Musing...a Little on Writing

photo by Sadeqa Johnson

 My second novel is on my desk and although I've fretted over these characters for the last few months I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen.  Do I write about the past or is that just backstory?  What do these characters want?  I read Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird Some Instructions on Writing and Life when I feel at a lost for words.  She quoted an author who said something like, "beginning a novel is sort of like have the most beautiful christmas ornaments with no place to hang them."  Ding, ding, ding!  That's exactly how I feel right now.  So what do I do?  When I need to get the juices flowing I give myself a writing exercise.  The prompt here is to write about the decade in which you were born.  Memory is an essential tool for writing and you could easily give this a try at home.  Here's a little sample.  Let me know what you think!

One Way Street

I was born in the 70s, many months before Stevie Wonder dropped his album Hotter than July.  I remember the feel of the slipcover in my hand and seeing Stevie with colorful beads, red tinted sunglasses, sweat glistening from his sideburns and his list parted with thirst.  The album was a staple on our record player and I was given permission to drop the needle on my favorite song “Lately” every single day.  Pressed against the floor to ceiling wall of mirrors I stood with a wooden statue as my microphone singing my throat dry.  At five the lyrics of a man singing about his wife vaguely whispering someone else’s name and far more frequently wearing perfume tugged on me.  The passion that Stevie felt for his sinking relationship spilled from my thirty-five pound body as I shrieked off key matching Stevie note for note.  The pain in the piano and his hope that his premonition missed, touched the intimate walls of my soul.  Perhaps it was my own premonition resting on a subconscious level that spoke to the deceit going on in our two-bedroom brick row home.

The 70s was a time of great pride and both of my parents wore curly self-affirming afros.  My father was Muhammad Ali handsome with an Arthur Ashe built.  When he walked through our little corner of South Philadelphia it was with his shoulders drawn back and a flare of arrogance in his step.  He was college educated, owned a small sneaker store on Point Breeze Avenue, and drove a yellow Volkswagon that in the 80s my friends and I called a Punch buggy.  I thought his car was cool because the trunk was in the front and the engine in the back.  My father wore thick glasses and a full mustache.  He smelled masculine, like fine cologne.  On his shoulders he would carry me up to bed and let me touch the ceiling with my hand, he taught me fast math, and how to ride my white bicycle with the silver striped tassels and no training wheels.  I was his main girl. 

My mother was well-liked but timid, prettier than pretty with sad eyes, and overwhelmed with the responsibility of baring and caring for small children.  I can picture her sitting on the edge of her bed in her Indian-print wrap skirt looking into the crib as my brother cried, while my sisters and I splashed soapy water from our bath onto the orange carpeted floor.  We were all born within six years of each other, my brother the only child who made his appearance in the 80s. 

We lived on a tiny one-way street that was as synonymous with South Philadelphia as a juicy cheese steak from Pat’s or Gino’s.  Directly across the street from us lived the twins.  Their home was a stark contrast to ours with a consistent gang of people running in and out.  The front door was always wide open and all of the debris that blew through our block congregated on their property as if drawn by a magnet and then glued.  Even when their mother shouted for someone to close the door it did nothing to keep the flies, because the dented door was missing a proper screen.  I heard the twins mother more than I saw her but when she did emerge from the house, it was in flat house slippers that seemed to groan under the weight of her potbellied thighs and blubbery stomach which stretched her blouse beyond the limit.  Next door to us on the right lived Ms. Francis, the first woman I ever knew who painted on her eyebrows and dyed her hair orangy-blonde.  She smoked cigarettes and as she exhaled, every sound that followed was punctuated with a curse.

Thanks for allowing me to share a little corner of my writing life. Sorry about the spacing of the last paragraph, I just can't seem to get it right.

Love, Light and Laughter!