I’m Writing a Story…Whatcha Think?
I’ve written 2 business books. Did you know that?
I used to write fiction stories. Then I got into marketing and found my niche in business writing. It’s been a challenge to write personal or fiction anymore.
Then something happened to me.
As I’ve always done, I started writing in my journal. And on my blog. And on a Word Doc. That document is turning into a short story, if not a book. I’m entering it into a Good Housekeeping story contest. I wanted to run some of it by you to get your thoughts. If you like it I’ll post more later.
Healing Stones
I look for magic everywhere these days. Today I found it in a cemetery. On Day One of my new plan to walk 5 miles every day, I found myself in the cemetery a block from my house. As I hiked past crumbling yet majestic headstones, I marveled at the piece of history square in the middle of town.
Born 1861. Died 1919.
Loving father.
There were headstones from before the Civil War. And after it. Not many during the war, but I guess your man being away fighting to keep slavery alive is a libido killer. Moss and lichen were slowly taking over these 150-year-old carved stones. I was much more drawn to the old ones than to the newer, smoothly polished designer headstones from this decade.
The names were as varied as the United Nations, with representatives from France, Germany, Poland, Italy.
As I wandered down the gravel path, I gasped. What, from the outside, was three square blocks (blocks being an inexact measurement in a town where streets refused to stay parallel and meandered for yards before finally connecting with their brethren), appeared to stretch much larger from the inside. It was as if I were in a time warp –no, not time warp, but rather land warp, where land became something bigger than itself once you were in it. A creek I’d never noticed in years and years of driving by and holding my breath past the cemetery gurgled peacefully through the western part of the land.
I could see the mountains in the distance, a constant reminder that no matter how much I begrudged being in this town from my past, I could never hold a grudge against the beauty of the mountains. I began to enjoy my walk.
I thought about all these people I was surrounded by, and how many problems they’d had in their lives. Sickness, death, heartache, war, no electricity, no Internet or Wii…And then I thought about my own problems. My not-together-not-separated relationship. My son, newly minted in his Kindergarten-ness, who cried every time his Papa left after a weekend together. My endless list of things I was working to fix. And none of it seemed to matter. I, too, might end up here alongside the Burroughs and the Warkozkys, and my problems would be nothing more than dirt.
I’m glad we cremated Dad, I reflected, my thoughts flicking from one topic to another like an ADD butterfly. He was so not social. He would have hated the crowds. I snickered to myself at the joke, maybe a bit unholily for the spot I was in.
Healing Stones
I look for magic everywhere these days. Today I found it in a cemetery. On Day One of my new plan to walk 5 miles every day, I found myself in the cemetery a block from my house. As I hiked past crumbling yet majestic headstones, I marveled at the piece of history square in the middle of town.
Born 1861. Died 1919.
Loving father.
There were headstones from before the Civil War. And after it. Not many during the war, but I guess your man being away fighting to keep slavery alive is a libido killer. Moss and lichen were slowly taking over these 150-year-old carved stones. I was much more drawn to the old ones than to the newer, smoothly polished designer headstones from this decade.
The names were as varied as the United Nations, with representatives from France, Germany, Poland, Italy.
As I wandered down the gravel path, I gasped. What, from the outside, was three square blocks (blocks being an inexact measurement in a town where streets refused to stay parallel and meandered for yards before finally connecting with their brethren), appeared to stretch much larger from the inside. It was as if I were in a time warp –no, not time warp, but rather land warp, where land became something bigger than itself once you were in it. A creek I’d never noticed in years and years of driving by and holding my breath past the cemetery gurgled peacefully through the western part of the land.
I could see the mountains in the distance, a constant reminder that no matter how much I begrudged being in this town from my past, I could never hold a grudge against the beauty of the mountains. I began to enjoy my walk.
I thought about all these people I was surrounded by, and how many problems they’d had in their lives. Sickness, death, heartache, war, no electricity, no Internet or Wii…And then I thought about my own problems. My not-together-not-separated relationship. My son, newly minted in his Kindergarten-ness, who cried every time his Papa left after a weekend together. My endless list of things I was working to fix. And none of it seemed to matter. I, too, might end up here alongside the Burroughs and the Warkozkys, and my problems would be nothing more than dirt.
I’m glad we cremated Dad, I reflected, my thoughts flicking from one topic to another like an ADD butterfly. He was so not social. He would have hated the crowds. I snickered to myself at the joke, maybe a bit unholily for the spot I was in.
