What I’ve Got Going On the Side…

Between writing for my clients and writing this blog, well, I write a LOT. As in hundreds of thousands of words a week. (I am being not at all hyperbolic.)

And while all that writing is wonderful and satisfying and allows me to tell people, quite truthfully, that I am A WRITER… well, I do hold onto some silly delusions of grandeur. As in, I want someday to write a novel. And to wander into Barnes & Noble and be able to grab my novel off the shelf, hold it up high, and squeal “I wrote this! Buy it now!” to all the taken aback patrons searching through the stacks.

To that end, I joined an online writing group.  It’s hugely intimidating because the other members? Are STELLAR writers.

But I keep telling myself to get over myself and stop being insecure… That having awesome writers reading your work and telling you how to make it stronger is HUGE. That even if they think your writing is silly or immature or just plain sucky, they are nice people who will scrape up something constructive to offer you.

And, well, I wanted to share what I’ve been doing with you. Not every day, I assure you. I will continue to update you with the ridiculousness of my life on a regular basis. But… In case you wanted to make any comments… Or suggestions… Or totally ignore my foolish attempts at writing fiction and tell me about what’s going on with you… Well, have at it.

Here’s what I wrote for our first assignment. I hope you enjoy it. And if you don’t, well, let me down gently won’t you?

Shrodinger’s Cat

I’ve never been one for physics.

But when Mr. Koppler taught us about Shrodinger’s Cat – which involves poison, a box, and a cat – I couldn’t wait to call Grandpa.

A retired engineer with two sons and three grandsons – all lawyers – my grandfather has always taken particular pleasure in phone calls from his only granddaughter.

We’ve spent hours talking: Me reading him short stories. Recounting the adventures of Polly, my apricot puggle. Reconstructing long narratives between me and my not-quite best friend Melissa. Asking for opinions on school clothes (will the red-checkered skirt look better with the blue sweater or the white blouse?).

We’ve also spent hours discussing speed and velocity and acceleration. In Mr. Koppler’s classroom, the numbers and letters might as well be Japanese. But Grandpa makes everything simple.

Melissa is dithering about Joey Miley who pinched her arm in gym class and isn’t that a sign that he likes her? But I can’t wait to hear Grandpa’s voice. To find out exactly how in the wide world a cat could be dead and alive at the same time.

When the bus creaks to a stop at my street, I flap a hand at Melissa, shout a quick goodbye to the driver, and run-skip-run down the sidewalk to my house. Inside, I holler hello to mom, fling my backpack into the closet, and yank the phone off the hook.

The phone rings once and I twist the curly telephone cord around my hand. Polly belatedly senses my presence and hurtles into the kitchen.

The phone rings twice and a memory bursts like a little bubble in my brain: Church on a Tuesday afternoon. Magnolia blossoms on the tree outside, stained blue and yellow through the window glass. A big photo of Grandpa – his hair white and stiff as a meringue – on an easel near the pulpit, surrounded by bright explosions of lilies and roses.  My father, hands clasped and face drawn; my mother rubbing small circles on his knee.

I sink down to the cool kitchen floor, fending off Polly’s puppy kisses.

I picture Grandpa’s cozy bungalow near the ocean, dust drifting in motes of sunlight. (Does anyone live there now?)

The phone rings a third time and I think maybe, just maybe, he’ll pick up. Say, “Hiya Cupcake” like he always does. And tell me how a cat can hang, suspended, between life and death… both and neither simultaneously.