Process

A few years ago (several years ago, likely – the years and practice bleed) I started note drafting my narrative pieces. This is a way for me to pull my daydream drafts to a page, sketch a story while the ideas are in my head. Character names, places, motivations, situations or plot points, whole sentences, dialogue, whatever elements I can see in the moment I put on the page for later use. Sometimes my story notes weave through a few notebooks before I commit much to a draft.

Yesterday I thought about that line

I don’t take the heat like I used to

and what story I might make from it. We’re up in northern Wisconsin, on a lake with my husband’s parents for the week. I imagine any vacation as a potentially prolific time for my writing, and most aren’t, but here I’ve taken an hour or two each day to journal and draft. Last night, citing spotty wi-fi in the cabin, the kids and I headed to the camp lodge where they connected to play Minecraft and I thought about not taking the heat like I used to.

Today I headed into town for a coffee and drafted the first paragraphs of the story. I like to draft longhand, at least to get the piece started, before I begin typing, and I usually return to my notebook to draft scenes or think about a story further. Again, this can run through a few notebooks. Thirty-Nine Stories is supposed to cut the space between thinking and making so today I quit journaling (I have little new to say anyway) and started the draft. Then, with fifteen minutes until closing (at 2pm!) I began typing.


Maggie called Lynn on Monday night. Mom, she said, I have an interview in the Cities tomorrow morning. Maggie’s usual sitter caught a bug or had food poisoning, something gastric, and couldn’t watch Cheyenne. Can you? Maggie paused. Please? Within the hour Maggie pulled into the drive, popped the trunk of her old Honda to retrieve a duffel bag. Come on! she called over her shoulder and Cheyenne unbuckled, opened the car door and followed her mom up the walk. Maggie knocked but pulled the screen door open before Lynn moved from her view at the kitchen window. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Maggie said, I didn’t want to leave early and still hit traffic. She met Lynn in a tight hug. Third interview, she said, They actually booked a hotel for me. I think this is when – . She stepped back, shook her head.

Honey, that’s great! Lynn smiled. She sounded and looked like this was great news, and it was. Maggie caught the effort but didn’t know if it was Lynn, hurt by the surprise, or Lynn, still unmoored by widowhood. 

I’m sorry, Maggie said, I should have told you sooner. But it’s like, a little too good. I didn’t want to say anything. Behind her, Cheyenne scuffed the floor with her shoe. Could be fun, right, Chey? Maggie reached an arm around to pull her daughter into a side hug. Cheyenne shrugged. Maggie dipped to kiss the part in Cheyenne’s hair, then looked up at Lynn, made a face that said please help. Lynn was out of practice helping, though she’d been great help during her granddaughter’s first years as Maggie finished a degree and found work. Tether distance, Maggie said after landing her first job, echoing Lynn’s own joke about which colleges Maggie could apply to, when Lynn couldn’t imagine not seeing her daughter each day. But Maggie flung a wide net and moved to the ocean, returning with a baby, staying tether distance in the decade since. 

Lynn looked at her granddaughter, reached a hand to touch Cheyenne’s shoulder. I’ve missed you, she said, We should do all the things. Cheyenne smiled then, ducked her head at that, an old exchange that once opened their time together. What should we do? Lynn would ask. Everything! Cheyenne would open her arms wide. You mean, all the things? Lynn would lift Cheyenne to rest on a hip and they would begin listing: lunch first, then a safari, a walk to the playground, a trip in a hot air balloon, ice cream for dinner. Cheyenne became the small voice of reason. Grams, she would say, We can’t go to Paris. It’s a hundred million miles away! 

Thank you, Maggie mouthed. She hugged Cheyenne and whispered something. Cheyenne nodded. Then Maggie was out the door, backing the Honda down the drive. Lynn asked, So what should we do? and Cheyenne sighed, picked up her duffel and retreated down the hall to her mom’s old bedroom. 


Nineteen of thirty-nine started. 496 words so far.

More Of The Moment: Found Starts

This summer I join Justin on his morning bike ride. Country road, bike path, side streets, giant hill to a coffee shop that opens at five. We don’t arrive at five. We get there around seven, seven-thirty, stay an hour or so. Justin orders a latte. I drink green tea, not because I’m a tea fanatic but because I intermittent fast. I am not fanatic about intermittent fasting either, but it’s what works for my body/ mind now.

All spring I put together an MFA application portfolio and a week ago submitted the work to two programs. Then I fretted about one of the fiction pieces because it needs more revision before I’d call it really done. (I like to revise for months or years though, so). Then I found a small typo in an essay. So this morning I sat with my green tea and an open notebook, thinking whether to email program directors to ask permission to resend an essay (the errant s removed) and the latest revision of a piece I titled but think of by its protagonist, Eugene. As in: I’ve got to work on Eugene or I keep picking at Eugene. I will get to those emails. But first.

I opened my notebook to write some calm. When the kids were little and squabbling I’d say, I want peace in the house. They picked up on this and the phrase still comes as a reminder to ourselves or a prayer, that we want peace in our house, minds, bodies. Sometimes I write my way to steady. This morning I just wanted to remind myself again that

probably

everything

will be okay. I was a sentence into fear that everything will not be okay when the table next to me started talking about hotel stays. A couple in their sixties, another woman in her fifties or sixties. Last month the couple showed up at a hotel and at check-in were asked to please check the room and if it didn’t meet their standard the hotel would provide a different room. We had a couple of farmers in last night, the clerk told the couple, And we’ve changed all the bedding but the scent lingers.

So at that point I just start transcribing the lines I catch. The couple couldn’t sniff out farmer in their hotel room but their friend remembered working at Farm & Fleet, following men’s muddy footprints around with a mop and bucket. No way their wives would put up with that! she said, At least kick your boots!

Maybe it was the cadence of their voices, or volume, but I could not not listen. The range of conversation! A house on fire, or thought to be on fire. The temperature yesterday, ninety-six degrees. An elderly mother who refuses to eat more than two bites of supper. Orange-y sweaters. Waiting in line to be served. A man with gout who might have quit drinking except the pain was too great. Desire to be a homebody. An angry man who never meant to hurt her. He was creative too. One of the women said, A lot of creative people are troubled. They think too much. The man said, Sometimes creative people are angry. The other woman said, Look at Hemingway. He shot himself.

I have salvaged one line and will start a story with: I don’t take the heat like I used to. Give me a week.