Writing Prompt #12

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Describe your favorite piece of furniture from your childhood home."

 

I was probably seven or eight years old when my dad bought a tall, backless bookcase. Calling it a “room divider,” he placed it perpendicular to the outside-adjacent wall of the living room of his house in Frayser, where our whole family lived before the divorce and where my brother and I stayed with him on most weekends for several years afterward.

 

And, sure enough, the simple placement of that one piece of furniture did effectively divide the room, setting off the dining area as its own separate space and making the now smaller living room cozier and more intimate. The bookcase was probably over six feet tall (or at least I remember its being taller than my 6’1’’ dad) and at least as wide, and it was deep enough to hold two rows of books on each of its three shelf levels so that one set of books could face the living room and another the dining room. Dad placed a small, cushioned chair and a lamp at the corner made by the bookcase and the wall on the living room side, creating a comfy reading nook. 

 

That corner was my sanctuary within the house, the one spot where I did not feel like I was away from home, but at home.   

Writing Prompt #11

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about something nice a stranger did for you."

 

It was late on a Saturday night in the fall of 2003, and I was lost.

 

Well, I knew where I was geographically—at the viaduct where Union and Poplar Avenues swap their north-south positions, and specifically at the apex of the bridge on Poplar above the railroad tracks. I was just under halfway drunk, and I was looking down at the train that was passing below.

 

“Don’t do it!” said a calm but stern voice behind me.

 

I turned around to see a woman in a car that had stopped right behind me. I didn’t hear her approaching; her command startled me into slightly greater sobriety.

 

Mind you, I was not planning to jump. I wasn’t even thinking of it. But my mind and heart were midnight dark. I had spent the last 45 minutes or so walking from Zinnie’s East on Madison in Midtown toward my home in East Memphis. My pickup truck was still in the Zinnie’s parking lot. I probably did not need to be driving anyway, but I didn’t set out walking for safety’s sake. I had spent the evening at Zinnie’s East with a friend with whom I was infatuated. I knew she didn’t have similar feelings for me, but instead of giving myself distance to disentangle the friendship from the heartache, I continued to hang out with her regularly, trying to rise above or ignore the feelings we both knew I had for her, feelings that would not die when I tried to bury them but would instead break through in bursts of resentment or petulance. After a night of feigning friendliness, I snapped just after we part ways, and as I approached my truck, I decided to just keep walking past it into the night. The train was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

 

“Don’t do it,” the stranger said again, more softly this time. Then, “Are you ok?

 

After hesitating slightly, I approached her car and then told her some version of the truth. I managed to assure her that, no, I wasn’t set on deliberate self-harm.

 

Once I’d done that, she asked, “Do you want a ride home?

 

I was still probably an hour and a half’s walk from my house. “Yeah,” I replied. “That’d be great.”

 

We chatted a little bit. At some point, we realized we had a mutual acquaintance, who we discussed briefly. I don’t recall what we talked about except for that, though. When we reached my house, I thanked her. 

 

I wish I could remember her name. I do remember her kindness.

 

Thank you again, my Guardian Angel.

Writing Prompt #10

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about why you want to write."

 

I want to earn a living. Being laid off from a full-time job sucks.

 

I want to earn a living, but do so using what I think is the greatest gift I’ve been given—the ability to write clearly and precisely. I'm a writer, and I want to write to be who I am.

 

That last point sounds arrogant and vague. I am neither the world’s best nor the world’s worst writer. I’m probably somewhere in the middle, if that matters. But it’s a skill that has served me well in my work, my studies, and my connecting with other people.

 

I also know that writing is hard, especially if I’ve fallen out of the habit of writing regularly.

 

I wrote a bit for my full-time job as an editor, but only sporadically. Mostly, I wrote email messages to authors, printer reps, and colleagues; I often wrote from boilerplates. I never really looked a blank page or screen and just wrote. I went so long without doing so that I didn’t even know I missed it.

 

But then my friend Susan asked me to write an essay for an anthology she was planning to compile and edit. I said yes, and then procrastinated for weeks before really getting started. I finally began writing mostly disjointed sentences and paragraphs here and there, over a couple of weeks.

 

And then, finally, I got tired of feeling the weight of the unfinished task, so I went for it, completing the bulk of the essay in a couple of days. I can’t really help editing as I write, but I did as little of that as I could. After taking a couple days’ break from the essay, I started rereading it, changing phrases, adding and deleting anecdotes, massaging the language. I really focused on the opening and closing sections, tweaking them so that they conveyed the emotions I intended.

 

By the time I sent my draft to my friend, I had taken ownership of it. I wrote this. I gave not only time, but effort, attention, feeling. Heart. I believed in it, and believed that I had done good work, something worth doing.

 

I want to feel that again.

 

When I was laid off, I immediately started applying for editing jobs. One of my oldest friends, who has known me since college, let me know that a writing position might open up with her company. I politely blew her off, thinking I didn't really want to write for a living, and also that I probably wasn't qualified for the job.

 

But she said that her boss was open to looking at my resume. I still didn't strongly consider applying, but she said she'd be happy to chat with me about what is involved in her work. So I called her. She gave me all sorts of details about what she did. But she also said, pointedly, "You're a good writer. I've thought so since grad school. And I know you could do this work." 

 

I didn't get the job. But I got the opportunity to do freelance writing for the company. 

 

My friend reminded me that, yes, I am a writer. 

 

I want to write to be who I am.

Writing Prompt #9

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"If you could live inside one of your favorite stories, what would you change about it?"

 

Before I can answer this question, I have to struggle with one of my greatest weaknesses: I love to work within constraints, to think inside the box, to stay within the guidelines. But I hate having to stop what I’m doing and set the constraints, build the box, or draw the guidelines.

 

I want to know my boundaries. For me, creative expression is finding new and interesting ways to express myself within limits. I have fun coming up with fun drum fills while playing in straight 4/4 time, making subtle changes to the hop profile of a German-style helles lager, or seeing if I can run a set distance a little faster. Playing a song with constantly changing time signatures, developing a beer recipe with no reference to defined styles, running with no plan for time or route, though—I feel stress just thinking about doing those things. In jobs, I’ve been very good at working at a particular type of task—say, copy editing—over and over, learning a little bit each time, getting a little better incrementally, but I’ve balked when asked to rethink a process or (worse) “carve out your own niche here!” Slowly working and thinking through existing processes, instead of simply following them, disorients me. The effect is almost the same as that of trying to concentrate in a room with too many competing background noises, or organizing a junk drawer.

 

As for changing stories, I just don’t approach them that way. When, for example, much of the Star Wars fandom voiced their disappointment at narrative choices made in the most recent movies, I didn’t get worked up about them. I want to hear (or see, or read) the story and react to it as a solid thing that exists; it’s all wrapped up in my suspending disbelief, in letting the story work whatever magic it has on me. Approaching a story with what-ifs makes it less real, and less enjoyable.

 

But for the sake of this exercise? I read that George Lucas once considered a much darker ending for Return of the Jedi: after Luke’s father dies on the (second) Death Star, Luke picks up the Vader mask and helmet, looks at them for several seconds, and puts them on his own head. If I were Luke in that moment, I might do that. 

 

Cut to black, cue the Imperial March, and roll the end credits. 

 

Dude.

Writing Prompt #8

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about an imagined ideal day walking around a city of your choosing."

 

San Francisco remains my favorite city to see while running. I start today's run just outside our rental home on 25^th Street just a block or so away from the BART station at Mission and 24^th. I amble eastward past Van Ness and Folsom and turn left onto Balmy Alley to look at the street murals, stopping to take a few photos with my phone and mentally noting new additions to the impromptu gallery since my last visit a few years ago. At 24^th, I turn back to the west and pass Wise Sons Jewish Deli, where I’d probably stop for breakfast were I not just getting started on my run.

 

From there, I head north up Shotwell St, passing several restaurants and colorful old homes. I turn right at 18^th and continue eastward till I reach busy Harrison St, which I cross and then turn right onto to pick back up on 18^th after it jogs. Just after reaching Utah St, I circle upward through Fallen Bridge Park and cross the freeway on the pedestrian bridge, which brings me back onto 18^th and into the Potrero Hill neighborhood. I descend 18^th steeply to De Haro St and turn left so that I can pass the old Anchor Brewing building on my right. I stop at the brewery building, reminiscing about the tour that Cindy and I took there in 2013 and wistfully wondering if I’ve had my last Anchor beer.

 

Crossing myself as I face St Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church across the street, I reverse my course (now uphill until I cross the freeway) but this time continue past Shotwell until I reach Dolores Park. I slow to a jog as I move counterclockwise around the park’s perimeter, again stopping to take a photo or two (definitely one from the southwest corner, looking northeastward toward downtown). On another day I might tackle more hill work in Noe Valley, but today I continue southward on Dolores until I reach 25^th, then head back east toward our apartment for a shower and coffee (though probably not in that order) and to see if Cindy is awake. 

Writing Prompt #7

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write a review of the last movie you saw."

 

“Feel-good” movies are sometimes derided, sometimes dismissed, and almost never critically acclaimed. When a feel-good flick is also a biopic, it can be overly sentimental and even shade into soft hagiography. At their best, though, feel-good films make their viewers, well, feel good. My All-American did just that for me.

 

My All-American tells the story of Freddie Steinmark, an undersized but dogged defensive back for the University of Texas Longhorns in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The upbeat, devoutly Catholic Freddie is shown as a winner from his youth, winning games, winning the confidence of coaches at all levels, and winning the heart of his eventual fiancée, Linda, before ultimately being diagnosed with bone cancer, to which he succumbed shortly afterward.

 

Freddie’s story is his own, of course, though its cinematic telling echoes previous depictions of football players, especially Rudy and Brian’s Song. The film does not provide harsh, documentary-style grittiness, but that does not seem to be its aim. From all accounts, the actual Freddie Steinmark truly did inspire his teammates, coaches, and friends. The filmmakers’ choices zero in on the things about him that did that—his faith (alluded to many times though not shown in a cartoonish way), his discipline, and his unwillingness to give up despite enormous physical, psychological, and emotional challenges.

 

Ultimately, I did not watch My All-American to see the dark side of an otherwise upstanding person or to learn more about the seedy underbelly of big-time college sports—I know enough plenty about the influence of big money on athletics and even more about the complexity and contradictions of human souls, but I am old enough to dismiss the folly of believing the pessimistic take is the only or truest take. I watched it in the hope that Freddie’s better qualities might rub off on me as well. God willing, they will someday. 

Writing Prompt #6

 

 After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"What's the most adventurous thing you've eaten?"

 

To paraphrase Charlie in “So I Married and Axe Murderer,” Scottish cuisine is based on a dare. A former picky eater, I tried several dishes during my brief Scotland visit in 1995 that I probably would’ve shunned under different circumstances. But I was twenty-three and overseas, so I tried black pudding, a couple of other breakfast meats I couldn’t identify, and—eventually—haggis.

 

I had never seen haggis before then, though I had heard enough about it (“heart, intestines, lungs, boiled in a wee sheep’s bladder…good for what ails ya!”) to be a bit grossed out by the idea. However, our group was scheduled to attend a “Scottish Feast” our last night before returning to London, for a formal marching out of the haggis was the main event. Our bus driver/tour guide/sharer of spirits gave us a rousing pep talk when we collectively voiced our disgust: “Oh, what you do, see, is mix up a bit of haggis with your tatties. It’s beautiful.” I wasn’t totally convinced, but I followed his advice one the haggis was plated, generously stirring my potatoes into the vaguely meatloaf-esque mound. As the lighting was dim in the supper hall, I could nearly dissociate what my brain told me was in front of me from what I saw and tasted.

 

And what I tasted was comfort food, almost like something my mom would’ve made for us. Beautiful.

Writing Prompt #5

 After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Describe your favorite room in your home or apartment."

  

Our den, though not exact the center of our house, is the center of our home. Cindy and I spend much of our non-working time awake on the large tan sectional sofa (which we bought to replace the ratty old green sectional sofa that was, for a while and unbeknownst to us, a second home to a family of rodents), her at the end nearest the kitchen and me anchoring the corner in the middle. Our two pups usually join us, either on the sofa with us or watching out the windows of the French doors that face the backyard, home to squirrels and other intruders.

 

The room’s wood paneling walls are painted a deep burgundy, what we used to call “Midtown red,” a hue probably less popular with real estate agents now but that still fits my 1990s-forged  definition of Classy. The TV is in the corner opposite the crux of the sofa, which we watch on occasion, though less often than we read on our phones. We eat all of our meals at the short, square coffee table, which also serves as a makeshift shoe closet.

 

The den was an addition to the original 1950s house, and it’s draftier than any other room. In the summer, we sometimes install a window air conditioner to fight against the afternoon heat and direct sunlight that invade this west-facing room. In winter, we sit or lie under the extra blankets that we keep stacked near Cindy’s end.

Writing Prompt #4

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"What color do you feel like today and why?"

I am a steely bluish grey today, a product of the weather, perhaps, but not just the weather. When I opened the front door this morning, I saw a rain-washed street and sidewalk, evoking the colors of a school blacktop and backyard concrete basketball patio, respectively. No rain was falling, though, so I could see the houses, trees, light poles, and cars clearly, not needing to squint from a too bright sky.

 

My eyes are clear this morning. I drank no beer yesterday, so I slept soundly and am alert after just one cup of coffee. Even without a full-time job commitment, I have goals for the morning and afternoon, tasks that will help me as I move forward in self-employment and exercise that will keep me even emotionally. I face the coming day with neither bliss nor despair, but determination and peace. A sober grey backlights my workstation as I glance beyond my computer’s monitor through the window.

Writing Prompt #3

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about an item you have that isn’t expensive but means a lot to you."

 

My Memphis State sweatshirt has seen its share of sweat—more than 37 years’ worth. My mom bought it for me during a trip to the Tiger Bookstore on Walker, right near the campus, in late 1986, during the middle of the Memphis State Tigers’ basketball season. The team was banned from playing in the NCAA tournament that year, but that’s the only thing that kept them from playing in it, because they were really good. Dwight Boyd, Sylvester Gray, Marvin Alexander, Dewayne Bailey—we had some players.

 

I had multiple Tigers sweatshirts around that time, but this one was always my favorite—midnight blue, with nothing but the bold words MEMPHIS STATE in white with gray trim, across the front—simple, clean, classic, and free from the clutter that seems to mar much of the apparel sold to fans of the university’s teams. I wore it with pride to school, always affirming that my true loyalty lay with the Tigers over and above our high school. When I ultimately attended Memphis State, I took the sweatshirt with me, wearing it to football and basketball games and pretty much anywhere else.

 

The shirt now has a few holes and some yellow paint stains, but it still fits, and I still wear it to games. It’s older than most of my friendships, and it outlasted my career at my longtime place of employment. I hope to be buried in it, sanctifying it in an open coffin in the nave of my parish, exposed to incense, icons, and the prayers of the faithful.

Writing Prompt #2

 

 After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Recall an important memory from your childhood and tell it from the perspective of someone else who was present."

 

 

Well, score a point for the buck-toothed kid. Just when I thought I’d chosen the most talented and, frankly, most attractive sixth-grade kids to represent our school’s Orff music program at the county-wide program for Memphis in May, I’m going to have to uglify things a bit and include that smart-aleck.

 

Honestly, I don’t know how he found out. I made my selections yesterday and sent the list to the school board rep. Yeah, I made a joke in the teachers’ lounge afterward about finally getting my revenge on the kid with the big teeth. Did one of them rat me out?

 

Why did I want revenge? That kid has pissed me off several times this past school year. Back in the fall, I wrote out the lyrics to a short ditty on vegetables on a poster-sized sheet of paper for the class to learn and sing. That bastard had the nerve to raise his hand and, with a cocky grin, point out that lettace is not spelled l-e-t-t-a-c-e. I told him, no, I spelled it correctly, but he kept insisting I was wrong, so to get rid of him for a few minutes, I sent him to the library to check the big dictionary. He wasn’t gone even five minutes before he re-entered the classroom and, without saying a word, took a marker and scribbled a u in place of the a. The gall. This is also the same twerp who, when I was playing a tune on the recorder, stood up and did a mocking dance and dumb-show of my playing.

 

God made him cocky, but he also made him look like a beaver, which was a good enough reason to keep him off the Orff squad. Or so I thought, anyway, before he and a couple of his friends confronted me about why he was not chosen. I was completely blindsided, and in a moment of embarrassed panic, I told him I didn’t mean to omit him and of course he was part of the team. Jeez.

 

Was it that goody-goody Miss Russell who outed me? Gah.

Writing Prompt #1

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about a song and a feeling it invoked in you."

 

My friend Bryan Hayes wrote a song called The Other Side. On the surface, the lyrics speak of saying goodbye to a close friend, seemingly shortly after their death. Having talked to him about it, though, I know that the initial inspiration came from the sadness he felt after his beloved Labrador retriever Fender died. 

 

I almost never make it all the way through the song without crying, and I don’t cry as easily as I wish I did. Heck, I hardly ever make it through the first chorus without my eyes becoming wet with tears. The chorus lyrics are “Meet me at the station, my friend / Save a seat on that ride…I’ll see you again on the other side.” So simple, perhaps familiar even the first time I heard them. But I cannot hear them without projecting a movie in my mind, of dogs I’ve had to say goodbye to—Mr B (Bubba), the first dog I had as an adult and who was also my (now) wife Cindy’s first dog as well, and Cy (Mr Man), our gentle giant of a golden retriever who became ill out of the blue and had to be put down less than a month later. I see one or both of them in a train car, usually a dining car with a table between two facing seats as in a restaurant booth, just sitting, smiling (tongues out), turning their heads to look at me as I sit next to them, and hug their necks, and cry and cry and cry.

 

Fuck you, Bryan. And thank you.