976. That Plucky Writer

I have written three books.  Really, they have written themselves, I just sort of vomited up all the words. 

I take the books off the shelf now and marvel at them, thinking, I did this!  This thing in my hands did not exist before me! 

I imagine it’s exactly like the person who built the Duomo felt.  Well, people.  It was probably a lot of people.  And they most likely died during that time, since it took 140 years to complete.

So, to clarify, I don’t feel dead. 

What I meant, was, it’s a big accomplishment.  Not to brag, though.  I don't have a t-shirt with “I’m an Author!” printed on the front.  (Although, to my darling husband if you are reading this:  potential Christmas present?) 

It’s not like I’m rich and famous or anything.  I don’t have a cleaning lady, and Oprah still won’t return my calls.  But, FYI, I would take rich over famous any day of the week.  Think about it:  if you are famous, you are hounded relentlessly.  If you are rich but no one knows who you are, you can just go about your business, buying jets or 2^nd houses in Belize (or 25^th houses in Belize) and no one cares. 

Writing does not make you rich.  I found that out.  What it does make you is neurotic.  I carry a little notebook around and pluck it out of my pocket to jot down quick notes.  Actually, since I bought my new iPhone, I dictate to SIRI.  SIRI sometimes misspells things or misinterprets things, and I am left to decipher later:  What the hell does “Thistle turns green” mean??  Why was that important? 

SIRI is helpful with directions, though.  I use her as my GPS.  She never says in a snotty tone, “Recalibrating,” when I miss my turn.  She calmly gives me a new route. 

And then I say, “Read me my last note, SIRI,” and she says, “You are bitch and famous, or you will be moon.”    
          

MOV
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trifecta writing challenge/ 333 words/ required word is "pluck"

**Shameless self-promotion:  You can buy the books I wrote here, and here, and here, and they make great Christmas or Hanukkah presents!!

975. I Wonder Where My Wonder Went

I’m not dead.  I am, however, buried alive in boxes. 

Packing is a mindless task—a robot could do it.  Put stuff in, pad well, tape closed.  Repeat.  While my hands wrestle the cardboard, my brain hijacks a plane to childhood. 

My childhood full of wonder.  I wonder what it will be like to grow up?  I wonder what it will be like to drive a car?  I wonder what it would be like to go to Paris?  I wonder what it would be like to stay up late?  I wonder what it would be like to get married/ have kids/ buy a house/ fill in the blanks ___________? 

There is no more wonder, because all those things have happened. 

I am Bill Murray in Groudhog Day:  get up, make breakfast, kids to school, do laundry, run errands, pick the kids up, drive them to sports, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed.  Same as yesterday.  Same as tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow. 

There is no room for wonder while filling up the empty gas tank or buying paper towels at Target. 

And yet …

My life’s brimming with possibilities:  we’re moving into an apartment because we’re renovating.  We are making this tiny house into our dream home.  The possibilities are about room designs, furniture, tile choices. 

Yet, still no wonder.  I had those decisions mapped out the day we bought the house.  Wonder disappears when it is replaced by MUST.  I must have an island, I must have a walk-in-closet, I must have floor-to-ceiling windows.  Wonder sneaks in and MUST chases it away.  MUST detests this naïf companion.

 I rush around to fill these boxes, fill them with china, clothes, photo albums.  My children absorb this frenzied energy.   

We take a break.  We have a new origami book:  Short studies it, wants to attempt a paper frog.  He folds the green square carefully.  He whispers,   

“Mommy, origami is not a fast thing.  Origami is a calm and peaceful thing.”


 

My wonder has returned.  

MOV
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trifecta writing challenge/ required word: "companion"/ exactly 333 words