On the porch with a secret - writing exercise #2

Here's our second writing exercise of the day: "Imagine a character sitting on a front porch. Create a first person monologue in which the character reveals a secret about himself/herself that no one has ever known. Give us a sense of setting." We didn't have enough time to have more than one idea. Beware, I told you I was in a funky mood.


A Seat on the Porch
5/5/07
(c) Andy Osterlund, 2007

As a day for a seat on the porch, this isn’t a bad one. The air is clear and comfortable. The season’s too early for bugs. It’s quiet, most of the neighbors away or in their routines. It’s a surprise to be here, but surprises can be okay. It’s very quiet, and warm. It’s okay to rest, to sit and to “be.” We don’t take enough time to reflect, do we? Never enough time to sit on a porch on a quiet day and reflect, until sometimes you just have to sit.

I’ll have to finish up the lawn later, maybe when it’s cooler. Or, maybe we can hire a neighbor this time to finish up. Have to put the mower away then, maybe she’ll get a neighbor to do that too. I hate to put so much on her. She’ll have time. She’ll be okay too.

It’s funny what we fear, thinking about it now. We’re afraid of others so often, but perhaps not when we need to be. Remember last year, the plant closing, the fears we had then? The town is moving on, isn’t it now, new grocery stores and the book store there, and the Cappuccino Café. Some people have moved on, it’s okay to move on. New plant opening on the other side of the hill, that’ll be a good thing for some people. People thought I was the bad guy, but they didn’t really see what I went through, what we all went through in the office - same pressures as everyone else. Same pressures and fears. Everyone’s afraid, but you just have to make it work, make your decisions and move on.

Now, looking back, it’s easy to look at things and realize that it was a good thing. The town is going to be much better after this – much better after this. Look at us now, we’ve already got the Cappuccino Café – I hear other stores are coming into town, and that will bring new people to town. That will really bring this place around. It’ll be a good thing. People will see in time. It takes patience, but people will see this town turn around. And the plant, of course, it was just what we had to do. Times are changing, the products change. We have to adapt. It’s all cycles, and it’s really a good change. Looks like the plant will be opening again in a few months, and we’ll be able to start new. It’s always a good thing to start new – to take what you learned from the past, to remember those hard lessons and the choices you had to make and the sacrifices, but then you get to start new, and this town will be a better place for it.

And so much at home. She and I, we just had to go through this. We didn’t know what was going to happen, but we made it through and things are looking up. So much warmth. She was always supportive. She was always sympathetic. She always understood. Even when the reporters came and accused us of so many things, she understood. And now, things are looking up.

I’ve heard stories of feeling like this, wondered what it would be like, in some lonely, desperate way. I feel the warmth; of course my shirt is soaked, that’s uncomfortable. The pain is there, but it’s so deep, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt, there’s really nothing I can do about it. The ambulance should be on its way. My daughter made me buy this phone, “At least for emergencies,” she said, “And to call me!” She said, I remember that. The ambulance should be on its way. It can take a while to get around in this town. The paper’s had some articles about that recently, with all the violence. It’s just something we’re not used to, not completely prepared for. But, it just takes time. Like that snow we had a few years back, biggest ever – we weren’t prepared for it then, but now we’re more prepared. We just need to learn from these things, and it makes the town a better place. But, the ambulance should be here any minute. Actually, she should be here any minute too. I hope she doesn’t see me like this – it would be better, I think, if she didn’t. Maybe I should call the ambulance again, just to make sure they know I’m here and know how to find me. I don’t know what’s taking them so long. It would be good if she didn’t see me like this.

Remember last time she found me like this? Well, not exactly like this of course, but remember when I was working on the lawnmower, and I hadn’t tightened the, well, there’s no need to remember everything, but that was quite a day too. She must have yelled at me for an hour, remember? I mean, yelled! Other people don’t get to see her that way, that’s reserved just for me. We’ve been through a lot, she and me. I think this is the happiest we’ve ever been. We probably say that every year, and I think it’s true every time. This time it definitely is. So many things that we’ve waited for all these years, so many things coming true. The hardships? Sure, we’ve been through our share or more than our share, but I think we’re the happiest we’ve ever been. It’s just that things change, and sometimes you have to adapt, and you work through it again, and you’re better for it, every time.

Did I know the man in the car? Was he in the plant some time? It’s impossible to know everyone. I just couldn’t recognize him. Maybe if I thought about it harder for a while. I suppose I should try to remember his face. I just don’t know if I could recognize him if I saw his picture, maybe saw it in a company photo. It happened so fast. They always say that in the newspaper. Maybe he was there for barbeque that Saturday, but I just didn’t recognize him. Maybe I would recognize his voice, maybe he called, last week, was that the man who called last week? It could have been. It’s just hard to remember in different circumstances, and it’s hard to really be prepared for the unexpected – especially things like this. Nobody’s prepared for this. There was no way to know. Maybe someone knew, but, well, we got a lot of calls like that last week, and the week before. It’s just so hard to be prepared or to know what to expect, especially when you have so many people. It’s impossible to know everyone.

I hope we can still make the wedding next weekend. Shouldn’t be a problem. He’s a good man – not rich like I hoped, but he’s fine, and he’s smart. I love seeing her around him – she looks different, and I like that. Their new town will be fine too – she’ll have to adapt some, I think, it’ll be different for her, and it’ll be different for us, not having her here. But that’s the way of things, and really, we’ve never been happier. We couldn’t be happier for her. That’ll be a beautiful day, and I can’t wait. She’ll look so beautiful, I’m sure.

He’s fine and he’s smart. He has plans, and that’s good, and he got the job in the new town, so that’s fine. It’s just fear again, you just don’t know. And now, I can’t control everything anymore – they’re out of my hands, and I have to accept that. We hope and we’ve prayed for the best, and you just don’t always know what’s next.

(c) Andy Osterlund, 2007

Ginger root - writing exercise #1

Our teacher handed out writing starters. She asked us to use similies and metaphors to describe it. I got a ginger root. I was in a little bit of a funk today, so my writing came out a little weird.

Ginger root
An object I would not have known premaritally.
An object I would not associate with the sweetness
Or the spiciness (a matter of measure), the drama of a sauce
Before my new wife brought it into our little apartment home from the
Grocery store. I wondered if she had gone to some new age shop,
Some retailer that sold crystals and herbs and bits or root and foreign dirt.
It’s skin like nothing. Its edges like brokenness. Textures of dirt, color of air and emptiness. Scent of an absorbent sponge.
This thing that sneaks into our grocery bags. This thing profoundly discovered now in the shelves with beans and leeks and once living vegetation.
- - -
It looks like it has a face. I can see eyes looking over my shoulder, to the corner of the room.
A horn, or a bad wart, or a millionaire’s parted hair.
Knowing the smells when caught with a knife. Afraid to bring a knife into the memory of this thing and the first days with my wife the gourmet chef.
Dirt like a bruise, like a tear, like an eye open too long without enough sleep.

Writers' Workshop Day

Spent much of the day in a writers' workshop today at church . It was interesting and helpful. The best part was the writing exercises, and hearing other people's writing. The writing today had an openness and authenticity that's been rare in our church's arts conversations so far.

However, again, I was left with the question of "what do I do with this thing, now that I've made it?" What good is a collection of short stories or poems sitting on my own hard drive or in my own notebooks? As always, we were encouraged to refine our work, to expand upon today's exercises. But, again, I'm left in this lonely question of "why?"

The habitual writer will say, "I can't NOT write." And that's true for me. Writing is like exhaling, like blinking, like leaving the artifact of a footprint in a forest. It can't be helped, so we should do it well. But my habits aren't that disciplined.

The casual writer will say, "I enjoy writing." And, I do. But I enjoy a lot of things. I enjoy TV. I'm easily entertained. That's not a good enough reason for much.

The prophetic writer will say, "I must write for others." And I want others to know and feel what I do. But, I'm shy.

Yes, writing should be shared. And writing shouldn't exist to be sold. And that's why I blog - blog into the depths of anonymity, into the sea of other bloggers sharing their wares, hoping for the random possibility of forming community.

But that's also why I go to writing conferences - a community for a weekend. That, and I'm always hoping to be discovered.