born into it

as a kid, my love of books started early. reading them, writing them, "publishing" them.

my grandmother used to buy those early-start books for me- you know the ones where you trace the letters, learn sight words, simple math. i LOVED those things. and it showed. by the time i started kindergarten i was at a second grade level. i made it through a week of kindergarten classes before they moved me into first grade (the school wanted second, but as a september baby i would have been WAY younger than the other kids).

i've known i am a writer forever. journals, terrible plays, short stories. i've never DONE anything with it, but i've known it's a part of me since back in the day.

the other thing i was born into? natural defeatism and procrastination.

as easy as writing came to me, so has putting off writing. also the ease with which i convince myself that everything i DO write is total crap.

isn't it nice to be blessed with SO MANY natural gifts?

hashtag: blessed.

hashtag: sarcasm


BUT. the last few months i've been working on shifting a LOT of things. self perception, goals, resuscitating some long lost dreams.

one of those dreams has always been DOING something with writing.

and so, with the encouragement of a very good friend, i signed up for some writing classes this last weekend.

AND I WENT.

not sure which is the bigger miracle.

the first class i signed up for was: micro fiction (flash writing): 1000 words or less.

i know it may not seems like it, but this is something that has piqued my interest for a while. bj novak wrote a book of short stories that ranged from 2 words to a few hundred words. it captivated me and took a huge chunk of the fear out of writing for me. you don't need to be a stephen king or a jk rowling to be a successful writer.

i am NOT going to write the next great american novel. in the traditional sense at least.

but micro fiction...that's something i can sink my teeth into.

one vein of micro writing is the 6-word story.

hemmingway is attributed with writing "for sale: baby shoes, never worn" to win a contest for the shortest story possible.

in the class the presenter gave us 5 minutes to write a 6-word story.

so i started:

hot coffee. all over. terrible idea.

starbucks coffee: never purchased, only rented.

i saw red. you honked anyway.

i'm terrible at six word writing prompts.

the room went silent. except jim.

writing prompts before coffee. pure torture.

alone with my thoughts = just alone.

"beautiful sunrise." said the blind man.

"can you hear the music?"flatline.

several coffee stories. can you tell it was early in the morning on a sautrday? WHO SIGNED UP FOR THAT SHIT? oh, i did.
 
i cranked out a list in 5 minutes. then i realized several people around me were struggling to come up with one. well huh. that came a little more naturally than i expected.

and so a flame was lit.

i now have several projects spilling out of my writing journal. every time i sit still for a second my brain just starts dumping 6 word sentences all over the place. now to wrangle them and actually COMPLETE one of them. 

goal: see it to the finish.

it's a mystery

in a strange moment of bravado, i signed up for a weekly writing prompt email.

yesterday the first assignment arrived, early in the morning giving me plenty of time to get started and write something amazing and poignant and creative.

but i just stared at it.

i'll just take some time to think about it.

which i did. honestly. all day. i even bought new journals. and a new pen.

SEE HOW PERFECT THEY ARE FOR ALL SORTS OF CREATIVE THINGS??

i even went to a nice, quiet bar for a drinking and writing session. write drunk, edit sober, publish posthumously, isn't that how it goes?

and i did. i wrote. i wrote some starts, some ideas, different directions i could go.

but i keep coming back to the same one. the same idea. BUT I DON'T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT IT. it's the hardest. it's the most real. it's the most painful.

it's also the most dark, the most depressing, the heaviest one.

I DON'T WANT TO START OUT A NEW WRITING TRACK ALL SAD AND MOPEY!

but i keep coming back to the same idea and there's something to that trust your gut thing. so. here it goes.

this weeks writing prompt:
"write about a personal riddle- fact or fiction- something you will never know the true meaning of."

i don't know how or why my dad died.

i'll never know. 

i could ask a LOT of questions.

i could rattle some pretty high up cages.

i could get into some DEEP, DEEP conspiracy theories.

but i'll never know the truth. i'll never know how. i'll never know why.

for anyone playing a little catch up, in August 2010 my dad died in a house fire. total loss. 3 people killed. house was gone. everything was gone.

BUT WAIT- DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY YOU DON'T KNOW HOW YOUR DAD DIED? YOU JUST SAID HOUSE FIRE.

yeah. technically a house fire.

3 people: my dad, his wife, another young state trooper staying with them while he build a house.

1:15ish am: a phone call to 911 that the house was on fire and they were trying to get out.

none of them made it out.

of a 2 story house. with plenty of windows to crawl out of.

with stairs that literally led straight out the front door.

with a large basement slider for the officer staying down there.

an officer who had just graduated first in his academy class for physical fitness.

not only did they not make it out, they had to use cadaver dogs to find the remains and then dental records and bone marrow to identify the bodies.

how could they make a call but not get out? not even one of them?

how could a fire burn so hot and so fast that in the short time it took agencies to respond they had to use dogs to find the remains?

how could the complete and total house be GONE. not a cross beam, not a joist, NOTHING left, but the garage 5' away is still standing and the grass in the front and back lawn didn't even singe?

they investigated.

by they i mean a bunch of acronyms.

people with a few tricks up their sleeve.

like one of the guys that investigated the oklahoma city bombing.

and no one knows.

no. one. knows.

no gangs took credit for it. no accelerates were discovered on scene. no household appliances were under recall.

i waited a year. i waited until the gag order was released off the case.

i waited until the investigation had been completed and released.

official report said: "NO KNOWN CAUSE."

i'm sure someone knows. i'm sure an investigator somewhere has an idea. i imagine somewhere there's a file with more than a cover sheet that says "NO KNOWN CAUSE" with a stack of black papers behind it. 

maybe i haven't asked the right person.

maybe i haven't asked the right questions.

a mystery is only a mystery because we haven't asked the right question yet.

and i could ask questions. i could call my brother over and over asking if he knows something i don't. i could ask the people that were there in town while they investigated. i could dig around and find old coworkers, old commanding officers. i could demand to see files. i could...the list goes on and on.

but it won't change the ending of the story, will it?

even if i get the answer it isn't like the prize would be my dad coming back to life. if i ask the right person the right thing and get the key in the lock and get nicholas cage to follow the trail to the secret underground cave in mount rushmore my dad isn't going to be waiting at the end of the chase for me.

and what would i do with the information?

what if it was a gang hit? am i going to vigilante and take on the mexican drug cartel?

what if it was the illegal immigrant drunk driver that came back after being deported and threatened my dad and threatened me and my dad took out a restraining order againt?  am i going to find random guy and ask for him to be deported, again, since it worked so well the first time?

what if it was some conspiracy theory game plan tied to the younger officer just getting off service as security at the governors mansion? am i going to wade into whatever cover up already got three people killed and go all olivia pope scandal on them?

whatever happened, why-ever it happened.

i don't need to know. it's my mystery. it's a part of me. it's a part of my story. not all stories have a happy neat tied up ending. this one didn't.

what i DO need is to go forward from where that story ended.

i'm working on loving my house that my dad provided for me.

i'm working on being ok with knowing there won't be new memories. there won't be my dad walking me down the aisle. there won't be any more christmases. there won't be my dad at my kids graduations. there won't be four generation pictures with great grandkids. there won't be family reunions. there won't be the scary "meet the parents" moments.

but there will be moments of knowing my dad is never gone.

there's moments of chewing on my knuckles while i'm driving when i'll suddenly start laughing remembering my dad doing the same weird thing.

there will be calling my teenager "son" when i'm particularly frustrated with him the way my dad used to do to my brothers.

there will be the reminder every time i get my hair cut that my dad was just starting to grey at 55 and there was no sign of thinning on the horizon.

there will be times i look in the mirror and see an expression that is all too familiar.

there will be endless, obnoxious crying at john denver songs from now to the end of time.

there will be me saying "yup, my legs go all the way up to my hips" like my dad once said when  he noticed my gangly stork legs as a teenager.

i will call my boys both fuzz nuts until they're grown adults with children of their own.



i don't know. i won't know.

maybe some day i'll take my giant dog that looks shockingly like scooby doo, get a mystery van and go investigating.

or maybe i'll just  have some scooby snacks and sit on the couch staring at my dog imagining we're going investingating.

i think the second option is more likely. it has snacks.