Embrace

"Husses, Gamma, Husses!" The little girl demanded, holding up her arms. Her hair of tousled blond-white dandelion fuzz stuck straight up as if seconding her excitement, and the smile lighting her chocolate-smeared face. When her grandmother scooped her up in her arms for "husses", the girl squealed with joy and delight.

Lucky are those who have such confidence in being loved, and those who find their confidence rewarded.

Carnival

From his perch on the black trampoline, Ricky watched Eduardo walk by. As usual, he went about his business with a steadfast determination. The greying dusk signaled time to collect the table umbrellas. Eduardo plucked them like bright, overgrown flowers and slung them onto his shoulder, trucking them to the storage closet.

Ricky pushed his blond mop of hair out of his eyes. "Hey, Edweirdo, how's it going?" As usual, Eduardo passed him without any recognition. His lined face stayed impassive, his eyes fixed on the ground a few feet in front of him. The taunts bubbled up in Ricky unchecked.

"Hey, Edweirdo, I think your girlfriend stopped by earlier. She asked me if I was busy tonight."

Nothing. Not even a slowing of his pace.

Ricky had never heard Eduardo talk, never managed to catch his eye. When he wasn't bouncing kids up and down on flexible yellow cords --sticky, horrible, screaming, stinky kids who whined if the didn't scream, and giggled like hyenas if they didn't whine-- when Ricky wasn't bouncing them up and down under the beaming supervision of their misguided parents, this was his one and only goal.

No matter what it took, he would get Eduardo to acknowledge him.

"Hey, Edweirdo. Nice sunset, huh?" Eduardo trudged on, one more time.

He would. He would. He would.

Cosati

She hurried down the street, scarcely sparing a glance to the couples strolling happily along. It seemed like all of them wore faded jeans. They were tall and lean with too much long, dark hair. They meandered with their hands tucked into each other's pockets or laughed at a private joke they murmured with heads bent together.

All Susan wanted to do was get back to her room and shut the door. To sink into the overly white bed amid the fluffed up pillows and forget all about Brett and this whole evening.

When he invited her to Little Italy, Susan should have known better than to trust him again. She really should have. But he promised her a weekend "just like our moon days" at her favorite inn. Dinner at Cosati had been a disaster.

Of course, Brett's wife was in the picture again. When he finally admitted, flushed, fumbling, refusing to meet Susan's eyes that he wouldn't be joining her for the weekend after all, that in fact, he had to be back home by 10 pm before Lisette suspected where he really was, Susan had felt a surge of lightening shoot through her entire body. And just like that, it was over.

Now she wanted to get back and sleep. In the morning, she would leave this town for good and begin her real life.

Writing Life

Behind him, the door swooshes open. She bustles through the kitchen, grabbing and discarding the faded red towel to swipe clean her hands without slowing her pace.

Glad that she has come, and passed him by, he continues his sitting.

Photente. What an odd word, blinking at him from the screen like a footprint on a clean sand beach, like a single set of headlights down an old backwoods road.

In the other room, the yelling starts. A crash signals that she is displeased with something. He hopes the spell will not last too long or be too bad. Once started, she can go on for hours, spiraling through a dark mania of every slight and sorrow. Sometimes she flames out quickly, giving herself a little shake and going on about the household affairs.

The cat escapes the storm of noise in a brown-and-white blur, and dashes under his legs to hide.

Writing in the New Year

Inspired by all the lovely writerly resolutions floating around on blogs, I too aspire to write more during the coming year. I was particularly struck by Terressa's goal of 500 words per day considering that she has younger and more children than I do. Apparently, she's sacrificing her sleep time to do so, which doesn't make me a pleasant or capable person to be around.

Still though, I'm sure I can find more writing time here and there, if I squeeze my schedule a bit. And what I've chosen to write is short pieces - fiction, scenes, vignettes- little dabbles here and there. At least once per day.

I'll begin compiling and get back to you in a week!

What kind of projects will you work on this year?

More of I Am Good, and They Are Also Good

I was struck by this passage while reading last night, thinking, Yes, this is what I believe and how I like to live:

"Never begrudge another man his success, sonny.
Remember, all of us live out our own destinies.
All our lives run on a parallel path-
someone else's success neither pulls us down,
nor does his failure boost us up.

You just focus on... your own work."

p46, If Today Be Sweet, Thrity Umrigar

Writer's Talk: I Am Good, and They Are Also Good

I had dinner this week with two friends who are also writers. M writes novels; B is a journalist; I stick to short fiction and proposals. It was wonderful to be able to share craft and have that feeling of being understood and yet have no feeling of competition between us since we focus in such different areas.

Even if we had all been journalists or novelists or poets (like the astonishing Red Bird), we still could have been supportive and welcoming of each other's work. We are the kind of people who are willing to make space.

But maybe sometimes that would be difficult, particularly if a friend was having success that you felt you weren't. I've been meaning for a while to post Natalie Goldberg's wonderful thoughts on the subject of comparison, "Writing Is a Communal Act" from Writing Down the Bones:

"So writing is not just writing. It is also having a relationship with other writers. And don't be jealous, especially secretly. That's the worst kind. If someone writes something great, it's just more clarity in the world for all of us. Don't make writers "other," different from you: "They are good, and I am bad." Don't create that dichotomy. It makes it hard to become good if you create that duality. The opposite, of course, is also true: if you say, "I am great, and they aren't," then you become too proud, unable to grow as a writer or hear criticism of your work. Just: "They are good and I am good." That statement gives a lot of space. "They have been at it longer, and I can walk their path for a while and learn from them."