5 min streak!
So, I’m here in Yack and Dev has asked us to write for 5 mins. This should be easy I think, I can talk non-stop for way longer so, yeah !
I’m here today to try and understand why I think that writing regularly might be for me. So many questions once you start really thinking about it. It’s so much easier to imagine I have a story or two in me but coming here is like admitting I’m definitely going to do something about it.
The people here have come here for a variety of unique reasons of their own but we also share many commonalities. I think I’d like to spend more time with a few of them (or people like them) beyond today.
Digressing- although Dev has asked us to write non stop I imagine that digressing is likely a normal part of this process and maybe also the process of writing in general.
My idea of a writing project based on mini short stories stems from my past experience of other projects where I’ve had more success in taking on something I can finish in the short term rather that one that could take months or years to complete. Might this impatience limit me or can I work with it?
5 minutes – times up!
10 min freestyling
Ok, so, after today – I’ll review the short story concept topics and then set up times to write regularly. I need to explore again my reasons for testing this creative path – love of language and its’ power to convey and connect.
I’m attracted to writing from a child’s perspective of their world. I’m not motivated by incredible experiences from my own childhood but from observation and times spent in my children’s and more recently my grandsons’ worlds. I love the idea of conveying emotions with words rather than in a hyper-emotional way and really want to explore how far and how well I might be able to do this.
I suspect that my experiences as a retired person seeking ways to make my last 25 – 30 years animated, colourful, fun and meaningful might be a springboard for a story too.
Reflecting as I do from time to time on relationships I’ve had and have both in my personal life and working life through the lens of feminism, male/female tensions that are present in both, how I’ve changed over time in my awareness of issues and the importance I place on advocacy for all things related to equity, will almost certainly colour some of my writing in the future.
And, I definitely want to experiment with ways to inject humour into stories and get to know when it will sit well ….
Pens down – times up!
What would I do if I found that I had only 6 more months of life?
I’d take myself to the ocean and the forests as often as possible;
I’d spend more time with my children and grandchildren;
I’d make peace with those things I’ve secretly found wanting in my relationship with my husband (and best friend) and tell him often how I appreciate how he’s tried to fix those things I’ve grumped about and how anything left is really not important;
I would talk with him about the multitude of good things that have come from our life together and how fortunate I feel for the part of my life spent with him;
I will laugh a lot and check in with friends more often;
and, I’ll let my girls know that I don’t want to be buried anywhere, I don’t want a religious ceremony, I don’t need a plaque to mark my time in the world, I don’t want to take up space or have a designated plot they or their children might feel obliged to visit; photos and memories and stories will be held onto as long as need be after I’m gone and that will be enough.
Six Prompts (and a Mentos lolly to feature somewhere in this tale).
What I had forgotten was the number of times I’d driven along the Wodonga to Myrtleford road. Years ago my two daughters would come with me on this trip to visit my parents in the home I grew up in. Along the way we’d play word games, maths games, sing songs and spot favourite land marks eg the pig farm with its’ bright pink pigs. (The farm was owned by the local butcher, a fact I never shared with them for fear they might never eat bacon again).
Sometimes we stayed overnight but more often, just for an afternoon of chatter and snacks. A verandah ran around the front and sides of the house which sat above the garage so we called it ‘the balcony’ and it looked out over rooftops to distant green, treed hills from one direction and the peaks of Mt Buffalo from another. My Mum kept an ice-cream container of chalk…
The Japanese have a saying, according to a friend of mine, although I can’t for the life of me remember what it is exactly. I’m pretty sure it’s something to do with family and captures the essence of all the good things we hope to nourish. I’d google it if I could remember the key words to search with. Anyway, where was I? Oh, the balcony and the ice-cream container filled with pieces of chalk. Mum (Grandma to them) loved seeing them playing and drawing on the balcony floor outside while we chatted together. She would leave those drawings there as long as the weather stayed fine with only rain washing them away.
When they were small , as my daughters were in those earlier visits, they were loved, not in an overly cuddly, smoochy way but more in a free to explore, play and chat about their world way. I wondered whether they felt the love of their grandparents whose affection didn’t rely totally on physical touch but was shown in other ways. We’ve spoken about this since then and I was happy to find that their memories of time spent with my parents were filled with fun, affection, laughter and adventures. My father died when the girls were 13 and 11 years old.
Next Minute I realise that my mind is wandering backwards and forwards in time. Images of my parents (my mother died in December 2017 aged 97), my five sisters, my daughters as children, as teenagers and now as gorgeous young women. My head and thinking is scattered with images and memories so vivid yet slippery and in no particular order.
One thread that is constant throughout these memories is what happened every time we left to drive home to Wodonga…..
The Next Time I write about my parents and their relationship with my daughters I’ll try to put together the scattered jigsaw of memories – or, maybe I won’t. Maybe by writing as I remember I’ll preserve the colour of it all – so bright.
Until finally I find I’m ready to create a conclusion of sorts to this tale. To do that I need to bring the reader back to the ‘good bye’.
Both before and after my Dad’s death in 1994 they both or later Mum on her own would hug and kiss us with smiles that said how much they loved our visit, next, Mum would press into my hand a roll of mentos or life savers to share on our drive home, then, she and Dad would follow us down the path to the driveway, or, stand on the balcony and wave us goodbye until our car was out of sight. Every time, without fail, no matter how well they were, this is how we parted:
Kisses, smiles, hugs,
Mentos or life savers,
Waving from the balcony or driveway, until we were our of sight.
