injection, I need to ‘pull up’ (ugh) some adipose tissue (say it, FAT) to receive the needle.  The tops of my thighs don’t have quite enough to perform this task with ease.  The upside of not being in the best shape of my life is there’s more of the aforesaid adipose tissue on my abdomen, and at least four out of six injections end up there.

My husband discovered my injection chart the other day.  I had taken a picture of my abdomen with my Photo Booth, and every six weeks I mark a circle of dots around the belly so I can keep track of where I prick myself and when.  He said he was a bit shocked because you just don’t expect someone to have a picture of their belly laying around.  True.  However, this whole RA (rheumatoid arthritis) business has changed things up in my life, to be sure.

Like every two weeks I stick myself.  They say not to inject in the same place twice, to avoid veins, to avoid scars, to avoid moles.  I try.  I’ve been doing this for about 1 1/2 years now, and I suspect I’m now making my own scar tissue.  As there’s no cure for RA, I imagine I’ll be continuing my injections for the duration.  Or until they stop working, or start hurting me.

I’m grateful for the medicines that make it possible for me to live a “normal” life.  I can walk with ease, usually.  My elbows are only a little cocked.  Although some aches persist, I can’t say I’m in pain.   I’m especially happy that I don’t have to inject every freaking day, as I’d have to if I was diabetic.  Life is good.

An occasional bruise is a small price to pay.

Full of It February 2, 2013

Walking jumpstarts my brain.  I stick in my earbuds, crank up the iTunes and hit the pavement at a pace that’s not quite a jog, but close, and soon the voices are in my head.  Little scenarios come together, names, dialogue, one-liners start percolating, and I try not to get so engrossed that I trip on the cracked concrete and wipe out.

One particular day last fall, after reading Ralph Keyes “Courage to Write”, I was feeling like an almost-real writer.  I was feelin’ fine. .  In fact I was flying high, pumped up by those natural,  feel-good chemicals that exercise releases into your system.

When I got home, I quickly clicked out the following little verse with my sweaty fingers.   It was my idea of the creative writing process that Keyes described.  (I should add this has been published by The Storyteller in it’s Oct/Nov/Dec 2012 issue)

“Full of It”

Ha!

Today I am a writer.

The empty page double-dog dared me to try it, just try it.

And I did.

I trembled, but I did not faint. I cursed and pleaded, but did not relent.

And then, eureka!

A young man’s face seen in the bleachers of a football game,

A snippet of preteen female gossip, stored away,

 Met and fell in love.

And they begat sentences, and the sentences begat paragraphs.

 And it was good.

Then the wall rose before me.

I bemoaned my failure to look ahead

To the end of the path, which now was twisted

And darkened and full of briars, barring my return.

Emergency measures were called for.

Psyche arrived,

Like acid bubbling up from my gut at night, making me clench my teeth,

Swallowing quickly so it doesn’t spill out between my lips.

But this time  I loosed my jaw, and there on the page,

It was me all over.

I tidied the edges,

Careful not to pretty it too much, stifling my worries,

Persuading myself that Mom will still love me,

Even when the neighbors ask

If she ever got help for that drinking problem.

 

Yes, today I am a writer.

My darling, swaddled in a golden sleeve,

flies to those who can never love her as I can,

But hopefully will not desecrate her as much as I fear. 

I sigh with sadness, joy and fear,

And turn to face the empty page.

Yeah, it’s a little tongue-in-cheek.  I can see in retrospect, it ain’t no masterpiece, but I will always treasure this as the first piece I ever had published, and a reminder of that glorious feeling of being a ‘real’ writer.