Not a Runner

Not a Runner

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Daily writing prompt
How often do you walk or run?
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I saw an ad for a Wonder Woman run with a puffy blue jacket the participants get for running. It had the WW logo on it and I wanted it. “I could be a runner!” I thought to myself, before remembering that I am not a runner.

I’ve tried running multiple times in my life, always for fitness, never for pleasure. Still, I hold out for the experience of the runner’s high. All I ever get is a red face, a lot of sweat, sore shins. The image of myself as a runner persists, somehow.

The first time I gave up running was right after my brother had seen me running and told me he never knew I was a runner. Me neither, cause I’m not, I thought to myself. What I said out loud was something like, “why not? Anyone can run.” He took up running shortly after and just as quickly stopped. Our genetics bringing us closer than ever, two people who love an idea of ourselves but finally accept who we are.

It seems I only ever discover myself through what I am not. I am not a runner. I am not a veterinarian, a slam performance poet, or a finance person. I am not a Californian.

Perhaps I am a memoirist. That is my current attempt. May we always be attempting to discover who we are, even if it’s by discovering who we are not.

Writing Prompt Winner: Janet Muirhead Hill

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August 2023: Janet Muirhead Hill

“Since My Revolution on the Road“

Since my revolution on the road, my life has changed, but not in the way I expected. My victory was quick and decisive, with few casualties. One would think that would make me a hero. Instead, I am fleeing for my life, hiding when I can, but never knowing who to trust. There is enough money on my head that even a “friend” might be tempted to betray me. So, I’m on my own, hiding in forests and caves, dashing through waterways to throw off the scent of the hounds that are on my trail. And in the moments I stop for breath, I’m left to wonder. Was it worth it, which means, did I do anyone any good? Was I fighting for a lost cause that will never be found? The answer? If I live to find it, I will let you know.

Hill writes from her rural Montana home which she shares with her husband, two cats, and two ponies. She writes for the joy of writing as she learns about life and herself through the characters in her novels and in the random poetry she occasionally pens.

The Lucky Ones

The Lucky Ones

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Daily writing prompt
What brings a tear of joy to your eye?
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“It’s our song,” I say, and turn the volume up a bit. It’s Kenny Loggins, a man I’ve been told isn’t very nice in person but who I’ve never met, and anyway, this song is the story of my life. Sort of. The way many songs are. Mostly.

We have less than zero dollars as we drown in debt and try to figure out how to make a living when one of us is preternaturally ill and still trying to fix up our home so we can sell it, and the other is trying to mother two children under five years old while keeping up with household chores and launch a writing career.

It’s chaos.

Still, we will drop everything to listen to Kenny croon about the sun shining and that everything’s gonna be alright.

This is the song our band learned so they could play it for us at our wedding. This is the song playing in the background of so many memories – starting in childhood, then parenting, and now spousal.

We’ve earned what lovers own, and now we’re trying to earn a bit of the tangible stuff. I fear the song will lose some of it’s umph when we can afford to sing along and stumble over the “ain’t got money” part. Still, as long as we can harmonize with “I’m so in love with you, honey,” I think we’ll be okay. Either way it’ll bring a tear to my eye.

Sculpture in the Wild

Dreaming of Home

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Daily writing prompt
What does your ideal home look like?
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I’ve been dreaming of home, of place. I’ve been seeing home everywhere, in the creature carved into the shelf, in the stained glass I got at the thrift store, at the witch’s house (“The Castle” my kids called it) in Sculpture in the Wild.

My home is wherever my family is, that’s where I want to be. But my house? My house is a twenty year old double-wide, the sort of thing I was raised to look down upon but have found in truth to be quite to my liking. The roof is solid, the double-paned windows keep the below freezing temperatures at bay, and the unknown finish on the countertops is completely impervious to my rough treatment. It’s kind of perfect for me, a person who is the reason I can’t have nice things.

Still.

I dream of built-in’s, of bookcases that stretch ceiling to floor with pockets of art peaking out here and there. I dream of enormous windows to let in the light and the view. I dream of hardwood floors that don’t contain the stampeding herd of bison that is my children nor allergens. I dream of a kitchen where the food makes itself and it’s always edible…but perhaps that takes the dream too far.

For now, I live in the cookie-cutter house and dream of the day our house reflects our lives in a different way, a natural way, a custom way.

Daily Habits

Daily Habits

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Daily writing prompt
What daily habit do you do that improves your quality of life?
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“I’m down to a pack a day,” she brags, exhaling a long stream of smoke and a longer stream of hacking coughs that leave me feeling like I’m about to throw up.

Apologies, but that’s my first thought. Something to do with how the prompt is written. *shudder*

With that out of the way, however, I have one daily habit that seems to belong in the “something I’m doing right” column, and I’m told over and over again that this is so. Despite feeling like it’s what I do because it’s my only option, I’m going to share it with you because it may be helpful.

Every morning, I wake up between 4:30am and 5am, not because I’m a morning person and not because that’s my favorite time of day (especially in winter). I wake up at 4:30/5am every morning because it’s the only time my entire family is preoccupied and doesn’t need me and I can have time to myself, for myself. For ease we’re just going to say 5am going forward. Let’s dive in.

Getting up at 5am means I get a minimum of one hour to myself, possibly a little longer if I’m lucky. It means I have one hour every day to show up for myself and my work. I quietly get out of my warm bed, throw on a sweatshirt, and clamber onto the couch, putting my feet up on the ottoman so I have a lap for my laptop. I pull on a blanket, open the computer, and start typing. I write every day for a minimum of one hour or 1,000 words. That is my daily goal and I don’t get to do any of the other things I could be doing with a sleeping household until that 1,000 words is met.

Once they’re done, however, I can then have my coffee, play some Wordle and Spelling Bee, check out other people’s posts and read an ebook. I have so many incentives waiting for me to finish that 1,000 words that it doesn’t feel like a chore, but a gift. And something about still being semi-asleep helps keep my inner-critic from rearing her ugly head and the words tend to flow out smoothly.

They say, “You can’t edit a blank page,” so I try to give myself something I can work with every day. These 1,000 words don’t always end up in the book, sometimes they become a standalone essay or a blog post or a Patreon post, but they’re never wasted.

What’s your best daily habit? What’s your worst?

SundayDutro

Cuddle Time

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Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite time of day?
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My mother allowed me a half hour of television a day. I was supposed to come home from school, finish my homework, and then have one thirty minute show. Of course this isn’t how it worked.

I came home from school, sat down at the coffee table, pulled out all my homework, turned on the TV and during commercial breaks, if I wasn’t jumping up for a snack, I did my homework. I always made sure to have my homework done before my mom came home, and I always made sure to turn the TV off before she came in the door.

“How was your day?”

“Good.”

“Did you get your homework done?”

“Finishing up now.”

“Did you watch your show yet?”

“Nope. I want to watch it with you.”

For it wasn’t so much that I cared about TV as I wanted to do something with her that was ours.

I can’t remember the lineup anymore, what show on which day, but there were shows we’d watch together: Family Ties, and The Wonder Years. I’m sure there were others, but those were her favorites. She’d let me pick whatever I wanted and watch it with me, but Punky Brewster and Growing Pains weren’t really her thing. I always picked a show she liked if I could help it, my greatest fear being her calling an end to this daily ritual.

As a parent, especially a single parent as she was (a feat I can, thankfully, only imagine), your time is limited but your time is all your child wants. It wouldn’t have mattered if we were laying on the couch with no television, simply being together for thirty minutes. I would have loved that. I’d gladly watch anything she wanted to watch just for the chance to be together for thirty minutes.

I try to remember that with my kiddos now. Every morning when they wake up and come out to the living room and find me typing away, I put the computer on the end table and hold out my arms. They come flooding to the couch, climbing up on either side of me. We readjust my throw blanket across all of us and snuggle up. Sometimes they ask to do a puzzle on my iPad, an app I keep just for them; but usually we just cuddle. It’s better than TV. Cuddle time is my favorite time of day.

SundayDutro

Where Did Your Name Come From?

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Daily writing prompt
Where did your name come from?
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“My parents are hippies,” I say. The easiest explanation, and not untrue.

My parents are hippies, or were…I’m not sure how that works when one is dead and the other has mellowed happily into the role of grandmother and matriarch.

The truth is much less interesting, at least to me. Mainly because I have to imagine it, as I was there but not old enough to remember myself, being a baby and all.

My father is an alcoholic, or was before he died of “Alzheimer’s related complications.” A fancy way of saying his body forgot how to function and he drowned in no water whatsoever. Because my father was an alcoholic, I can’t imagine the scene of my birth as being anything other than a moment in which he is drunk and celebrating.

When I was born you still had to name your baby before leaving the hospital, and my mother wanted to go home. She was holding me, I’m told, and my father and his best friend and his best friend’s wife were all in the room congratulating my mother and trying to come up with names for this new baby so everyone could go home and the party could really get started. (I imagine my poor mother, unaware of what she’d married into, but about to learn).

I wasn’t there, so I can’t tell you who said what, but I’ve heard the story enough to know names were being bandied about for a long time. Eventually the time and the alcohol caught up and the names being tossed out were raucous, no longer serious but desperate.

“How about Tuesday? Like Tuesday Weld!”

“Wednesday, from the Addam’s Family!”

“My Girl Friday!”

“Sunday!”

And then I imagine it got a little bit quieter, a truth in the room spoken and ringing clear.

“Sunday is my favorite day.”

“There’s nothing I love more than a Sunday.”

Something barfingly close to that.

And thus, I was named. My parents were able to go home. I’m confident the party continued for one of them anyway.

When I tell people about my hippie parents naming me I shrug it off and laugh, “It could be worse,” I say, “I could be Rainbow Moonbeam!” We all laugh, every time.

Sometimes when you have an odd name, you have an odd story to go with it. And sometimes that odd story would be a bit sad and dark if told in full. Sometimes it’s a bit better to have an easy ruse.

“I love your name!”

“Oh, thank you. My parents are hippies.” Smile. Laugh.

5 Minute Stretch

5 Minute Stretch

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“pretending seems organic to you”

When she decided to start over, it was with a total and complete blank slate, or so she thought. She took nothing with her but her car, a new phone and number, which she gave no one. She essentially disappeared, changed her name, “started fresh.” And she thought she did it well.

She’d sold everything to have money to start over with, and she’d decided that rather than select a place to go specifically she would simply drive until she decided to stop. She let her music app choose her songs for her, discovering artists she never would have heard of otherwise. And she loved it.

She paid attention to signs telling her how much further til the next gas station, but otherwise ignored everything, even her speed thanks to her car’s speed control. She watched trees fly by, deserts, mountains and lakes. Building, buildings, buildings. Stretches of nothing but corn or wheat. She slept at rest stops, woken every few hours by a big rig pulling in or a cop telling her to move on.

“Why call it a rest stop if you’re not gonna let me rest?” She screamed at one officer, then ducked her head, ashamed and apologizing.

She was becoming someone new, pretending; the pretending becoming organic, natural, so that she no longer knew who she was trying to leave behind. Or why.

5 Minute Stretch Exercises are a creation of Laura Munson and were learned at Haven Writing Retreats. Write for five minutes, no corrections or stopping.
This prompt was taken from Blow Your House Down, by Gina Frangello.