Day #18 — I Know All About It

Today I joined Twitter, and Kim Moldofsky told me to "say goodbye to productivity." I'm lying to myself committed to using my Twitter account only for writing good, not procrastination evil. To prove it, I will now continue my uninterrupted streak (18 consecutive days) of 10 minutes of free writing per day. This writing prompt comes from Lisa Romeo:

Prompt: I Know All About It

I do not want to hear one more freaking word about Ellie and Nate's wedding. I know all about it. Gawd, it's all my mother can talk about. She tried to talk me into going to the shower. Like that was going to happen. All those happy, sparkly people talking about tulle and shit. I don't even know what tulle is.

I know, I'm Kate the Bitch, capital B, for not going. But I have good reasons — excellent reasons for avoiding that freak show. 

1. I hate that Ellie and the whole fam-damily still insist on calling me "Katie". I'm Kate, damn it. I've been Kate since the eighth grade. My business card says Kate. Just because Ellie is an "Ellie" and not grown-up enough to be Eleanor, that does not mean they can all revert to the diminutive when addressing me. I'm an adult for God's sake.
2. I. Can. Not. Stand. Nate. Just hate him. He was a pompous ass when we met at college. He's still a pompous ass. And the way my mother fawns over him. It's embarrassing. "Katie, sweetheart, I only hope you find such a nice boy some day." Ugh, it makes me want to rip out his eyeballs.
3. Showers are a pointless waste of time. Why can't people buy their own stuff? And don't even get me started on shower games.
4. It was a couples shower, which means that people brought dates. Can you imagine a worse date than going to someone else's wedding shower? Talk about pressure. Talk about scrutiny. Talk about the shortest relationship in history. I would never submit anyone I was dating to such torture.
5. My dad was probably there. I don't know that he was there, but since it was for couples, my mother probably forced him. 'Nuf said.

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for Ellie. Really, I am. I mean, we've been best cousins since she was born 15 months after me. This is what she's always wanted, and I'm happy for her. But if I have to hear one more time: 

"You're next, Katie!" 
or
"Is there anyone special?" 
or
"I just know you'll find someone, dear. Maybe you should try losing a little weight. Or online dating. I hear it's the latest thing for single gals like you."

The Aunts are marching one by one — all over me. 

Time: 11 minutes

So, this is the other side of the relationship I first wrote about on day #4. I thought it would be fun to explore the same situation from a different character's point of view. You can see the relationships beginning to flesh out; how no matter who you are or what the situation, it's always all about you. That's a good thing to remember when writing; a good perspective when choosing a point of view.

Day #17 — Day After Day

I have not been feeling at all well today, but I don't want to break my string of consecutive free writing days. Funny how it was easier to give up my Friday walking date than it is to give up my date with this online journal. Clearly, I've managed to make writing more of a habit than exercise. Big surprise.

I've been watching the telethon for Haiti and my initial reaction to this prompt from Lisa Romeo was to talk about the relentlessness of the current tragedy, but I changed my mind. We'll see where it goes from here.

Prompt: Day After Day 

Day after day, the sun refuses to shine. Like me, it seems barely able to haul its ass out of bed to get done the work that is absolutely necessary before its 12-hour shift is over and it can go back to sleep. 

Laundry — done. Well, done enough. There are clean socks and underwear. I even put Peter's in his drawer so he won't bitch about having to pull them out of the laundry basket when he gets dressed for work tomorrow. Why does underwear need to be folded? Who invented dressers, anyway? What difference does it make as long as they're clean? What does he want from me.

The baby clothes are clean, too, at least most of them, although not put away. I just couldn't do it. Rachel came by for about an hour to stay with the babies so I could get to the grocery store. We had nothing. Now we have next to nothing, but enough to get us through the weekend — as long as Peter doesn't mind spaghetti for dinner again.

Jesus, why am I so tired? I wanted these babies for so long. I would have done anything to get them. I did do everything to get them — injections and hormones and harvesting and invitro and surgeries. God, it was so important to me. Now I look at them and think "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" They can't possibly be my babies. They don't even look like me. They don't even look like people — just, I don't know, wrinkly red worms or something. 

I'm so pissed at my mom. All those years she bugged me and bugged me about things she didn't understand — what I should wear (like she knew what teenagers were wearing), where I should go to school (she never even went to college), who I should marry (like my dad was such a prize). Now, when I really need her, when she could actually help me because she knew how to take care of babies, where is she? Dead. 

Good and dead and I'm all alone with these people who want stuff from me all day long. They want my boobs, they want formula (because my two boobs aren't good enough for their two hungry mouths, even though I'm now a D-cup). They want to be changed and have their butts wiped and snot cleaned when the cry and it bubbles out of their nostrils. It's not anything like I imagined it would be. They aren't sweet and good smelling and happy to see me when I walk in the room. And every time I fall asleep (which could be any minute), one of them wails. They don't cry little baby cries — they wail loud sirens of misery and discontent. Day after day. Night after night. 

I read all the books. I know "this too shall pass". But when? Will I make it? Will I ever feel like a mother, like I would do anything for them? Where did that feeling go? I can tell you this; I think I would do anything for them if I could just get one night's sleep. Just one.


Time: 13 minutes

This was an odd thing to write because I never felt this way about my babies. I know many women who did, but babyhood never got to me like this. I have felt it since then, many times, but I don't think it's as overwhelming when they are not completely helpless. My mother didn't die, although she almost did on my wedding day and I remember being absolutely furious with her at the idea that she wouldn't be around right when I needed her again.

Today, with this weird virus and the relentlessness of winter and the tragic news on TV, I felt like all I wanted to do was sleep and shut out the world. And I did. I could, because most of my children were at school and the one who was home did not need constant care and attention, and he was not in danger being awake while I was asleep. I did drag myself out of bed this morning and again this afternoon to get the necessities done. That and no more. Tomorrow, the girl needs to be at school at 5:30 a.m., so I will go to sleep again now, and start over again in the morning. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Day #13 — Off the Beaten Path

I'm taking a detour from Lisa Romeo's month of writing prompts to respond to Linda Cassidy Lewis' experiment on her blog, Out of My Mind. She plans to post the entries on her blog today. My rules will still apply to this effort; it will be a SFD* and limited to (about) 10 minutes of free writing, starting now.

Prompt: Through the Open Window

Oh, my God. What is he doing out there? she thought. "Jason. Jason!" she yelled, rapping her knuckles on the closed window, trying to get his attention. Finally, she pried open the ancient sash, breaking a nail in the process. 

"Shit," she said, under her breath, then bent to the three inches of open window, wincing as a blast of frigid air smacked her in the face. "Jason! Are you crazy? Get down from there. You're going to break your neck."

Oh, God, she thought. I sound like my mother. No. I sound like his mother.

That thought did not please her at all. Ever since Jason lost his job six months ago, their relationship had slowly shifted from one of mutually supportive adults to a mother/son gig that did not sit right with her. She had chosen not to have children because she didn't want to be anybody's mother; she certainly didn't want to be the mother of a 39-year-old man.

She glared at him, squinty eyed, through the open window. Why did he get to turn into a kid again? What was he doing sitting in that fucking apple tree? He looked like an idiot.

The cold wind stung her eyes, which watered and blurred her vision and suddenly, man-Jason transformed into boy-Jason — striped knit hat perched on his head, feet dangling freely under him as he clung easily to that big middle branch. His smile was radiant in the bleak grey of January, a second sun outshining the weak winter one hiding behind a dusty veil of clouds.

For the first time in her life, Jessica felt her uterus stir — jump, really, practically into her throat, and she knew that everything she had known about herself and who she was and what she wanted had changed forever.

Without thinking, she pulled the sash all the way up and climbed through the open window. 

Time:  12 minutes

This ran a little long. I got wrapped up in the story, which I guess is a good thing. Much of it feels trite, but something feels true. May be worth revising to see where it would go. It somehow feels like a short story (not quite this short), but I'm not very familiar with writing short stories.

*SFD = Shitty First Draft, ala Anne Lamott

Day #12 — Better Late Than Never

It's 12:20 a.m. here, but it's still 1/17/10 somewhere, so this last-minute post counts toward my resolution. Hah, I just read Lisa Romeo's prompt for the day. As my son would say, "ironic isn't it".

Prompt: What Took You So Long

There you are. Geez, you have no idea how long I've been waiting for you. You're nothing like I imagined (but in a good way). How could you be? You're you, and I couldn't have possibly imagined anyone or anything as perfect, as unique and as wonderful as you. And to think we've only just met. Imagine how I'll feel once I've gotten to know you.

Now, about your name. I've been poring over baby name books since even before I knew you were coming and, after much rumination, I came up with a short list. But guess what? Your name isn't on it. I took one look at you and I knew right away that you couldn't possibly be a Lucas or a Shepard or a Seneca. Sorry about the Seneca thing, and Shepard was your dad's idea. I never would have let him do that to you, but I had to humor him and put it on the list. He thought Shep sounded cool, but I think it's a dog's name. Maybe we'll get you a dog and name it Shep.

So, what to name you? I just don't know. I mean, you're much handsomer than I imagined, and far more stoic (you've hardly cried at all in the whole two hours since you were born). I think you need an important name, something classic but not boring, you know? 

How about Theodore. It's full of import, and yet you could still be a kid with it because the nicknames aren't terrible: Ted, Teddy, Ed, Eddie, Theo. Do any of those strike your fancy?

I wish I knew you better, buddy. It would help if you could talk, or maybe at least nod your approval when I hit the right name. Plus, if you have any ideas about how to make your name sound like it was your dad's idea, that would be a huge help. Otherwise, we're going to have to call you Shep.

Time: 11 minutes

Shep? Where did that come from? I've had several conversations with writers over the last few weeks about how one of the best parts about writing fiction is you get to name your characters without having to birth them, pay for their braces or send them to college. But Shep? Sheesh.

Day #8 — SFD, with emphasis on the S

I am very tired today, so this may turn out to be a SSFD, if you know what I mean. The prompt today, as it will every day in January, comes from Lisa Romeo .

Prompt: Small, Medium, Large

She had never been small, at least not physically. Born at 9 pounds, 6 ounces, she was considered large for gestational age, being well above the 90th percentile for newborn girls. She started wearing adult clothes at nine — a medium — and had never worn anything smaller than an extra large since she hit puberty.

Her real name was Felicity, but every called her Cat, which always seemed more than a little ironic, given that she moved with the grace of a three-legged elephant, galumphing around and settling with a decided whomp whenever she sat down. Cat wasn't exactly fat, although she was by no means skinny. She was just big. Big and awkward and … not at all cat-like.

Those who knew her and loved her, at least theoretically, always offered the usual platitudes to her mother. "She has such a pretty face," Aunt Gert always said, repeatedly, at every family gathering. "Doesn't she have a pretty face?"

Cat thought: With a name like Gert, and those horse teeth, she really doesn't have a lot of room to talk.

Cat said: "Thank you, Aunt Gert."

Clothes were always a problem. Pants were too short, waists were too tight, boots never fit over the calves. The few times she was able to find something relatively pretty to wear for some occasion or other, she could never quite put the look together they way she had seen it in the store. The dress would sag, or the blouse would gap. Accessories always seemed too much on her. "Gilding the lily," her mother always said, taking off the scarf Cat had spent 20 minutes trying to tie.

Time: 10 minutes

Too much detail, I know, but what can you expect from a SSFD. Still, I can feel the character. Her slow burning fuse, her discomfort in her own skin and in the world around her. She may be worth getting to know better.

Have You Heard the News Today? — Day #7

No prelude today. This is prompted by Lisa Romeo and an actual news story.

Prompt: Have You Heard the News Today?

I read, on Facebook of all places, that Miep Gies died recently at the age of 100. Miep gave safe harbor to Anne Frank and her family for two years during World War II. She was a hero — a quiet, reluctant hero who did what she did because it was the right thing to do.

As a writer, I am continually awed by the power of words and books. I, like most girls, read The Diary of Anne Frank when I was a young adolescent, just like Anne in her diary. I didn't know then, but realize know that Anne played a profound role in me becoming a writer.

She was completely and utterly herself in her diary. We could all relate to her feelings, her  relationships, her small joys and petty complaints in the dire circumstances in which she lived. She was a girl like any other girl, and that is why her story has remained so powerful after all these years. She put a human face — a beautiful face — on one of the most unimaginably inhuman events in history. Her little diary made us realize that if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone.

I long to write with the clear, passionate voice of Anne Frank. I wish I could be as honest and uncensored as she was in her diary. 

I mourn with the world the loss of the woman who tried and failed to save Anne, but who did save her diary for us to treasure. She was truly a blessing.

Time:  11 minutes

Bedazzled — Day 6

Today is day six of the Lisa Romeo prompts: Bedazzled. I will ignore my immediate impulse to do a riff on that machine that adds sparkles to your jean jackets. Will not go there. Where then? Let's see.

Prompt: Bedazzled

"Oh. My. God." they mouthed to each other after Sara pulled the curtain closed. Behind it was one Matthew M. Constant, by far the cutest patient who had found his way into their ER in … well, a very long time. 

"Did you see those pecs?" Sara asked when they got back to the station. She'd been the one to cut off his shirt so they could get a clear look at his wound. "He must work out incessantly." 

"Who does?" asked Danny, their favorite moonlighter from U Hospital.

"Curtain 3," said Diana, a third year resident. "I'm all about the arms. He has great arms. And beautiful eyes. My God, it looked like he was wearing eyeliner."

"What's wrong with him?" asked Danny.

"Nothing," the women sighed together, then giggled and gave their report.

"Car accident," said Diana. "He wasn't actually in the accident. An SUV flipped over and he played hero, climbing in through the broken back window to rescue a toddler from her car seat. He scraped his side pretty good on something that was sticking out from the mangled roof. I need to see how deep the wound is before we clean it out and stitch him up. Probably needs a Tetanus booster, too."

"A Greek God and a hero," said Danny. "Sounds like just my type."

"Uh, hands off, buddy boy, we saw him first," said Sara, doing a fast walk past Danny back to the patient. Danny grabbed the chart and gave the hero a once over before turning his back and mouthing another "Oh, my God!" to Sara.

"Told ya," she said.

Time:  10 minutes

OK, it sounds a bit like a bad episode of Grey's Anatomy. But I can see this guy. Really white teeth. Not complaining about the pain. The nurses I know live for this kind of patient. I wonder what's really wrong with him. Will he die in this episode? Stay tuned.

The Kids Table — Day 4

Today's prompt from Lisa Romeo is "The Kid's Table." So many thoughts come rushing in over those words — first the hysterical "Friends" episode where Ross has to dance with all the little girls at the kids table (who all want to stand on his feet) so he can impress a girl. My first idea was to write from a kid's point of view, but I kind of liked the voice of the bride on the Day 1 prompt (with pleasure), so that's where I'm starting. 10 minutes — go.

Prompt: The Kids Table

We had our wedding shower yesterday and it was so beautiful. Katie did not come (thank god), but sent a note that said her gift would arrive soon. Who does that? Her mom was there, though, and it was a bit awkward. I know she and my mom talk all the time, and I really love Jean, but it's hard to talk to her and avoid the subject of Katie.

The biggest surprise of the day (other than Aunt Fran's gift — more on that later) was little Janie. Only, now she's not-so-little Janie. She's a senior in high school now and just magnificent. I remember her as kind of a tomboy, so it was quite a shock to see this tall, poised young woman with a lovely dress and red lipstick! She looked more put together than I did.

You can so tell that Janie is Lacey's granddaughter. Side-by-side, even though Janie towers over Lacey, you can see the resemblance. It's not so much that they look alike, it's really a matter of how they carry themselves — ramrod straight posture, feet posed like a starlet on the red carpet, perfectly coiffed and accessorized. Lacey must be in her late 70s by now and she is still stunning. Maybe it's the cheek bones. They both have marvelous bone structure — strong, yet some how delicate and feminine at the same time. Lucky Janie — she'll probably never need a face lift.

The three other little girls looked so cute in their party dresses. The twins are almost 7, both blonde, one curly, one straight. And baby Amanda will turn five the day before the wedding. They absolute worship Janie, who was kind and gave them attention, but you could see that she was dying to be considered a part of the adult conversation.

Now I don't know what to do. I can't stick Janie at the kids table. Oh, to be 18 again, and trying on all those adult personas. She'll feel ridiculous if she has to spend the whole reception sitting with the little kids. Hmm, where to put her? I can't put her with Nate's cousins — those rowdy frat boys. I can't believe he's from the same family. They would probably eat her alive. No, maybe not. I bet Janie could hold her own. Still, those morons are more immature than the little girls. Maybe I should put them at the kids table. 

I'll have to talk to Nate about this, although he still thinks we should let people sit wherever they want. Clearly, he does not know my dad's side of the family. A good thing, too, or he'd go running for the hills leaving me stranded at the altar. 

Time:  11 minutes. Maybe I should just call this the 11 minute writing series, since I never seem able to stop at 10. I need a timer with an alarm.

Do you remember that time between childhood and adulthood. My daughter is there right now. I remember feeling so flattered when the adults (especially the young adults) included me. The gossip was so seductive. Then the older relatives made you feel like a stupid little kid again, asking all the same questions over and over: What grade are you in? Where are you applying to school? It was a heady time, walking that fine line before tripping over it into grownup land.

Thanks, Lisa

So Lisa Romeo Writes  is my favorite blog for writers. On January 3, she offered to send her readers daily writing prompts for all of January. I knew I couldn't refuse — it seemed just what I needed to get into my imagination, but what would I do with these prompts? I've tried to keep a journal, but my handwriting is just sad. Then, I was poking around some other blogs and read a post called Shitty First Draft and voila — SFD @ 2KoP was born. (SFD — Shitty First Draft — comes from Anne Lamott's great memoir on writing, Bird by Bird .) Enough expounding. Time to get to my first SFD. (Ed. note — the prompted writing will be in this green text; all asides will be in this grey text.)

Prompt: With Pleasure

I got the response card in the mail today. She had checked off the "Will Attend" box and then added "with pleasure". Who is she kidding? I know she doesn't want to come to my wedding. She hates me. Always has. Always will.

And I hate her, that smug, know-it-all, bottle blonde … Stop. Don't. I do not want to taint my wedding — our wedding as Nate is always reminding me — with nastiness from the past. Breathe. Think Zen thoughts. 

My wedding will be beautiful.
My wedding will be serene.
Everyone will get along.
She will be green with envy over my gorgeous dress, my fabulous smart beautiful husband, my newly-skinny body.

OK, not so Zen.

Also in the mail today — three response's from Nate's friends and family and lots of bills. God, this simple wedding is turning into an expensive affair. Not by most standards, mind you, but by our standards.

Nate and I both agreed that we would NOT go into debt trying to compete with some TV idea of what our wedding should be. We want simple, elegant and reasonable. And green. Our invitations were printed on recycled paper. We paid a little extra for the stamps that made a donation to breast cancer research. That was Nate's idea, what with both his mom and his sister going through the hell of treatment at the same time. This is just one of the 8 billion, 367 million reasons I love Nate.

And green. The bride's maids dresses are green (my favorite color). We went to a regular store and bought kind of fancy party dresses. I wanted Jill and Allyssa to feel beatiful, and since they are both so different, I couldn't inflict my taste on them, so I let them each pick out their own dress. Jill's is a halter-neck with a tiny waist and full skirt that falls just below the knee. She has the most fabulous neck and the dress really shows it off. Allyssa's is cap-sleeved with a high neck that kind of looks like a choker. It hides her scars. I think she's still a little self-conscious. Their dresses are the same color and they decided on the same shoes — silver strappy numbers that you wouldn't catch me in on a bet.

Time — 11 minutes

Oops, meant to keep it to 10 minutes. I have to come up with a new timer for this. Mine currently only measures elapsed time.

I have to say, this was an interesting experience. The mind just races ahead with ideas. I found myself fighting the impulse to ask "What's the point?" "What's the plot?" "Where's this going?" I seem to worry a lot about plot. Wonder what else I'll learn about myself and my writing in this experiment?