September Write Night
Here's the topic for tonight's Write Night: First Times. (No, you don't have to go there.)
Feel free to write directly on the blog (preferably by responding to this post so that we can keep them all together) or to write by hand in your notebook--whatever works for you. If you do write or type offline, consider posting your favorite word, sentence, or paragraph to the blog. Sharing is one of my favorite parts from the Summer Institute.
Logistics: If you aren't a member of the blog and you're a Blackwater Writing Project or South Georgia Writing Project participant, email me, and I'll send you an invitation. I can also post comments if you aren't currently a member.
Happy writing! (I'd love to hear from you if you write at home and don't post to the blog.)
Feel free to write directly on the blog (preferably by responding to this post so that we can keep them all together) or to write by hand in your notebook--whatever works for you. If you do write or type offline, consider posting your favorite word, sentence, or paragraph to the blog. Sharing is one of my favorite parts from the Summer Institute.
Logistics: If you aren't a member of the blog and you're a Blackwater Writing Project or South Georgia Writing Project participant, email me, and I'll send you an invitation. I can also post comments if you aren't currently a member.
Happy writing! (I'd love to hear from you if you write at home and don't post to the blog.)
posted by Donna Sewell at
6:01 PM
3 Comments:
First times:
* making an F
* first date
* drinking alcohol
* driving without an adult with me in the car
* driving illegally
* meeting for Write Night
* seeing my article in print
* seeing my name quoted by someone else
Hmmm, what do I want to write about tonight? I don't know.
I think I'll write about tonight. I arrived early at Hildegard's to eat before Write Night started.
The jerk chicken soup and roast beef sandwich were perfect. I love Hildegard's food. I wish my night class could meet here occasionally, but it won't work with the students' schedules.
I pulled out my laptop and entered the topic around 6:00, expecting eager writers to log onto the blog shortly to type.
Nature pouted, flooding the streets with rain as I waited for friends to arrive.
I refreshed the blog, no new posts. "Hmm, I wonder where everyone is," I thought and checked my watch: 6:20 p.m.
The next time I checked the blog, pictures appeared courtesy of lc. I miss her. Reading her post, I smirked, picturing her deadpan sarcasm.
6:40, I sat alone, feeling rejected, wondering where my friends where.
6:45, Vicki walked in, and the writing started.
The coffee energized my fingers as I skimmed the keyboard, wondering what words might emerge.
Sitting at the table hurt my back, putting my laptop too high, so Vicki and I moved to a low couch, much more comfy.
I miss writing. I miss sharing my writing. I miss laughing, crying, hearing the words of others.
Stress lurks right outside the door. Fifteen notebooks await me in my car, dictating my plans for the rest of the night. Workshop drafts hide in a folder; I must check them to sort people into better response groups for tomorrow's 11:00 class.
I pause, hoping for wisdom, insight, an epiphany to make me sound smarter than I am. My laptop snickers, knowing it won't come. I get few epiphanies. "Do I get any?" I wonder.
I realize I've moved far from First Times in this entry, but that's okay. The point is writing. Actually, the point is carving a space for writing in a life without much fluff, at least not yet. Life should calm down after this weekend.
I'm missing a motorcycle rally for the Wiregrass Literature and Literacy Festival. I'm looking forward to seeing Jana, Jennifer, and other old friends as well as new friends, but I'll miss spending the weekend with Wes and my biker buddies.
Yay, Diana just walked in. Three people make this worthwhile. Actually, making time to write just for myself makes it worthwhile.
Okay, I want to play with language. I haven't been doing that much yet in this entry.
Diana listens to her phone, scowling periodically. I snicker, but try not to attract her attention. She scares me.
Vicki types diligently; I long to be that productive. Instead, I watch the young woman mop, listen to Diana's phone, observe other customers, check the coffee level in my cup, wonder if I should switch to decaf, decide not to.
Books flirt with me, enticing me to stop writing and skim the selections on the shelves--all books by authors attending the Wiregrass Literature and Literacy Festival.
A burp escapes one of the staff members.
The mop bucket reminds me of my high school job, working at a local grocery story. Usually, the bag boy mopped the store, but sometimes I had to. Hated it!
Words gather, clumping together.
Diana scolds the customer service representative, arguing coherently and effectively.
By
Donna Sewell, at 7:37 PM
I just thought of my worst first time ever (and I've had some really rough ones too), it was my first transatlantic flight. I wasn't a little kid as one might first think, this was just two years ago and to put the age thing into context, I was around for the first moon landing, the Cuban missle crisis, and I remember where I was when Kennedy was shot. But back to the flight.
I've flown before, but this was my first transatlantic flight. The funny thing about flying is that in the monotony of everyday life, I tend to forget little details like a tendancy towards claustrophobia. Sometimes flying is okay, sometimes it isn't. I always insist on an aisle seat and it has to be in or very near the wing of the aircraft—exit door preferred for the space. Like I said earlier, some flights are okay but for those that aren't, there's Vitamin X for Xanax.
In all my preparations for this eight hour trip to France, I forgot the little detail about being uncomfortable in confined spaces. I had no idea that if I had only gone to a dictionary and looked up the phrase "confined spaces" I would find a picture of Air France.
As I waited in the boarding area I was awe-struck at the size of the plane. It was humongous and so was the crowd waiting to board. I was traveling with a small group so I didn't get to make my own seat selections and little did I know that we were flying in steerage. With boarding pass and seat assignment in hand, I eagerly promenaded down the gantry on to the plane. "Bon jour," I said to the flight attendants, showing of the fruits of my Maymester French 1001 class. Then I began the long, long walk down the aisle hunting for my seat. I ooed and aahed at the space and comfortable seating that I was soon to discover was Business class. As I crossed the threshold, the concept of comfort came to a screeching halt. I was in Economy class. I walked and walked until I found my row in tourist class. Oh my God! The seats were so close each other that my knees (and I'm short) touched the back of the seat in front of me. This was not good, not good at all.
I felt the anxiety come over me like an unexpected high wave at the beach. I don't like water over my head either. Breathe, Vicki, breathe. It'll be okay in a few minutes. I was in an aisle seat so I hung across the arm of the chair and focused down the aisle. It wasn't working and I was growing progressively claustrophobic, nearing a panic attack of monumental proportions.
After about an hour or an eternity, I'm not sure which it was because I had lost all concept of time by this point, I was pale, nauseaous, and tears were rolling down my cheeks. One of the ladies I was traveling with said, "You don't look so good." What an understatement that was.
My condition prompted the attention of another lady traveling with us. Thank God for my friend, Katie. As it turns out, she loves to travel but suffers from the same malady. To solve the problem, she always has Vitamin X handy. No wonder this chick was so damn happy and laughing. "Katie," I whimpered, "do you have an extra Xanax." (sniff, sniff). Yes, it was Katie to the rescue and the rest of the flight was a breeze as was the return trip.
As a post script, I always travel with Vitamin X now and I'm going to save up my money for a business class seat.
The End.
By
Buttercup, at 7:40 PM
Well here we are. It took a while for me to get gopijng because I was on the phone. I get so irritated with people who think they are making sense but refuse to listen to the customer. The day where the customer was always right is definitely gone, and in fact it is now a case of, "We don't care who you are or what you want, we don't feel like trying to accomodate." ARGHHHHHH!
OK, down to srious business. Subject is firsts. Well of course the mind goes in a definite downward spiral, but I refuse to let that happen tonight. Instead I shall talk about a broken bone.
I was 39 when I got the first broken bone. I fell while crossing the street and broke my finger. Of course they could not put it in a cast just wrapped it tightly and said air it well. It healed although it gives pain occasionally. Even worse, I dropped something on my toe yesterday, it will not bend and is bruised, so I believe I have yet a second broken bone to add to the list. Am I gedtting old and beginning to suffer from brittle bones LOL
By
Diana Chartier, at 7:51 PM
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