I walk at a sixteen-minute pace, my heavy winter coat plunked by the hood on my head, as though I’m the coat rack. I think of Cinderella’s fairy godmother—wand raised, pumpkins swirling into carriages, rags into gowns. But it’s past midnight. The magic’s gone. The mice are mice again. I’m standing here holding charcoal instead of a wand.
My best writing ideas show up like groupies while I’m out walking, but I forget them. Maybe next time I’ll leave myself breadcrumbs—quick notes in my phone—so the magic doesn’t disappear before I get home.
Fortunately, I do have a few I remember.
The other day, a brand-new school bus was parked sideways across four spaces in the Dollar General lot. Around the bend sat its opposite: a relic of a bus, yellow-orange faded to surrender, waving a white flag to time, flaking into rust and decay.
Beside it: a tow truck—not unlike Mater from Cars. This one was just as battered as the bus. Something about the juxtaposition—the alive and dead, the fun characters for zest—got something brewing in me. But because I didn’t write the Pixar pitch down right then, it vanished into the landfill of uncaptured thoughts.
Most of today’s mental churn circled around my book. What’s next? Do I jump ahead to the ten-day fast? To the rest stop bench where I talked with a man about his Woodstock ticket—the one worth thousands of dollars? Or do I turn toward religion? I feel pulled there lately. Not to defend positions, but to untie the knot of what I believe and why.
Lots to think about. For now, I’m planning on lowering the volume on my thinking. Run a warm bath, gaze at my latest décor addition—Let’s Get Naked—while practicing with my Spanish conversation app.
That sounds nice. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 