Or Something Like That

I'll be honest with you. I haven't been working on my novel lately, nor have I been working on a short story. I'm kind of at a stand-still. Nothing serious; this happens occasionally. So I've been occupying myself with other things...housework, cleaning closets, reading Anne Rivers Siddons' Off Season, sipping Diet Coke. Thinking.

I'm also wondering what Eudora Welty did when she went through a dry spell. (That's her desk in the picture above.) Maybe she worked in her garden. Or baked a cake. Or played with her cats (don't know if she had cats, but she seems like a person who would).

As for me, after I have done everything else, I motivate myself by going through my Works-in-Progress folder, reading the first paragraphs of some of my stories:

Murder at the P. O.

C. J. Pickens loved walking to the post office. Excitement swept through his body as he awoke each morning, eagerly anticipating his two-mile trek into town to see what was going on, catch up on the latest gossip, and check his post office box. He never knew what to expect. Would it be Publishers’ Clearinghouse sweepstakes information? Entry forms for a trip to the Bahamas or Disneyworld? A letter from his cousin in Tiptonville?

* * *

Greek Grandma's Funeral

She looks peaceful, thin lips forced into a smile, white hair ratted and stiffly sprayed. Spit curls, like tiny bird nests, rest in front of her ears. Dressed in a blue satin ensemble, a brooch pinned at her squashy neck, her cheeks are covered with lipstick prints from grieving female relatives, their wails and moans echoing throughout the sanctuary of St. Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church.

* * *

The Rise and Fall of Boyd K. Wilkins

From the time Boyd K. Wilkins was old enough to think, he knew there were great things in store for him. He couldn't wait to get out in that great big world and experience everything life had to offer. And the quicker, the better. He had long ago decided he would not be living out his life in a tiny, dilapidated old house, wearing bib overalls and worrying about how to pay for groceries. He would not marry and have a bunch of kids he couldn't afford. And he would, by god, have the things he had always wanted.

* * *

Aunt Fanny's Drawers

Uncle Robert was old when he finally got married. Forty-six was too old to do much of anything, let alone take a wife. And it was so unlike him. The Uncle Robert I knew wore bib-overalls, farmed, milked cows, fished, and spent his evenings reading The Louisville Courier-Journal and Time Magazine. A wife just didn't fit into the picture.

* * *

The Night Has Passed

We drive into Beech Grove, Kentucky on a cold Sunday afternoon in early March, turning down the street where most of the stores are perched: the little restaurant that serves up delicious slaw burgers each day; the small dry goods store where Momma bought our shoes when we were little, and a mom & pop grocery store, the aisles so narrow you are forced to brush against familiar-looking people to get by.


* * *

Jake, Duke, Dolly and Me

Jake Turnbow was 52 years old and owned the Jiffy Mart when I met him. The clerk hired me, and I didn’t see him until I’d been working there for a good little while. He never said nothing to me when he was around the store. But that was before I jumped into the back room. I used to jump a lot. Instead of walking from one room to the next, I’d kind of hang onto the door frame and jump into the next room. Of course, I was only 17 then. I don’t jump nearly as much anymore. Anyway, I jumped into the back room and you would not believe what Jake Turnbow did.

* * *


Maybe I'll get motivated tomorrow. Or the next day. Or something like that.