To stay writing inspired during Covid 19 time, I took Lori Twining advice (see her blog, ascribewriters.com/everything-is-cancelled-almost ) and registered for the online Master Class. This was perfect for me as the classes are in short chunks and doesn’t require me to do anything more than listen to a professional author talk about their writing process. I wanted something to keep me inspired to write during this pandemic when it can be hard to focus. The first class I took (David Sedaris) discussed the importance of journal writing. The author uses his daily journal entries as inspirations for his humorous essays.
I’ve never been a daily journal writer in my every day life. But when I travel, I keep a journal. I have notebooks stashed in my closet from my three months solo backpacking trip in Europe in my early twenties and my year of adventure in India and Nepal. Even a week long canoe trip earns a thin, water-stained book. But in my “normal” life, I never thought of journaling about every day events. Mostly because it doesn’t seem like anything exciting happens to write about. But David Sedairs writes in his journal of the small things such as a taxi drive to the airport or a visit to a shop. Nothing dramatic like being taken hostage. On a side note, you should always carry a small notebook with you at all times just in case you are taken hostage so you can journal the experience.
In writing, I believe you should at least try everything once. Even if it is to discover that a method doesn’t work for you. So I began to keep a journal. I never had any crazy conversations like David Sedairs does but I did try to write about anything I felt or watched, even small, stupid things. Then for this blog, I read through my entries and stitched together a short story. This is fiction though: Alice, the character in the story, is not a real person and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental. I simply took things that I saw and heard, experiences, things felt, thoughts and ideas I had swirling in my head, and then used them like raw materials to create something new.
I encourage you to try the same exercise. Journal for a few weeks and then look back and see what inspires you to write a short story. It doesn’t have to be long, or have perfect sentences, or even have an ending. Capture this moment of time on paper.
Here’s my short story written in the last few weeks that I would like to share with you.
Alice
Alice steps over the yellow and black caution tape and passes the closed sign into the deserted park. Her mouth is dry. Her palms are sweaty. She’s never broken the law before, not even a traffic ticket. She once parked illegally but she hadn’t been aware of it until she returned and talked the officer out of the fine. Her sudden burst of tears may have helped with that one.
She hurries around the gate and down the slope toward the river. Despite all the social isolation, she yearns for some alone time.
Stay home, the announcer reminds them on the radio. In social media. On the television. Stay home, stay home. Be responsible. As if a home is a safe space for every person. There should be another word for a place you reside but is not a home.
“It’ll be fine,” her co-worker told her when she complained. “We can take the government’s free money and it’s only going to be for a few weeks.”
Alice thinks, that’s what those young, clean-shaved men thought when they headed off to war in Germany in 1914. They’d believed that they would all be home in time for Christmas. Are we as naive as those earnest men? Fooling ourselves that soon this will be all over and this is only a nightmare, allowing the experience to drift into our subconscious and disappear forever. We can then all return to our normal life. These thoughts swirl inside her head.
More and more though, Alice doesn’t want to return to that so-called normal life but neither does she want to stay in this purgatory.
At the river’s edge, Alice finds her bench and collapses onto its seat. The wood is damp but her coat is long and keeps her dry. The rushing water helps to block the white static noise in her head. She breathes in the fresh smell of dirt and pine. Relax, she reminds herself. We’re not supposed to panic. Most of the time, she’s able to concentration on doing every day things although everything takes so much longer than before.
Grocery shopping is a nightmare; should she wear a mask or not? Should she touch the avocados to test their ripeness or just grab a bag and hope for the best? Last time, she found herself going the wrong way down a one-way aisle and was glared at by a grim-faced fifty-year-old woman with a cart full of food. But damn it, Alice had forgotten the coffee, and it was only three illegal steps into the aisle.
She’s breaking rules all the time now. Her stomach clenches at the thought of having to do the shopping tomorrow. If only she could send her husband to do the task, but he complains endlessly about people hoarding toilet paper and yeast—as if he ever baked bread in his life. Why does he care about yeast?
If only it was a traditional war and he could be taken away in a uniform and given a gun. He would prefer that too; sitting at home watching endless Netflix movies is not his way to fight back. He’s like a caged panther, wearing the carpet down as he stalks from the couch to the fridge and back again.
Alice glances over both her shoulders, every few seconds. She hopes no one will spot her and call the cops. She left her phone at home. In a moment of panic, she worried about someone tracking her movements through her cell. She heard they’re doing this in some Asian counties. But she misses her phone now, wanting to check it for any updates. Maybe she should have brought it?
A figure strolls along the path, coming up from the ravine on the opposite side of the park. Alice freezes. Her chest floods as if warm water is rising from her toes to her throat. She moistens her lips.
Before the pandemic, the romance was easy. Slipping away early from her shift, meeting in cafes, a park, or even sitting in the car together like lovesick teenagers. Now, it’s nearly impossible. She feels as if an overly protective big brother is watching every aspect of her life.
A car’s tires skid to a stop in the parking lot, the gravel crunching. Her lover halts. Their eyes meet briefly. So much they need to say. Alice yearns for her lover’s touch on her skin, the welcomed pressure of her arms around Alice; of being held tightly.
Long ago, she learned that some autistic children may not like being hugged, but they find pressure on their body comforting. Now she understands the need for such pressure; of holding yourself together.
A car door slams. Her lover turns and hurries back along the path, disappearing into the woods. Alice slumps on the bench. It’s probably the cops to fine her or maybe, it’s some vigilant neighbour checking for rule breakers.
A streak of anger overwhelms her like a thunderstorm. Fuck this virus. She wants to scream. Break something. She stands. She will defend herself to whoever calls judgment on her.
Another car door bangs. The shriek of a delightful child echoes through the park, as he runs down the steep slope to a forbidden swing. The mother shushes him.
Alice closes her eyes, the fight extinguishing inside her like a fire that’s denied oxygen. Above her, a wood thrush trills notes of a love song.
