They seemed so right when I bought them. Soft and golden with blue rhinestones, shaped in a V, in two rows of three. It had been such a bargain too. Perfect for day or night.
I wore them and admired myself from head to toe. Then the moment I stepped out, the straps snapped and came apart. And that was the only time I saw them again.
I’m talking about my quirky new sandals 🙂 Unfortunately a bad buy decision 😦
Sometimes being a writer comes with a lot of pain and it has inspired this poem for the letter P. Sometimes it just feels good to say the well’s empty, so that the word’s out there in the universe and ready for a refill. Cheers! 🙂
The pain starts deep in the chest
It’s lodged with patience and perseverance
There is passion in there for good measure too
But it all seems pointless in the face of rejection and dejectionIt merits no compassion
Though it deems the soul a certain right
In the well drained of the creative muse
In the desert where the oasis is beyond sight.-Sudha Nair
I took three random words starting with O, and decided to write a short fictional piece using all of them. The words are: orange, oratory, organic.
I sat on the sofa waiting for us to continue.
He paced the floor, then walked to the fridge, took out an orange and peeled it. He offered me a slice.
I shook my head. “No, thank you. So, can we get on with the interview?”
He shrugged and popped a couple of slices into his mouth. “Go on.” He squirted some juice as he spoke.
I averted my gaze to the notes on my lap. “Well, how do you develop your oratory skills? Do you practise your speech beforehand?”
He gulped the half-chewed orange. “Yeah. I do. I do. Well…I read out my lines in front of the mirror. I rehearse everything I’m going to say. And so on. And…”
“And?” I was curious.
“And I only eat organic. It helps my voice quality.” He offered me another slice. “This is organic.”
I skewed my face. “I think that will be all, Mr. Olson. Thank you for your time.” I rose.
He gave me a puzzled look. “Really? That’s all? I mean, you won’t ask me why organic?”
It looked like he had plenty of time to waste. I looked him in the eye. “No, Sir. I have no more questions.” I stormed out of the room leaving a shocked Mr.Olson.
***
Sharing with you today, another of Anna’s stories. Enjoy!
Anna squeezed out a blob of glue from the tube. It made a perfect round bubble on the floor. Then she pulled out Teddy and set his butt on the glue. “Sit, Teddy. Allow me to serve you some tea.”
She laid out the play cups and saucers and her yellow plastic kettle. She served imaginary cookies in a matching yellow side-plate and set it before Teddy. Then, very lady-like, she poured out the tea. One cup for Teddy, and one for herself. She sat up primly on her pink, plastic chair, and looked at Teddy as she brought her cup to her lips. Teddy looked sad. “Why do you look so sad, Teddy? Is it because you have no friends?”
Teddy wouldn’t reply. So she rose from her pink chair and went to get all of Teddy’s friends.
When mom returned home, she saw teddy bears, dolls, stuffed monkeys, giraffes, lions, and hippos, and what not, of all shapes and sizes, glued to the floor all over the living room, with Teddy sitting pretty in the center, enjoying his little tea party with Anna and the rest of his friends.
Raj raced down the street clutching the parcel he had to deliver at the mentioned address. The clock was ticking. He was racing against time.
The car followed him at a safe distance. The road was practically empty. Raj’s path was clear except for a stone he didn’t notice. He stumbled on it and crashed on the ground, his knees hitting hard on the pavement. Everything around him was shushed for a moment and then total mayhem ensued.
The car carrying the director and the cameraman screeched to a halt. The director yelled “Cut” and jumped out, rushing to Raj’s aide. The cameraman jumped out the other side. Together they hauled Raj up. In the meantime, the rest of the crew rushed to the spot. Soon a crowd had gathered.
Raj’s legs wobbled as he tried to stand up. Pain shot through his knees as he tried to take a step. He could manage a limp. Despite feeling winded, he urged them to stop fussing over him and go on with the shot. He put up a brave thumbs-up sign. “The show must go on.”
The crew could do nothing except continue with the shot. As best as they could.
I go on a trip down memory lane of lazy Sundays spent in my parents’ home. As I lounge on the easy chair or potter around the house I think of the lazy days of my childhood, of records playing and mamma’s cooking, which of course, makes me pick up the phone to order some lunch. So here goes. A poem dedicated to lazy Sundays. Ideal, as they should be:)
I listen to lazy
radio Indigo on Sunday mornings
A cup of coffee, a plate of egg on toast
lounged on the easy-chair like a babyPajamas worn over a shirt so gray
Will do for a potter around the house
TV’s blaring, my mind’s traveling
Off to my childhood hazyRecords playing, mamma’s cooking
I pick up the phone to place my order
Embracing my place in that lovely space
I stay here in my Sunday, still lazy
What are your lazy Sundays like?
The speaker rambled on and on about everything from poetry to books to politics to philosophy.
Dusk had fallen. It looked so beautiful outside. I raised my hand as I rose to leave. “I’d like to take a walk around the premises. Can we continue tomorrow?”
I wanted to take a walk in the woods to catch a glimpse of the setting sun, hear my feet crunching on the dry leaves fallen on the winding path around the retreat, feel the shivers from the cool breeze, inhale the sweet scent of eucalyptus.
I stared at the twenty-odd participants held in rapt attention by the speaker’s words. Not one wanted to leave. The speaker scratched his head and smiled at my question. “Yes, yes, but isn’t this why you came here? To hear me speak?”
I guess I was being a killjoy. “Actually, no. I came for the retreat.” I smiled as I made for the door. Outside was where I’d rather be.
When you’re juggling family and kids and work, how do you stay true to your writing?
I’ve seen people do a lot more juggling than me and they seem able to do a million different things at the same time. Or they seem to be able to prioritize and get most if not all the things done.
Now, here’s my problem:
If I have too much to do, I get overwhelmed and stressed.
If I have nothing at all to do, or perhaps a day I can idle and dream about the story or put out a piece at leisure, then I practically waste the entire day and get nothing at all done.
Before I know it, the day has slipped by and I have accomplished nothing.
So how do you stay motivated when there is nothing to push you? How do you avoid procrastination and sheer laziness?
I wish I knew the answers to all these questions. and I wish I could rein myself in and get to work.
I also notice that to do any kind of meaningful writing I need at least two to three hours to settle in comfortably into that space with no distractions and no other assignments coming up. I also can’t write in 15 minute intervals or while waiting in the car, or at the grocery store.
With so many habits that are detrimental to my productivity, such as finding the right workspace, the right time and the right mental space, how will I ever get any writing done?
Thoughts?
I am on a roll ever since the intriguing book I read last Wednesday (part of my Wednesday series).
Stories do so well when they surprise the reader. What got me thinking about Roald Dahl’s The Way Up To Heaven is not the surprise at the end, but how he convinces me about it’s motivation. My thoughts about it:
a) I totally empathize with the protagonist’s motivation. Even though it was so unbelievably shocking!
b) I think Dahl came at the story backwards working his way from the end. Asking questions like : Who would do such a thing, and what sort of situations would motivate characters to behave as they did.
This leads me to think about the power of a great ending. I tend to go at stories with a beginning in mind. And I can only think of two ways that the story will end. Which is pathetic! And something I have to work on:)
It’s amazing how Dahl manages a powerful ending story after story. I’ve read three so far, and each one has been a bigger surprise. More about those stories in a later post.
To find Roald Dahl’s short stories, look up his Collection Of Short Stories.
Would love to hear how you come at a story or article or any piece of writing.
This is the 3rd of the three-part series on Wednesdays with my writing partner. Do share your thoughts on the series.
Oh, what a horrible and unsuspecting ending to the story! Who would have thought that a woman so meek and pushed around by her husband would finally get a chance to play her card. And such a vile card at that! That’s all I’m going to say for now 🙂
If this story has knotted up your insides and left you craving to to find out what really happened, then look up The Way Up To Heaven by Roald Dahl in his Collection of Short Stories. Do read and tell me what you think.
This story was all D and I had time for, this Wednesday. We spent about three hours reading and animatedly discussing the story and our impressions after. It was a great Wednesday, like most Wednesdays are. We’re very excited to see what next Wednesday will bring. Until then, it’s adieu to the Wednesday series. Thanks for being with me until the end. Hope you enjoyed the ride 🙂
Dahl is a master of deception and if you’ve read another writer like him, I’d be excited to hear about it.
Everyday Muse 
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