I can’t get into my groooove lately, and I’m not sure why. I mean, sure, I’m annoyed by Lieberman.
But I can’t blame all my troubles on this turncoat turtle, can I? No, not fair.
I’m writing a short story. The structure is in place, the character is developed, voice is there. It just needs some tweaking, needs some embellishment here and deletion there. So last night, I tell the Husband about the concept.
“Isn’t that like….Precious?” He asks.
“You know, it sounds like the movie, Precious.”
Anyway, here’s the writing prompt:
During the summer, Emmett comes to help us groom the backyard. They work and Cole helps, carrying the rake from one side of the yard to another, digging in the dirt with his kid-sized shovel. He pulls worms from the wet earth and puts them in his bucket, covering them with soil so they’ll be “comfy.”
When they finish, Emmett and Jed sit on the back porch. They pour a Glinlivet and talk about the ever-worsening state of the car industry. Emmett looks at Cole, who pokes and lifts the worms, and suggests a fishing trip.
They go to Wal-Mart and return with two lightweight fishing rods and a tackle box, full of weights and bobbers and hooks. Jed is proud of this endeavor, and Cole runs mad circles around his father.
“Show your mommy what you have.” Jed points at a plastic container.
Cole grabs it from the counter and brings it to my seat at the kitchen table.
“Look, Mama.” He peels back the lid. “Look!”
Worms. Night crawlers. I cringe, the reaction he had hoped for and he pushes the cup closer to me.
“Alright, man. Mommy hates worms.” I smile, close the lid and tell him to keep in shut until they’re outside. Loaded down with poles, worms, bug spray and a towel, they walk down the hill toward the neighborhood lake.