Nudge

“Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones, in the right order, you can nudge the world a little.”  Tom Stoppard

Nudge. What a great word. It’s one of those words you can “hear” when you read it or say it. Give it a little nudge. The implication is that, once nudged, something will move just a bit, but maybe that one little move will be the first in a long trek. 

But what really strikes me in Stoppard’s quote is “if you get the right ones, in the right order…” This is the bane of all writers. We sit down with a blank page in front of us, waiting for a place to start, something to talk about, a story, a question to be posed and answered, an invitation, a challenge, a journey. For a writer, that blank page can be intimidating as hell! “The right words, in the right order.”  Aaarrgh!

I have been part of writing groups, and currently I’m working with a writing coach one-to-one. I highly recommend it. Those of you who know me may think that’s a bit odd. After all, I’ve been “writing” for a living for more than 30 years - ads, scripts, plans, headlines, letters, etc. But this is different. As I’ve been moving more into consulting (which, trust me, still involves writing), I find the inner Writer has started to take over more and more. LIke most new things I try, doing my homework and finding resources (aka brains to pick) is part of my process. Thus the writing coach. 

Every writer I’ve met has their own voice, but we all have the same struggles. Some are novelists, managing to create characters and plot arcs that keep us enthralled with the story. Some write poetry - from haikus to epic stanzas. I’ve learned things from all of them - the most important of which is to - just write! Get something down on that piece of paper (or Word doc). It may be awful. I might have a germ of an idea. And, I’m told, I should write every day - a tall order for me. But one I am working diligently to do. 

I doubt I’ll ever write a novel (my coach says never say never), but I love to read them. Poetry will not come from my hand - but I enjoy someone who does it well. Writers who pen autobiographies amaze me. How hard it must be to select the parts of your life to share. I love when, as I read their words, I can “hear” them talking. 

Short form is best for me, which is why a blog appeals. My hope is to write something that makes a reader smile, or pause, or just think. Life provides those moments to us all the time. I’ve written about the upside down sign that said - Wrong Way; Zoom meeting Bingo; my grandkids' antics; snow and sunshine - you get the idea. There are a million “little things” that happen to us, around us, every day.! Haven’t you ever just stepped back a moment - to take it all in? To marvel at something? Perhaps I’m just more open than most to them - and I like to share

So I’ll keep at it. After all, you know that old joke - 

“How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”

“Practice, practice, practice.” 

PS.

My coach recently asked me to write a Flash Fiction Fantasy (aka a really short short-story) I’ve never tried this before. Let me know what you think. 

Double Crochet

“There,” she thought, “it's done.” She really liked this one. Light blues, dark greens, and a hint of silver. This afghan was all double crochet with rows of stitches standing straight and an occasional bubble made by putting four stitches in the space of one. It was those bubbles that held the magic. A tiny piece of silver thread added inside. Running her wrinkly, veined hands over the afghan, she smiled. The next step was the most important. Gathering the afghan around her shoulders, she made her way outside into the moonshine. She wandered down a path in her wildflower, overgrown backyard to a small circle of summer green grass and moss surrounded by the tall pines at the edge of the forest.  Looking skyward through the trees to stars brightly lighting the sky and a sliver of a moon, she took a deep breath, and then another.

She remembered the first time it had happened. The small afghan of multi-colored squares that stirred something in her she couldn’t explain. She listened to what seemed to be directions and encouragement from the wool to this same place. Standing in the opening, the first time was in the fall with leaves crunching underfoot, she knew she had been drawn here by a power, no, a warmth.

Closing her eyes and quieting her mind, she felt an opening to the world. The first time this happened, it felt ominous, but she now knows there is nothing to fear. She can feel the afghan’s weight lifting from her shoulders every so slightly. It was time.

“Made with love, filled with grace, let this blanket bring comfort and peace to a soul alone and in need. Hands to hold, hearts to heal. I summon the spirits within me to share their magic for good.”

She could feel the vibrations of the silver threads. Each absorbing the magic that came from the moon and stars and through her heart. She never knew how long it actually lasted, but eventually the afghan softly landed on her shoulders once again. She wrapped it around giving it and herself an embrace.

Later that day, she headed into town pushing the stand-up grocery cart holding a few possessions. The afghan rested on top. No one gave much thought to the old woman carefully stepping over uneven sidewalk blocks as she made her way to the center of town and the library. A young man, just ahead of her, paused to hold the front door for her. She nodded her thanks and smiled at his bright green eyes. Returning the book she had finished about growing and storing vegetables, she wandered into the stacks to see what would strike her next.

The green-eyed boy was sitting in a carrel, pencil in hand, making marks on a school paper. His hand wavered over the answer choices, his brow furrowed. He sighed, then looked out the window. It was a bright shiny, warm day and the boy was bouncing his leg and repositioning himself in his chair. “Yes,” she thought. The afghan belongs to him.” When he left to stretch his legs, she quietly moved closer to his carrel and left the afghan on his chair. Just as quietly she pushed her cart to the front door and out into sunshine.

The boy returned and sat down without looking, before realizing there was an afghan on his chair. Had he not seen it earlier? Where did it come from? Picking it up to move it out of the way he thought “I’ll turn it in when I leave.” 

The afghan, however, had other ideas. Each time the boy tried to hang the afghan on the back of the chair or put it on the desk of the carrel, it slipped and fell to the floor. Finally, getting frustrated, the boy grabbed the blanket and put it in his lap. It wasn’t long before he began to feel more comfortable. His leg stopped bouncing. The fidgeting stopped and he quickly started to complete the tasks on the school sheet. With the pencil in his left hand and his right hand on the afghan, he felt himself smiling. And he hadn’t done that in quite a while. 

He looked at the afghan. Was his sense of calm coming from the afghan? He set it aside. But he couldn’t take his eyes from it. Did he hear it softly humming? Was he going crazy? His world was a topsy-turvy one – full of disappointments, no friends, a strange new home, and a step-mother he just couldn’t call Mom. The afghan seemed to know all that and was telling him it would all be all right.

He closed his workbook and piled it and his pencils into his backpack. Then he looked at the afghan. “I don’t know who left you here, but I’m going to take you home,” he mused. The afghan fit snugly in the top of his backpack and when he hefted it to his shoulders, he started humming.

Down the street, the old woman was almost home. She couldn’t see the boy leaving the library, but gave a little nod and a smile.