Greetings and First Writing Prompt
Hi Y’all,
This maiden voyage is fun and a little curious. There are fewer than a dozen of us here as I write this. Feels like we got to the party before all those fashionably late folks. Let’s call it intimate, shall we?
I will never try to strong arm you into sharing what you write but you are always welcome to post your prompt-inspired writing in the comments.
As I grow this space I would also like feedback from y’all. For my other substack, Crone Poems & Other Gen X Reflections, I post once per week and that feels like plenty. For this one I was thinking I might send out multiple prompts each week. As we move along I would really appreciate knowing what pace feels best. I have some substacks I subscribe to that appear with such frequency in my inbox that I’ve gotten a bit immune and fail to read all of the offerings. I’d love to find a sweet spot.
Look at me! Soliciting feedback! My how times have changed. Seriously though, courtesy of my personal history I am often very reactive (even, dare I admit it, sometimes over reactive) to any feedback that hits me as critical and/or unkind. Toward that end it has always been my policy in the in-person workshops I lead to insist all feedback must be couched positively or at least not negatively. I emphasize to attendees this is not the same as us blowing smoke up each other’s butts, but rather finding ways to convey the feedback so it can be heard clearly by the recipient.
For example—if I’m reading/listening to your work and notice that I’m getting confused or zoning out or eager for you to get back to the exciting parts, I might say something like: “The first few paragraphs really grabbed me but I admit there were bits in the middle that felt like they might be better as a separate piece of writing.”
I know some workshops—and I suspect MFA programs—feel it is important to be more stringent and direct with commentary. I’ve actually heard about some really merciless criticisms being hurled about as if the giver is more interested in wounding the receiver than being truly useful.
And so I ask as we move along here that any input we offer one another is mindfully presented. Thank you in advance for that.
Today I present my first writing prompt for y’all. As you shall see I am a huge fan of prompts that involve lists. I have a number of reasons for this. I think of making lists as playing scales, warming up, getting ready. Lists aren’t terribly daunting as they do not demand much depth or any real attention paid to style, voice and grammar. Lists are just lists.
Oh wait, no they aren’t. Lists can be all sorts of things. A list can be a poem in and of itself. A list can prompt a flood of memories that can help inform whatever it is you’re hoping to write. A list is a map. A list of five things can eventually turn into five separate essays or chapters. And lists are things many of us make anyway, so it’s not like you have to practice to understand the form.
With that said, here you go:
Make a list of five phone numbers you still have memorized.
Once you have this list, pick one of the numbers and write a story about it. Who does it belong to? How do you know this person? Why is the number so important that you still know it by heart? When did you first learn it? Feel free to meander and think about at what point you started forgetting most phone numbers (or if not, tell us about your amazing phone number memory).
My list—without revealing the numbers:
My son.
The friend who helped me raise my son.
My dentist
My childhood phone number.
Tony the Hunter whom I dated for three weeks in 1988.
You want to know about Tony, don’t you? Haha. Maybe one day. But today is not about me, it’s about you.
Tip: If you find the prospect of sitting down to write daunting, please remember short bursts can be a wonderful way to get started. Commit to 10-15 minutes tops to make your list. Then stop. Go back later and take 10-15 minutes to write about the one person on the list whose story you wish to share. If you go over, that’s cool. But if you feel stuck you know you can stop after X minutes. Because a big part of writing isn’t just what you write but how to develop a process, a habit, a system—whatever you want to call it. A comfortable headspace that allows you to feel in the zone.
I’ll be back soon. Thanks again for coming along with me on this experiment.
Spike
I’m absolutely giddy with joy over all of these comments. I already realize that should I attempt to keep up with every single one and write down all that comes to me as I read each, I will be writing for at least 20 hours per day. Please know I am reading and loving it all. Oh I am so excited about our little group here. Regarding math—I was really, really good at math as a kid. I loved it. I ENJOYED algebra. I had a crush on geometry (which at least in theory helped me for the years I hung out in bars and sometimes attempted to shoot a game of pool). Math kind of fell by the wayside for me. But when I picked up knitting—yes, I will talk a lot about knitting in my posts—it occurred to me pretty quickly that this craft that looks deceptively simple actually involves tons of math as well as structural engineering. Working in the kitchen, especially since I often double and triple recipes, is another place where I enjoy practicing applied math. I so agree that if subjects were taught with connections kids could grasp, vs. rote learning, there’d be a lot more eager learners.
Who's Calling?
From the 1980s through the Nineties, one object stood as the center of our family home. Not the TV, thought that would be a reasonable guess. I'm talking about the telephone.
The phone itself changed over the years, updated from a rotary dial to a push button version, and finally to a cordless phone that always managed to get lost, leaving only its empty cradle sitting in the former seat of glory in the center of the house, the dining table.
The table was more of a catch-all on the way from the front door to the bedrooms or from the living room to the kitchen. Pushed up against the wall with the phone commanding, if only energetically, most of its surface, there was hardly enough room for two people to actually use it as intended, to sit and eat or do homework. Since we were a family of five, dinner was usually a scattered affair, with everyone taking their plates to the couch or to their rooms.
The phone's spot on the family dining table was nearly equidistant from the front door (where, after getting off the school bus, I'd often hear the ring coming from inside as I fumbled among the garden rocks to find our hidden key before bursting inside to try to answer before whoever was calling gave up and hung up) to the backdoor (where, from outside at my spot in the hammock, lounging with a stack of books, I'd more often than not ignore it until it stopped ringing).
It was closer to the kitchen than the bathroom, the latter of which was my mom's preferred place to take her longer calls while she soaked in the bathtub, sometimes for hours, the coiled phone cord disappearing under the bathroom door and mom's voice, relaxed and jovial, coming out in a cloud of steam.
It was closer to Mom and Dad's room than to mine, which meant that my mom had a good chance of beating me to it when the phone rang and I was expecting a call. I'd standing in front of her with my hand out and my eyes boring into her as she asked, eyes staring right back at me, who was calling— as if she needed to know.
When the phone rang, everyone hoped it was for them and everyone was disappointed when it wasn't. There were calls from friends, family, offices with appointments, school and neighbors, and sometimes calls from kids asking if so-and-so could come over and play. It was the hub of our social lives.
For my mom, it was also the hub of her business as a self-employed massage therapist who, in order to try to avoid creeps and people with bad vibes, only advertised by word of mouth and made almost all appointments over the phone. This meant that phone rang a lot. And as she was often not home because she was out working, we kids were responsible for answering the phone and taking messages. Taking a message meant writing down the person's name, number, and reason for calling. There was a stack of notebook paper and a pen sitting right next to the phone for the collection of these messages. Mom liked when I answered these calls because I had excellent penmanship and I could make myself sound very professional on the phone.
That phone was always in use, and when the call waiting feature arrived and would let another call come through when the phone was in use, it became clear that we'd very likely missed a lot of calls back when callers would just the busy signal and have to hang up and try again later.
If a call came in for one of the adults while one of the kids was on the phone, the adult call took precedence— even if it wasn't important, as my calls clearly were— and kids would have to unceremoniously end their call and relinquish the phone to an elder.
And if a call for one of the kids came through while Mom or Dad was using the phone, there was the agonizing realization that the call was for you ("She's here, but I'm on the other line") but that your caller was being told you weren't as important as some other people in the house were and you'd have to call them back later when the phone was free, if it ever was again.
Yet as frustrating and minimizing as this experience could be, it couldn't completely dampen the feeling of being pleased that someone thought you were important enough to pick up the phone and dial your number.