Tuesday, April 6, 2010
We strolled to the graveyard last week.
It's minutes away and overlooks mountains tiptoeing above the sea .
It's curious how time expands and contracts.
Some days yawn with waiting, other days slip by, completely forgotten in their haste.
As a child I remember thinking Christmas Eve night stretched longer than eternity, only to discover later that taking my SAT exams was in fact longer by far.
Now I'm on the other end of the joke because it feels like entire years zoom past in just seconds.
To these old stone tablets, time is a flitting shadow.
This ancient marker is all I know of "Clement Harris, beloved uncle."
He had a life. Who tells his story now?
Fellow writers: here is a place to find your new friends!
Poor uncle Clement won't be poor Clement anymore.
Not after you tell his story.
How he was raised by his cousin till he jumped a train out West to live near his brother
and chop trees at the plummy age of fifteen.
How he fell in love with Edith Sue Boxwallup
but she was done sold off to Harold Nelson by her greedy pa,
which is why Clement robbed the Wells Fargo.
And why he ended up hanging by the neck till dead.
So that's my new writing exercise:
When we hit that heartless wall of Writer's Block, let's go have a talk with those
So many stories simply waiting to be written, lives to honor, characters to find
and perhaps some perspective.