At a writing training today, I scratched out this little scene as a response to A Quiet Place, by Douglas Wood. The exercise led me to discover two things. First, I miss sharing the writing with people….people other than 4th graders, that is. (Who, by the way, are great for any writer’s ego.) Second, “sharing” my writing is MUCH easier on my nerves when done virtually through a blog, rather than read aloud to a room of your peers. That’s much harder than it sounds! (A good lesson for this teacher to remember.)
I’ll have to push myself to write to publish more frequently soon, rather than only writing for myself. Relight the fire.
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When I was younger, I used to bury myself in the depths of my hanging clothes and between my stacks of shoes. I’d shut out the world with a “click”, and feel the silence fall from between the hangers and hug my ears like muffs. I might cry, or write beneath the light of a 60-watt bulb, or lay on my back and find images in the popcorn ceiling, hiding my legs beneath the cool of long dresses. Some days, I would open my eyes to find red creases and itchy carpet marks on my cheeks, drool puddles on the top of my hand. I’d hear my mother softly open my bedroom door. “Jenny?” She’d ask my empty room where I was. Maybe I’d sit still, frozen like a rabbit in a bush, fearing my discovery. Maybe I’d emerge, with a shy smile and blurry eyes. Whichever I decided, I knew I’d return one day, for one reason or another, to my quiet place.
À la prochaine, chère écrivain