My initial plan to ease back into writing was to revise my old work. While I'm eager to jump into new things, I know these stories are far from complete. (But will I ever think they're complete?) I have ideas for edits on one story, but I keep forgetting which one before I can write a note to myself. As far as the others go, I'm clueless.
Six of them have already been revised once, but that was in undergrad, and a big factor in my edits was grades. I'd try things because the teacher asked for major revisions and made specific suggestions. One story went through a complete overhaul - the character's personality changed, the POV changed, and the focus changed. I made an A, but I'm not sure I liked the story. My dad claimed the original was much better, but the problem is… I'm not sure I like that version, either.
And now… well now, honestly, I'm too scared to read them. I'm worried they'll embarrass me the same way my elementary school journals do. I'm worried the plot will be too thin and the prose will be immature, like my middle school "lyrics." I'm worried that being slapped in the face with this truth will put me off writing for a long time, when I've just warmed back up to the idea after a year away.
A small part of me is also worried that I'm not a writer. Not just unpublished (which I'm not really concerned with right now), but that I just can't do it. I'm not cut out for it. I've been writing stories since I was a kid who kept marble notebooks in a briefcase bigger than her. Did I really quit my MFA program because I didn't mesh with the faculty/like the geographical area/want to devote 3 yrs to a pointless degree? Or is it because I'm not a good writer and staying up there would have meant facing that?
I thought these stories were gold when I wrote them. My class liked them, teachers suggested improvements instead of telling me to scrap them. So what if I got rejection after rejection from journals (and a lone acceptance from a mag that promptly went under) - the same stories got me accepted into MFA programs. I just hate the thought of not liking my own work. Of not seeing potential revisions or even viewing them as stepping stones, lessons for the future - to just read them and shudder and want to never put a word on a page again.
This week, everything listed in my last writing post has been shifted to the back burner. I went to the fair last night, and my goal was to come away from it with a story. Well, it was in Mississippi, so you can imagine the gold mine I found. But as I tried to get some sleep, a different idea popped into my head. It's still centered around the fair, but a little more involved than I previous imagined when I gave myself the assignment. And so I sat up and grabbed a notebook and wrote three pages, and then outlined the rest. I'm going to work on it more on my lunch break, and after work. I'm pretty excited about it, and I love what I have so far. But I've only written it, not read it over. Which goes back to the fear I opened with...
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Creating Compelling Characters
I used to not know how to create characters. I'd get a story idea and just plop in a girl, give her an age and a family, and start writing.
No good.
There's nothing to get involved with if there aren't characters to relate to. They have to seem believable and human; they have to have a personality. The best characters are those you feel you actually know. The ones who are so vivid that you think about them long after you close the book. You want to call them up and see how they're doing, if they want to hang out.
The professor of my first writing workshop gave us a worksheet. It was a list of questions we needed to know about our characters, even if we didn't address the answers directly in the story.
What does your character look like?
How does your character walk?
What are their nervous habits?
Do they have an accent?
What is their sexual orientation?
From there, I thought of more little things:
How often do they brush their teeth?
Do they eat breakfast?
What does their home look like?
What is their job? How do they feel about it?
What do they do for fun?
How do they relate to others?
What are their relationships like - past and present?
Answering these questions really helps you get to know your character. Think of all the little quirks you have, and how they make you human (and possibly quite annoying). Your character needs these, too. Pretend you're making a new friend with your character, or going on a first date with him. Ask him everything you normally would in that situation - and more.
The most important thing for me to create a character is not knowing how he thinks. The thing about being human is you never know exactly why someone did, said, or thought something. You can have ideas, sure, you can speculate, but you never know. Even if you ask - is the person telling the truth? Do you believe them?
I like to develop my character's personality and then put him in certain situations - again, even if it's not going in the story. And then I see how he gets out of them. Even though he's my creation, I don't know how or why he chose a certain method to get things done. I can guess it's because of certain things I already know about him, but there's no way of knowing for sure.
Basically, I recommend getting to know every little thing about your characters' likes and dislikes, opinions and mannerisms, but still never completely know what makes them tick. And that makes them frustratingly real.
*There are over 180 more posts to read on this topic here.
There's nothing to get involved with if there aren't characters to relate to. They have to seem believable and human; they have to have a personality. The best characters are those you feel you actually know. The ones who are so vivid that you think about them long after you close the book. You want to call them up and see how they're doing, if they want to hang out.
The professor of my first writing workshop gave us a worksheet. It was a list of questions we needed to know about our characters, even if we didn't address the answers directly in the story.
What does your character look like?
How does your character walk?
What are their nervous habits?
Do they have an accent?
What is their sexual orientation?
From there, I thought of more little things:
How often do they brush their teeth?
Do they eat breakfast?
What does their home look like?
What is their job? How do they feel about it?
What do they do for fun?
How do they relate to others?
What are their relationships like - past and present?
Answering these questions really helps you get to know your character. Think of all the little quirks you have, and how they make you human (and possibly quite annoying). Your character needs these, too. Pretend you're making a new friend with your character, or going on a first date with him. Ask him everything you normally would in that situation - and more.
The most important thing for me to create a character is not knowing how he thinks. The thing about being human is you never know exactly why someone did, said, or thought something. You can have ideas, sure, you can speculate, but you never know. Even if you ask - is the person telling the truth? Do you believe them?
I like to develop my character's personality and then put him in certain situations - again, even if it's not going in the story. And then I see how he gets out of them. Even though he's my creation, I don't know how or why he chose a certain method to get things done. I can guess it's because of certain things I already know about him, but there's no way of knowing for sure.
Basically, I recommend getting to know every little thing about your characters' likes and dislikes, opinions and mannerisms, but still never completely know what makes them tick. And that makes them frustratingly real.
*There are over 180 more posts to read on this topic here.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
You could have saved me from a disaster.
It's that time again, folks. The time where I try to deny my love for coffee for the sake of my health and sanity.
I used to keep count of how many cups I drank at work by drawing little mugs in my notebook margins. Then I had no space to write notes, so I stopped keeping track. Then, last week, I got sick. Just a cold, but it was enough to affect my taste buds and make my head hurt beyond the cure of caffeine. And though my health has bounced back, my taste, nay, lust for coffee has yet to return.
I am now a tea drinker.
Yes, me. Hardcore Coffee Allison (as they call me in the office) is holding a wimpy tea bag by its delicate string, not heaping dark, bold coffee grounds into her mouth by the handful.
I have the kind of tea in bags with no strings, no stapled tags to hang on the rim of your mug, because they are better for the environment. And because I can hide one deep in my cup before walking to the break room, and no one will ever know my betrayal.
In the break room, a coworker is always, inevitably, filling up their own mug with that rich, caffeinated ambrosia. I hold my cup under the hot water spigot, and the smell of tea permeates the air around me, giving me away.
"Tea time?" the coworker asks.
"Trying to lay off the coffee," I excuse myself with a laugh.
"Yeah, I should try that," they reply, taking a sip and walking away while I stare down at grass clippings floating in hot water.
I'm making it sound more serious than it is, of course. I've actually found a couple teas that I like, that don't taste like the iced tea famous in the South. They're all decaffeinated, and I've sworn off soda, also; I keep telling myself the headaches are due to lack of sleep, disturbing dreams, staring at a computer screen all day.
I'm not forcing myself off caffeine, exactly, just seeing if I can do it. I never hold myself accountable for anything. I'll say I'm not having coffee on a certain day, and then have a mug. "It's just one," I tell myself. "I'll just have one." When I have another, I tell myself that two cups to get started in the morning is perfectly acceptable. When I'm still knocking them back at three o'clock, I just scrap the idea of depriving myself. I want to push myself, I want to have structure, and coffee is a seemingly small (vital) way to show myself I can do it.
Today the urge was too great. I am a weak person, I know this. It's 11.30a, and I can't stop thinking about Starbucks. In my daydream, I'm caressing an invisible cardboard sleeve, practically sensing the heat on the my fingertips. I can feel the plastic lid against my lips, but my imagination is not powerful enough to taste the coffee. And before I know it, I'm Google-Mapping the nearest location. 30 minutes round-trip? No problem. At noon, I am ready to go. My foot lays heavily on the gas pedal. I am back at my desk in no time, victorious with my coffee.
And it's good. It tastes good. It feels nice, warming my hands as I hold it, warming me from the inside out as I sip. (And this warmth is vital to surviving in my cubicle, where it is the Arctic, day after day.) But maybe I shouldn't have gotten a venti. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten an extra shot. Because, before I know it, my heart is pounding. And not that good pounding I was so addicted to last summer. Maybe my detox was more effective than I could have imagined. But all of a sudden my skin is pulling tighter and tighter and I want to claw it off and I can't breathe and the thought of getting up freaks me out but I feel too contained to stay seated and I can't move and my mind is running a mile a minute and I'm filled with panic and anxiety that I can't calm away.
It eventually went away, I suppose. I left work on time and drove home without incident, although I was stuck behind a motorcycle that went ten below the speed limit the. entire. way. When I'd get too close, the old man riding would shoot me a stern look in his sideview mirror. I might have yelled at him. I might have called him old balls and ridiculed his lack of badassery and wanted to run him over with all my being. But there's a good chance I would have reacted that way without a coffee high.
My heart is pounding even now, and my mind is still racing, though I can't really blame the coffee when there are extenuating circumstances. I've decided to keep the detox going. (Er, restart it, I suppose.) Now that I know what could/would/might/can/will happen, I sincerely doubt my brain or tastebuds will want to take the risk.
I used to keep count of how many cups I drank at work by drawing little mugs in my notebook margins. Then I had no space to write notes, so I stopped keeping track. Then, last week, I got sick. Just a cold, but it was enough to affect my taste buds and make my head hurt beyond the cure of caffeine. And though my health has bounced back, my taste, nay, lust for coffee has yet to return.
Yes, me. Hardcore Coffee Allison (as they call me in the office) is holding a wimpy tea bag by its delicate string, not heaping dark, bold coffee grounds into her mouth by the handful.
I have the kind of tea in bags with no strings, no stapled tags to hang on the rim of your mug, because they are better for the environment. And because I can hide one deep in my cup before walking to the break room, and no one will ever know my betrayal.
In the break room, a coworker is always, inevitably, filling up their own mug with that rich, caffeinated ambrosia. I hold my cup under the hot water spigot, and the smell of tea permeates the air around me, giving me away.
"Tea time?" the coworker asks.
"Trying to lay off the coffee," I excuse myself with a laugh.
"Yeah, I should try that," they reply, taking a sip and walking away while I stare down at grass clippings floating in hot water.
I'm making it sound more serious than it is, of course. I've actually found a couple teas that I like, that don't taste like the iced tea famous in the South. They're all decaffeinated, and I've sworn off soda, also; I keep telling myself the headaches are due to lack of sleep, disturbing dreams, staring at a computer screen all day.
I'm not forcing myself off caffeine, exactly, just seeing if I can do it. I never hold myself accountable for anything. I'll say I'm not having coffee on a certain day, and then have a mug. "It's just one," I tell myself. "I'll just have one." When I have another, I tell myself that two cups to get started in the morning is perfectly acceptable. When I'm still knocking them back at three o'clock, I just scrap the idea of depriving myself. I want to push myself, I want to have structure, and coffee is a seemingly small (vital) way to show myself I can do it.
Today the urge was too great. I am a weak person, I know this. It's 11.30a, and I can't stop thinking about Starbucks. In my daydream, I'm caressing an invisible cardboard sleeve, practically sensing the heat on the my fingertips. I can feel the plastic lid against my lips, but my imagination is not powerful enough to taste the coffee. And before I know it, I'm Google-Mapping the nearest location. 30 minutes round-trip? No problem. At noon, I am ready to go. My foot lays heavily on the gas pedal. I am back at my desk in no time, victorious with my coffee.
And it's good. It tastes good. It feels nice, warming my hands as I hold it, warming me from the inside out as I sip. (And this warmth is vital to surviving in my cubicle, where it is the Arctic, day after day.) But maybe I shouldn't have gotten a venti. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten an extra shot. Because, before I know it, my heart is pounding. And not that good pounding I was so addicted to last summer. Maybe my detox was more effective than I could have imagined. But all of a sudden my skin is pulling tighter and tighter and I want to claw it off and I can't breathe and the thought of getting up freaks me out but I feel too contained to stay seated and I can't move and my mind is running a mile a minute and I'm filled with panic and anxiety that I can't calm away.
It eventually went away, I suppose. I left work on time and drove home without incident, although I was stuck behind a motorcycle that went ten below the speed limit the. entire. way. When I'd get too close, the old man riding would shoot me a stern look in his sideview mirror. I might have yelled at him. I might have called him old balls and ridiculed his lack of badassery and wanted to run him over with all my being. But there's a good chance I would have reacted that way without a coffee high.
My heart is pounding even now, and my mind is still racing, though I can't really blame the coffee when there are extenuating circumstances. I've decided to keep the detox going. (Er, restart it, I suppose.) Now that I know what could/would/might/can/will happen, I sincerely doubt my brain or tastebuds will want to take the risk.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Comin' at y'all in stereo
As determined as I was to make this move with only my lil trusty Adam Corolla, I knew there was no way even a case worth of my books would fit in his spacious, yet-still-a-Corolla, trunk. I had a hitch installed, and rented a small trailer from U-Haul. The mechanic workin' hard for his money was very kind and accommodating since, in true Allison fashion, I had all of this done the day before my move. He finished well past closing, and I slipped him a tip in an un-smooth way (also in true Allison fashion) and bid him farewell.
As soon as I got buckled in to my front seat, Mechanic walked toward me and motioned for me to roll down my window. I had already put the key in the ignition, and it was just habit to automatically start the car.
No, I did not hit the gas and accidentally run Mechanic down.
Far more embarrassingly, my CD started up along with the engine. And what blared from the speakers just so happened to be Freak Nasty's classic, "Da' Dip." Mechanic leaned into my window and nodded his approval in a "Wazzup gurl" manner. He proceeded to give me a few drivin' and haulin' tips, which I took note of with red cheeks, and then peeled out of the lot. Well, as fast as a trailered Corolla can peel.
On the drive home, I realized that the CD had been on another embarrassing rap song when I dropped it off, and because of this fact I made sure to turn my CD player off, so it wouldn't automatically play when Mechanic started the car. Which means he listened to (and apparently dug) my jams.
The move wasn't nearly as bad as I imagined it would be. Though the states touch, the drive from Northern Virginia to Southwest Tennessee is killer. I'll skip over the part where I get a flat tire just an hour from home and focus on the more amusing aspects of the trip.
Buildings blending into the sky...
The happy smile of a friendly gas station as you exit the highway...
Only to find his creeptastic twin guarding who-knows-what in a back garage.
Not sure what is so unsettling about this one...
Perhaps the certainty that Merita knows exactly when I sleep.
A promising establishment in Knoxville applying for a liquor license.
Beer and dancin'? I'm there.
Pop it, push it, rock it, roll it...
Smokestacks, for which my love knows no bounds,
but is a story much too lengthy for anything short of my memoirs.
And, I'll admit it... sometimes the view was just plain gorgeous.
As soon as I got buckled in to my front seat, Mechanic walked toward me and motioned for me to roll down my window. I had already put the key in the ignition, and it was just habit to automatically start the car.
No, I did not hit the gas and accidentally run Mechanic down.
Far more embarrassingly, my CD started up along with the engine. And what blared from the speakers just so happened to be Freak Nasty's classic, "Da' Dip." Mechanic leaned into my window and nodded his approval in a "Wazzup gurl" manner. He proceeded to give me a few drivin' and haulin' tips, which I took note of with red cheeks, and then peeled out of the lot. Well, as fast as a trailered Corolla can peel.
On the drive home, I realized that the CD had been on another embarrassing rap song when I dropped it off, and because of this fact I made sure to turn my CD player off, so it wouldn't automatically play when Mechanic started the car. Which means he listened to (and apparently dug) my jams.
The move wasn't nearly as bad as I imagined it would be. Though the states touch, the drive from Northern Virginia to Southwest Tennessee is killer. I'll skip over the part where I get a flat tire just an hour from home and focus on the more amusing aspects of the trip.
Buildings blending into the sky...
The happy smile of a friendly gas station as you exit the highway...
Only to find his creeptastic twin guarding who-knows-what in a back garage.
Not sure what is so unsettling about this one...
Perhaps the certainty that Merita knows exactly when I sleep.
A promising establishment in Knoxville applying for a liquor license.
Beer and dancin'? I'm there.
Pop it, push it, rock it, roll it...
Smokestacks, for which my love knows no bounds,
but is a story much too lengthy for anything short of my memoirs.
And, I'll admit it... sometimes the view was just plain gorgeous.
Monday, September 6, 2010
the Nook
I lusted after the Kindle for a month or so this summer, watching informational videos online and wondering how much one would help with future moves, since the vast majority of my boxes (aka all-but-four) are filled with books. We visited a Barnes & Noble and listened to a hyperactive man slowly reveal to us that he was not hyped up on drugs, but rather excited for this innovative reading technology. Still not convinced, we questioned him for a good half hour and walked away empty-handed.
Initially, I wanted a Kindle because I'd heard so much about them, and I knew Amazon to be legit. But after handling a Nook in-store, I realized I wanted to actually touch the technology before I bought it. Plus, owning a Nook means I get to make jokes about touching said Nook before buying it. I get to talk about my Nook in public and it's A-OK. My boss asked about my Nook, and I told him all about it. I'm taking my Nook to work tomorrow to show him during our lunch hour.
You can see my Nook, too...
The Nook's non-backlit screen means you still need an overhead light to read, but also that you don't get a headache from staring, like you do with a computer. The eInk, when held up to a "real" book, shows no major difference. It also means that you can make the font size much bigger or much smaller without worrying about pixelation.
There are tons of monetary benefits to a Nook that the Kindle doesn't seem to have. There are Free Book Fridays. There are over one million titles available, many free. You can "lend" books you've purchased to other people with Barnes & Noble eReaders - either Nooks, or just the app on their phones/computers. There are daily coupons for in-store specials, including the cafe. Did you hear that? Including the cafe. I'm a pushover for coffee discounts.
I've spent the weekend with my nose buried, well, in my Nook:
Sloppy Firsts and Second Helpings by Megan McCafferty
Life, Love and a Polar Bear Tattoo by Heather Wardell
Lock and Key by Sarah Dessen
White Teeth by Zadie Smith (in progress)
SERIAL by Jack Kilborn and Blake Crouch
[[About SERIAL: very sick short story you MUST read (if you like that kinda thing)! Two authors "collaborated," in a broad sense of the word, to write this twisted tale of two serial killers meeting. One wrote his character's introduction, then the next wrote his character's, and then they met. From there, the story was written section by section, with each author left in the dark about where the next was going. (Totally want to try this method!) It's a FREE eBook, so download B&N's eReader and then get this story - I promise it's worth it.]]
One thing I completely love about the Nook is that I can switch between books on a whim. I'm not stuck with the book I brought with me - I can read anything I already own, or download something new. The ability to buy a book directly from my Nook is pretty amazing for someone thisclose to becoming a hermit; I bought four books this weekend without setting foot in a bookstore, and I had them instantly, with no shipping and handling charges. It's what I love and hate about iTunes - the ability to buy music on a whim (+), then forget you bought it until you see your credit card statement (-). A dangerous addiction, certainly one I'll have to keep in check since I won't see the physical books piling up on my shelves.
I can't promise that everyone will love the Nook/Kindle/whatever option you try or buy, if any. I know some people are firmly against them. I initially thought I was one of those people, until I realized the benefits outweighed whatever my hang-ups were with digital books. The screen is easy to read, it's book-sized and therefore easy to carry around, and you can access your entire library, as well as B&N's inventory, at any time. And owning one doesn't keep you from buying "real" books - I bought two of those bad boys this weekend, too.
Initially, I wanted a Kindle because I'd heard so much about them, and I knew Amazon to be legit. But after handling a Nook in-store, I realized I wanted to actually touch the technology before I bought it. Plus, owning a Nook means I get to make jokes about touching said Nook before buying it. I get to talk about my Nook in public and it's A-OK. My boss asked about my Nook, and I told him all about it. I'm taking my Nook to work tomorrow to show him during our lunch hour.
The Nook's non-backlit screen means you still need an overhead light to read, but also that you don't get a headache from staring, like you do with a computer. The eInk, when held up to a "real" book, shows no major difference. It also means that you can make the font size much bigger or much smaller without worrying about pixelation.
There are tons of monetary benefits to a Nook that the Kindle doesn't seem to have. There are Free Book Fridays. There are over one million titles available, many free. You can "lend" books you've purchased to other people with Barnes & Noble eReaders - either Nooks, or just the app on their phones/computers. There are daily coupons for in-store specials, including the cafe. Did you hear that? Including the cafe. I'm a pushover for coffee discounts.
I've spent the weekend with my nose buried, well, in my Nook:
Sloppy Firsts and Second Helpings by Megan McCafferty
Life, Love and a Polar Bear Tattoo by Heather Wardell
Lock and Key by Sarah Dessen
White Teeth by Zadie Smith (in progress)
SERIAL by Jack Kilborn and Blake Crouch
[[About SERIAL: very sick short story you MUST read (if you like that kinda thing)! Two authors "collaborated," in a broad sense of the word, to write this twisted tale of two serial killers meeting. One wrote his character's introduction, then the next wrote his character's, and then they met. From there, the story was written section by section, with each author left in the dark about where the next was going. (Totally want to try this method!) It's a FREE eBook, so download B&N's eReader and then get this story - I promise it's worth it.]]
One thing I completely love about the Nook is that I can switch between books on a whim. I'm not stuck with the book I brought with me - I can read anything I already own, or download something new. The ability to buy a book directly from my Nook is pretty amazing for someone thisclose to becoming a hermit; I bought four books this weekend without setting foot in a bookstore, and I had them instantly, with no shipping and handling charges. It's what I love and hate about iTunes - the ability to buy music on a whim (+), then forget you bought it until you see your credit card statement (-). A dangerous addiction, certainly one I'll have to keep in check since I won't see the physical books piling up on my shelves.
I can't promise that everyone will love the Nook/Kindle/whatever option you try or buy, if any. I know some people are firmly against them. I initially thought I was one of those people, until I realized the benefits outweighed whatever my hang-ups were with digital books. The screen is easy to read, it's book-sized and therefore easy to carry around, and you can access your entire library, as well as B&N's inventory, at any time. And owning one doesn't keep you from buying "real" books - I bought two of those bad boys this weekend, too.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Paranormal
Somehow, in the shuffle of packing and unpacking and packing and unpacking again, random things from my past have been surfacing. It's not surprising, I suppose; I'm not a pack rat, but I keep a fair amount of small mementos - the kind of thing that means a lot, but you don't think about until you're holding it in your hands.
The first came to me as I was unloading the trailer last week. I climbed in to shove all the boxes to the doorway, then hopped out and began toting things to the front porch. On my second to last trip, I noticed a card on the ground. I picked it up to find one of those "best friend" cards, with a sweet saying about how there's nobody like you, we'll be friends forever, etc etc. My first thought was that it had fallen out of a used book I brought home from the thrift store one day; something that once belonged to someone else, and was now mine.
When I flipped it over, my heart skipped a beat. It was addressed to Alli, signed Meggie. I had been thinking of her not a week before, and here she was.
- - -
I met Meghan when I was nine years old. We were the only two girls swimming in the pool at a hotel in Carlsbad, New Mexico. We started talking - wait, scratch that. She started talking to me, because I'm much too shy to initiate contact. She asked about my parents and my brother, and told me that her dad was named Forrest, like Forrest Gump. She laughed, and I laughed with her, even though I had no clue what that meant. We talked and swam and played until our fathers told us it was time to go inside.
"Let's be pen pals!" Meghan suggested, and we both ran to our respective rooms, returning with nondescript hotel notepads to exchange addresses.
And we began writing. We wrote from the time we were nine years old until shortly after we turned twelve; I remember because her birthday was three weeks after mine. I used to keep all of the letters I received, and I was randomly sorting through them my sophomore year of high school when I found a collection of hers. I took a chance and wrote to the old address, hoping she hadn't moved.
She hadn't. We kept writing until the summer after senior year. She was excited about starting college, I was going to work two jobs and try to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. We stopped writing for awhile, with all the changes and adjustments and settling in to what we thought was "real" life.
I was checking my email one day when I saw her last name in my inbox. I didn't remember giving her my address, and that's when I noticed the first name wasn't Meghan. I knew, then. I knew it was her mother, and I knew she had searched for me and I knew she had bad news. I didn't know if she read all my letters, if she remembered me as a nine year old, or how exactly she felt when she learned Meghan had died as a passenger in a car wreck. She was very distant yet polite, and sent me a program from the funeral service like I asked.
- - -
Tonight, sorting through a box of old wallets, I found another card. This time, I had an idea of what it might be, but I was still surprised when I flipped it over and saw "Meggie" scrawled on the back. Twice in one week, so soon after thinking about her, and talking about her with another friend. On top of all that, my birthday is tomorrow, and hers would be three weeks after. We'll be... would be... twenty-five.
I'm not exactly a superstitious person, but I do believe in signs. And I feel like I should be learning something from this. I feel like there's something out there for me to notice, and I'm just not seeing it.
On top of all this, my dreams have been incredibly vivid and realistic lately. (I believe in analyzing dreams.) The one that comes to mind most is when I was sitting on some bleachers, leaning back onto his knees; our arms are intertwined. I have my index fingers in my ears, like whatever going on is too loud for me. When I pull them out, they're covered in earwax. I keep pulling out more and more earwax, and there's no end. No one else is disgusted by what's happening to me; no one even notices.
My dream dictionary defines earwax: To dream that you have excessive earwax suggests that there is something you are refusing to hear.
So there's that...
The first came to me as I was unloading the trailer last week. I climbed in to shove all the boxes to the doorway, then hopped out and began toting things to the front porch. On my second to last trip, I noticed a card on the ground. I picked it up to find one of those "best friend" cards, with a sweet saying about how there's nobody like you, we'll be friends forever, etc etc. My first thought was that it had fallen out of a used book I brought home from the thrift store one day; something that once belonged to someone else, and was now mine.
When I flipped it over, my heart skipped a beat. It was addressed to Alli, signed Meggie. I had been thinking of her not a week before, and here she was.
I met Meghan when I was nine years old. We were the only two girls swimming in the pool at a hotel in Carlsbad, New Mexico. We started talking - wait, scratch that. She started talking to me, because I'm much too shy to initiate contact. She asked about my parents and my brother, and told me that her dad was named Forrest, like Forrest Gump. She laughed, and I laughed with her, even though I had no clue what that meant. We talked and swam and played until our fathers told us it was time to go inside.
"Let's be pen pals!" Meghan suggested, and we both ran to our respective rooms, returning with nondescript hotel notepads to exchange addresses.
And we began writing. We wrote from the time we were nine years old until shortly after we turned twelve; I remember because her birthday was three weeks after mine. I used to keep all of the letters I received, and I was randomly sorting through them my sophomore year of high school when I found a collection of hers. I took a chance and wrote to the old address, hoping she hadn't moved.
She hadn't. We kept writing until the summer after senior year. She was excited about starting college, I was going to work two jobs and try to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. We stopped writing for awhile, with all the changes and adjustments and settling in to what we thought was "real" life.
I was checking my email one day when I saw her last name in my inbox. I didn't remember giving her my address, and that's when I noticed the first name wasn't Meghan. I knew, then. I knew it was her mother, and I knew she had searched for me and I knew she had bad news. I didn't know if she read all my letters, if she remembered me as a nine year old, or how exactly she felt when she learned Meghan had died as a passenger in a car wreck. She was very distant yet polite, and sent me a program from the funeral service like I asked.
Tonight, sorting through a box of old wallets, I found another card. This time, I had an idea of what it might be, but I was still surprised when I flipped it over and saw "Meggie" scrawled on the back. Twice in one week, so soon after thinking about her, and talking about her with another friend. On top of all that, my birthday is tomorrow, and hers would be three weeks after. We'll be... would be... twenty-five.
I'm not exactly a superstitious person, but I do believe in signs. And I feel like I should be learning something from this. I feel like there's something out there for me to notice, and I'm just not seeing it.
On top of all this, my dreams have been incredibly vivid and realistic lately. (I believe in analyzing dreams.) The one that comes to mind most is when I was sitting on some bleachers, leaning back onto his knees; our arms are intertwined. I have my index fingers in my ears, like whatever going on is too loud for me. When I pull them out, they're covered in earwax. I keep pulling out more and more earwax, and there's no end. No one else is disgusted by what's happening to me; no one even notices.
My dream dictionary defines earwax: To dream that you have excessive earwax suggests that there is something you are refusing to hear.
So there's that...
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