It’s raining on the Treasure Coast in Florida! If you live in Seattle, you can’t imagine why that’s news. It would be just another ho-hum day for you. I get it. But, down here in Too-Sunny Florida, too often we don’t get it—rain, I mean. There are other things we don’t get, either, like the fact that your rights end where my nose begins, but right now, it’s rain.
In our PUD (Planned Urban Development), we have what are given the grandiose designation of lakes, but are, in fact, piddling, pint-sized preservation ponds. We do have some bragging rights though: ours is the largest of the PPPPs. The pond that usually snuggles up to within twelve feet of my patio, now has me overlooking a Saharan scene with an oasis at the far end, unless it’s a mirage. I suppose if we wanted to sell, this would be the opportune time. The property would easily pass for beachfront rather than mere waterfront property. In fact, I have room to set up a concession stand where my lawn ends and the seared savanna begins. My neighbors, a bit closer to the water, could rent out floats and paddle boats.
Watching the water wane, I’ve lost count of how many months it’s been since we’ve had a truly satisfying, sigh-worthy downpour. We endured Old Man Sky’s grumbling and rumbling about his problem, and tolerated a few and dribbles and drops here and there, but he passed nothing substantial in that time. I think it’s been a celestial prostate problem that Dr. Luke has remedied with either a hefty dose of diuretic or that new PAE (Prostate Artery Embolization) procedure. I’m also grateful the Mr. Sky didn’t have difficulty passing solids. Had he excreted hailstones, I’d have been forced to pose an even less pleasant personification picture. I’m sure some scientist somewhere has a perfectly plausible explanation for the drought. I really don’t care. It’s raining!
And that got me to thinking how physically relieving oneself is like writing. (A silly simile to evoke a smile.) But think about it. What have you learned? Good point. But other than my overly-fond use of alliteration, what have you learned?
Here’s what I learned from me. (I learn a lot by talking to myself.) You can stand at (or sit on) the bowl all day waiting for inspiration without results. You can avoid the computer with other chores. Neither inaction will squeeze out a drop or scribe a word.
To prime the former, drink lots of water. To prime the latter, tie yourself to the chair at the computer. (One arm, or you won’t reach the keys.) Type something. Anything. A word or two. Let your imagination go. What rhymes with it or begins like it? What are its synonyms or antonyms? What images does it bring to mind? This exercise can act like a mental diuretic, and. . .down it comes! Sure, this drizzily draft will require some mopping up, but soon you’ll have manna to the eye and ear just like rain is drink to the earth!
Enthused? Inspired? Go for it! Empty your genius on us.
In my younger materialistic, non-philosophical days, I was bored as hell watching a TV production of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. I didn’t get it. If you’ve never seen or read the play, stick around. The rest of you can go take a nap. Until I get to the point. Which, if you know me by now, will be somewhere down at the bottom. HEY! NO PEEKING.
Samuel Barclay Beckett. (With a name like that, he was destined to become a great writer, right?) He was born on or about April 13, 1906, in Ireland, and died December 22, 1989 in Paris. (France. Not the one in Texas, Tennessee, or Kiribati. Or anywhere else.) So, other than my telling you he was an author, playwright, critic, and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1969, you can read all about him on the web.
When I was younger, I was preoccupied with my physical being being everything. I had not yet been exposed to college where the worlds of art, music, psychology, philosophy, science and mathematics expanded my horizons. In fact, until then, no teacher had ever explained why I had to carry the 1 back and forth across the top of addition and subtraction examples on the slate chalkboard. (Yes, I am that old, and no, it was not a one-room schoolhouse on the prairie.)
Older, and wiser, (I heard that!) I revisited Godot, and watched Vladimir (no, not THAT one) and Estragon talking and waiting for Godot. Some guy named Pozzo pops in with his slave, Lucky, whom he intends to sell in town. After they leave, a boy enters. He announces Godot will not be coming that night, but will see them the next night. V & E decide to leave, but remain seated. END Act 1. (Hang in there. This exciting epic is almost over.)
Act 2: V & E meet again to wait for Godot. Pozzo and Lucky return. (Luckily for Lucky, the sale didn’t happen.) Pozzo is now blind and Lucky is now mute. They leave, the boy returns. He says Godot is not coming and denies speaking to V & E yesterday. The boy leaves. Vladimir and Estragon decide to leave, but again remain seated until the curtain falls, ending the second and final act. For which you are very happy. I understand.
What you don’t see is the meat I have chewed off the bones of this bizarre plot seemingly sketched by a second-grader. In that missing meat, rumbling through my mind which digests such stuff, lies their interactions and the themes they represent—questions about the physical universe, the nature of man, the concept of space and time that plague scientists, philosophers, religions, and even…me. You, too? Good. I’m not alone. Read Waiting For Godot again, or for the first time, in which case you might want to take a No-Doze.
Okay. Now you can peek. Here’s my point. While taking small but steady bites out of my daily To-Do lists all month long, I’d been waiting for some theme for this post. Just going through repetitive daily motions waiting to no avail until I sat my butt at the computer and pecked out a working title: “Waiting For Inspiration.”
Then it hit me. Waiting for inspiration was exactly the same as Waiting for Godot. And presto, there he was. My inspiration at last! He’s a nice guy, really. Godot looks a bit like a slimmed down Jabba the Hutt with legs. He peered over my shoulder, nibbled little errors and gobbled typos out of this piece. So if you spy any glaring mistakes, it is what it is. I’m not waiting for Godot to fix them. He’s not coming this evening.
Now, whenever I lack inspiration, I will hit the keys with whatever comes into my mind, and make an inspired piece of writing of it. And for some reason, I suddenly feel hungry. Perhaps a few bites of Shakespeare and a cup of Earl Grey tea will do.
Been reading prompts from Lillie McFerrin Writes (lilliemcferrin.com) and found a few minutes (WHAT? How did THAT happen?) to try one today! Lillie issues a five-sentence story prompt via my email. Today I jumped into a story that dictated itself to me – which turned out to be quite unlike the photo on her website…but here it is:
WAVES…..5 Sentence Fiction……..Virginia Nygard 6/23/15
I sit in the dust outside Mabel’s Beauty Parlor while Mama sits inside getting a Marcel wave.
She come out so beautiful I bet the stars will hide in shame tonight… just like me.
Picking her way ‘cross the wooden sidewalk, she pats my head, kisses my cheek and then sashays to the shiny Ford Model A, just panting at the curb for her.
Mr. James Windsor Whitehorn don’t never come ‘cross the tracks unless he come to pick up Mama for doing the town, like he say.
I know what you be doing, my eyes say whilst I wave them away into the night.
(There you go. Hey, I write only what my characters tell me to!)
My resolution has always been to not clog the blogosphere with ramblings day-to-day or week-to-week. That carries over year-to-year with my unfailing adherence. It’s the one resolution I always keep. Until now.
My January vows to lose weight, to exercise more, to see- and/or phone my friends and neighbors more often somehow fade away like nightmares in daylight as the weeks go by. Then J.D. Salinger happened to change all that. Well, yes, he actually happened on January 1, 1919 and unhappened on January 27, 2010, at his home in Cornish, New Hampshire.
Last November, three of his unpublished stories were posted online for a short time, and I’m wondering how they slipped out, as his will says they may not be published until fifty years after his death. It may be these are part of what’s said to be allowed to be published between 2015 and 2020. Anyway, about a week ago, all this was revealed in a TV program as news, which did remind me however, that J.D. and I have a bit in common.
NO, unfortunately, as yet I have not made the NYT Bestsellers list. I assume he was financially able to live the life of a recluse in New Hampshire and devote his time to writing. Just writing. He loved to write, but hated publishing, which he considered an imposition on his time. Of course, we differ in that I cannot afford to do the same, but I’m sure he, too, would have some choice words for today’s demand on a writer to spread oneself across a gazillion media formats.
To me, it’s a bit like stripping oneself naked for approval before one’s services are purchased. There’s a name for that.