You know that feeling, the one where you have something you know you need to do or say, it’s right there on the tip of your tongue, just beyond your grasp, but… alas, nothing.
I feel that way about writing. I feel like I have something to say, something important, something voluminous, something that rhymes with Shmu Nork Shmest Teller, but … alas, nothing.
Saturday morning, when I couldn’t get my Internet connection to work, I opened up Pages on my Mac and stared at the screen. Fortuitously, I had a book that I had purchased in high school sitting right next to my laptop, simply titled, “Ideas.” It’s one of those books with writing exercises in it, published long before the time when a million writing sites would occupy every recess of the Internet.
And bang. It hit me. Writing is exercise. You don’t sit down and just write a novel, do you?
I’m not going to just wake up one morning being a great writer. Well, as great as I want to be, anyway.
It takes practice. So, I opened up the book to the first page and saw this:
Turn into your favorite car. Are you a Jaguar? A Jeep? What does it feel like?
Ugh. Lame-o.
I looked at the time, and thought, “Okay, I’ll do this for forty five minutes and then I’ll stop. What’s forty five minutes?” This, by the way, is exactly what I do with physical exercise.
I’m going to post my exercise here, and I want to apologize in advance for any boredom inflicted as a result. Because, really? What kind of car would I be smacks loudly of an annoying Facebook quiz I once took.
At the same time, I have to put myself out there… er, out here. So, please enjoy. Or, move on. That’s fine, too.
(By the way, my favorite car happens to be my husband’s silver BMW 328i SE. From the very first moment I drove that car, I understood the full meaning of the phrase “pure poetry.”)
The sun is filtering into my dusty room, thin, narrow bands of light pushing through the tattered blinds covering the window. They hit my bumper first, and slowly make their way up, up, up to my top and then, in an instant, the bands become a wave of sunlight and the whole garage warms from their rays.
It’s morning, my favorite time, because I know that soon I’ll be free. Just me and my driver peeling through a quiet suburb, then onto the highway, free and fast. This is what I dream of, feeling the warmth of the road beneath my tires, of singing a humming sound with my gears as we propel to our next destination. My destiny is to move.
But, for now, I wait.
It could be hours, it could be minutes, I don’t know, but he finally comes in. I watch him carefully as he quickly opens the door, throws his work bag on the passenger seat and sets his coffee mug on the top of me. I feel the weight of his black bag on the seat. A bag filled with papers, a computer, and numerous other articles, it will no doubt help him make his way through the day. Its weight wakens me further. Where he is going is important. Important to him, to the other people in the house, and important to me. It’s my job to get him there and I will.
He closes the door, grabs the coffee and begins to walk around to the driver’s side, to his side. I am giddy, the anticipation of being used, of being useful. It thrills me, I want to go, I want to move. It’s almost too much.
As he opens his door and places his hand at the top part of the door, the little girl’s footsteps echo loudly as she runs to the door of the garage. “Daddy, wait,” she pleads, “I want to wave to you.” He stops and walks back. This morning ritual is a regular occurrence and, as always, I watch patiently as it unfolds.
I watch him hug her tightly, and whisper to her about him coming home soon, before she even knows it. I watch her ask him why he has to leave. I watch them carefully, as I do every Monday through Friday, as they negotiate absence and return.
I watch them and I know what it is to be loved. I watch them and I know that my job is important and that I am critical in helping this man fulfill his promise to return.
I do not take my task lightly, I will keep my promise so that he can keep his.
The negotiation is interrupted by the mother, she’s holding a small baby in one arm and carefully places her free hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Honey, he’ll be home at 5, that’s just a few hours away and we have lots of fun things to do today…”
I glance to my left and look at the mother’s SUV. We two, we never talk, but we are kindred in our purpose. I will take the father where he needs to go and the SUV will take the mother and kids where they need to go. We sit silent and united next to each other every night, each waiting and knowing that our jobs are done best when our purpose is not even considered by the ones we carry.
My thoughts are interrupted by the grating cacophony of the garage door creeping up, and the filtered warmth of the sun transforms into a radiant burst of freedom and potential. I feel the warmth of my passenger, his hand on the gear, his foot on the brake, and I’m moving.
As the gentle pressing of the accelerator activates the internal parts of my body that define me in the most basic and complete way, I… move.
Where we’re going matters as little to me as does how we get there. My job in it’s purest form is to move… With the wind rushing past, other cars on each side of me, in front and behind… the steady building warmth caused by my tires scraping against the gravel, my body surges with the sense of a clear and defined destiny. I was born to feel the wind rush past, the heat of the road beneath me and the weight of all of their expectations.
This moment, right here, this is what I was made for.
The Facebook quiz said I’m a BMW, too.
25 Comments »
RSS feed for comments on this post · TrackBack URI
Poppy Said,
July 18, 2010 @ 8:38 pm
I cannot be first.
You write poetry.
Poetically, I mean.
And you’re totally a BMW, all the good stuff.
Yes, stuff.
(Clearly I’m NOT a BMW.
)
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:26 pm
@Poppy, You are one of those cool flying cars that we all thought we’d have by now. In other words? You’re a dream.
[Reply]
Avitable Said,
July 18, 2010 @ 10:23 pm
Does it also notice all the issues you have with properly closing the garage door, too?
I think this is a cool exercise. Nicely done!
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:26 pm
@Avitable, Thanks a whole bunch for not correcting my grammar and making me look like an ass in front of everyone who read this after you.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, my friend.
[Reply]
RW Said,
July 18, 2010 @ 11:03 pm
*Don’t trust adjectives. Every time I finish a section or a chapter I go back and delete 90% of the words ending in “ly.”
*Most plots run like that famous sample of a three act play: A.Introduce hero. B.Throw stones at hero. C.End the story.
*Never use an exclamation point in fiction. Let the reader supply those.
*Whenever you can’t figure out where the story goes from here, have somebody walk in with a gun.
*Remember to get the weather in there somewhere.
[Reply]
muskrat Reply:
July 19th, 2010 at 8:06 pm
@RW, Adverbs are the ones that end in “ly.”
[Reply]
RW Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:31 am
@muskrat, Except for the exceptions, but I meant both.
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:28 pm
@RW, Yeah, actually, I think there’s an intersection where a word can be an adverb and an adjective at the same time. I don’t care enough to prove if that’s true or not by offering examples.
[Reply]
tariq Said,
July 18, 2010 @ 11:43 pm
wow…i never realized that our bimmer had feelings. I am going to go give it a hug now. Can you believe, i came so close to trading it in for another one? No way. Not anymore.
Beautifully written. Well done.
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:29 pm
@tariq, Yeah, yeah, show it you love it by getting it serviced BEFORE the warning light comes on. Haha.
[Reply]
Tweets that mention The Phrase “Bored to Tears” Might Be Handy | Native Born -- Topsy.com Said,
July 19, 2010 @ 7:13 am
[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Faiqa, Violeta Guerrero. Violeta Guerrero said: http://bit.ly/ahTCI1 The Phrase “Bored to Tears” Might Be Handy | Native Born: “Honey, he'll be home at 5, that's … http://bit.ly/9kD81J [...]
Sybil Law Said,
July 19, 2010 @ 10:13 am
I am so glad you don’t have a minivan.
I love the BMW now, too.
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:30 pm
@Sybil Law, You know one of the greatest obstacles to my having more children is the idea that I’ll have to buy a minivan to accommodate them. True story. I’m a selfish, vain woman.
[Reply]
Coal Miner's Granddaughter Said,
July 19, 2010 @ 11:11 am
OK. I want a copy of that book. And a copy of you. Is that possible? Could I have my own Faiqa? Because I don’t care what you say, this post was GOOD!
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:31 pm
@Coal Miner’s Granddaughter, For the low, low price of 1999999.95, you too can have your very own Faiqa…. complete with bad jokes, condescending humor. Keen fashion sense not included.
[Reply]
Elizabeth Kaylene Said,
July 19, 2010 @ 2:00 pm
Love it! I would only change “my tires scraping against the gravel,” to something like, “my tires rolling against the gravel,” because the word “scraping” interrupts the peaceful, purposeful flow. “Scraping” makes me envision someone slamming on the brakes and the tires squealing. I thought something bad was happening!
Otherwise, I thought this was a great piece. Thanks for sharing it!!
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:32 pm
@Elizabeth Kaylene, Thank you, that was excellent feedback.
[Reply]
B.E. Earl Said,
July 19, 2010 @ 2:31 pm
I love these little writing exercises. I’ve often thought about posting them, but I didn’t think anyone else would enjoy reading them. But I enjoyed reading this, so what the hell do I know?
As for what car I would be…maybe a chopped top Ford Bronco with a roll bar. Like the truck in Midnight Run toward the end. I don’t know why. I’m not really a 4-wheel kinda guy even though I owned a 4WD Ford Explorer once. Strange.
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:33 pm
@B.E. Earl, I had a Ford Explorer once, too. I loved that thing… until it caught on fire. (It was parked behind another car that caught on fire and the fire spread to mine.)
[Reply]
Miss Britt Said,
July 19, 2010 @ 4:32 pm
I think it’s possible that “My destiny is to move” might be the most perfect epitaph for me ever written.
I mean, I’m not dead yet, but, well, you know.
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:33 pm
@Miss Britt, Yes, I can see that.
[Reply]
muskrat Said,
July 19, 2010 @ 8:08 pm
I like it, too! I wonder if my Acura thinks this way. I’ll bet it does. I also bet it loves the fact that I chose an office space with covered parking, so that it wouldn’t fry all day in the Atlanta summer heat.
You may want to fix the “it’s” in the penultimate paragraph. I’m here to help.
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:34 pm
@muskrat, Oh… that “it’s” thing… hangs head in shame. I’m going to leave it up there in an effort to keep myself humble. But, hey, thanks for pointing it out. Jerk.
[Reply]
SciFi Dad Said,
July 20, 2010 @ 10:01 am
Woah.
This? This was writing.
[Reply]
Faiqa Reply:
July 20th, 2010 at 12:34 pm
@SciFi Dad, Wow, thank you. It means a lot to me that you think so.
[Reply]