Afghan

When I'm having a really horrid day, I will often intentionally dig out an afghan knitted by my grandmother and flop down on the couch with a book and some classical music and just feel wrapped in a little serenity. Doesn't last long around here, but I like being wrapped in something she made . . . it feels very comfortable.

Yesterday, I told this guy [and visit the link if you want to join the Storytellers and flex your short story muscles] how incredible it felt to be working on something where the voice just comes . . . where it's so comfortable. For whatever reason, that voice often comes to me in a "neighborhood" lingo, the world where my father grew up. The world of The Roofer.

I guess kids are like sponges. I used to go to NYC with him and hang out all day with his buddies in a bar when I was as young as five or six. It's a bar that's now gone, the kind bar that's tough to find now--in an actual endangered neighborhood of former tenements. I learned a lot of bar tricks--like juggling coasters. I saw drunks with their heads on the bar . . . missing teeth. The bathroom had a single bar bulb and often smelled like puke. Ahh, those were the good old days of my childhood. I adored every single second of it. EVERY second. It was what we did on Sundays. It was better than anything my father ever did with me. Better than Brownies. Better than playing catch. I'd dare say, it was better than Disneyland.

And somehow . . . when it's time to find a certain street voice, it's like wrapping that afghan around me. It just happens. It's a rhythm, a patter, a way of even moving when I type, even, a certain way I cock my head.

My guess is we all have an afghan voice. It's the one we slip into so well that we just type and after a half hour wonder, "Well, where did all THAT come from?"

What's interesting to me, though . . . is that some writers don't KNOW they have an afghan voice. They haven't quite found it. They work at genres they have no feel for (if you have ever read a work in progress of someone attempting YA who really has no feel for young people, then you know what I mean). Their VOICE, their afghan voice is "right there" and so obvious, except, perhaps, to them. I can rattle off two blog writers I think would make awesome middle-grade writers. That's not what they're writing . . . but I think they have it in them.

So . . . what's your afghan voice? Which world do you slip into effortlessly?

Paint Me a Picture

Got back yesterday from a whirlwind trip to Manhattan with Oldest Daughter. We had a fabulous time . . . we walked all around the city, holding hands, and talking. She is too thin! No Freshman 15 for her. So I tried to stuff her with good food and pretzels from the sidewalk guys. It is so wonderful to know she is pursuing her musical dreams. The bonus, of course, is that I was in New York City.

So we were on 5th Avenue watching the Columbus Day Parade. During parades, cars can periodically cross at even streets, pedestrians at odd. We were at 54th. This old couple, well-dressed, comes up and wants to cross and the cop near us tells them no. They start arguing. They tell him he's an idiot . . . they go on and on about having to go out of their way ONE block. Cars are RUSHING through the intersection during a break in the marchers, and they are whipping awfully close to them--and the cop--as only Manhattan drivers can. Finally, the cop told them if they didn't move they would be hit by a cab (which came PRETTY close), and they shuffled off, CURSING him under their breath. The cop looks at me and says, "Nice old lady." I was reminded for the thousandth time that my hometown isn't like any other hometown.

Living where I do in Virginia, I dislike how homogenous it is. I hate that my kids have the ONLY Hispanic surname in their classes. When they occasionally stumble on a Gonzalez or a Martinez, I am practically giddy! In NYC, because all the cops were directing parade traffic, I saw every cop's name on his or her badge. Irish, Vietnamese, Italian, Spanish, and every possible enthnicity of last names under the sun. I saw many, many hajibs (Muslim head coverings) as I walked along, I saw several Siekhs in turbans and long beards. I heard every possible language I think, as people walked past us chatting in their native tongues on their cellphones. The guy who sold us Oldest Daughter's pretzel was Lebanese--and very funny.

But if you have never lived in New York, you might not know. You might guess at this melting pot, but the rainbow is really astounding. So bringing it back to the writing . . . my opening scene in Freudian Slip has a siekh driving a cap with a Buddha bobblehead on his dashboard and a picture of Pope John Paul II paperclipped to his viser. I tried to paint my city the way I see it. Oldest Son has an English teacher. He had to write an essay and he mentioned candy canes in it. The teacher, for Oldest Son's rewrite, said, "Add more description. Don't assume I know what a candy cane is or what it tastes like." So the essay was turned in again with glowing description of peppermint.

My trip to New York was a writing reminder that you shouldn't assume. Paint a picture--not back story, don't drown it with boring details--but slip it in there. You know, come to think of it, that's why Travis's My Town Monday blogs are so fun.

So tell me a detail about where you live. Something you'd have to be observant or an insider to know.

Me and Mike Tyson

So . . . my reality show continues. I am sporting a massive shiner, I think I broke the bone over my eye, and my knee is a mess. AND I ended up in Bellevue Hospital yesterday.

Yup. Quite an adventure. Short version, I've been getting these massive hives for a year now off and on. Can't nail down what it is I am allergic too. Could be a bunch of things. I usually take a Benadryl . . . and try to find some correlation on a food diary. Nothing. They've been getting worse and worse, and I KNEW I need to go see a doctor, but I haven't gotten around to it. So yesterday, I had a hive attack . . . and long story short, my heart was tachycardic . . . my blood pressure dipped to 70 over something . . . and I went temporarilu blind--couldn't see anything, but could hear voices sort of.

So . . . outside Grand Central, I fell face first, unconcious, and it now looks like Mike Tyson and I went a round. Completely "out." Fire department EMTs came (cute!), adrenaline into my heart like Pulp Fiction, and assorted shots and so on. Off to Bellevue. Bed next to me had a heroin addict looking for methadone.

Soooooooooooooo, after hours there, I was sent home with several epi pens and steroids. And the order to see a doctor pronto when I get home lest "next time" I have a heart attack for real and that's the end of me. So what the HELL am I allergic to?

Anyway . . . my reality show continues.

And you want to know what I thought as I was coming to in Bellevue?

That I wrote a SCENE in the Bellevue ER . . . and I have NAILED it. It IS a nuthouse and it's a damn good scene!!!!!

Only a writer.

Peace,
E