Keeping a Headwind

by Dana Cleveland Konop

          The idea tiptoed into my consciousness out of a simple writing assignment:  Write about a favorite childhood memory and use sensory details. Excited about the blast from the past, I wrote furiously and polished my assignment which needed little revision.  (A rare treat.) My assignment was great. My instructor even saw the potential for a novel.

I wrote freely in my writer’s journal, allowing visions from the past to fly into cursive form. Memories tickled and jarred me from thirty years ago, some I hadn’t thought of since living through them.

A phone call interrupted the past being channeled into my journal.

“Hi, Jenn…I was writing…”

“I honestly don’t know how you find the time for everything with the kids so young.”

Yadda, yadda, yadda. I desperately wanted to write, but I owed Jenn a phone call.  I scribbled two more words to link forgotten memories to the present before my pencil stopped.

“What, Jenn?” I asked, trying to catch my memories which were floating through my fingers quicker than lint out of the dryer.

“What are you working on?”

That was tempting. If I told her about it, the memories might return. I could make progress and write while I was talking on the phone. Besides, the excitement over neighbors, places and nasty quarrels with my sister was about to explode inside me.

I spilled all of it to my best friend. Excited, she proceeded to impart numerous ideas on possible outcomes and conflicts for my protagonist. By the time our conversation was over, a hissing Ssssssuuurrp led to a silent void between my ears.

I phoned another friend to rekindle my enthusiasm and my memories. I threw out a line or two from my journal like fishing for a wide mouthed bass. All I got was a sedate, “That’s interesting. What else is going on?”

Sssuurrrrp! Pop!

To this day, my notes lie inside an undisturbed notebook like a mummy in a tomb.

I no longer talk about my ideas or current work. Now I let them simmer until they reach a rolling boil and froth over onto sizzling pages. Then I show them to the few, the proud and the brave – my critique group!