It's funny, the places your mind can take your body. Especially a mind that's in the middle of other people's lives.
I'm in a new place now. A new world with new people. Itsy, Mimi, Fee. Eleanore, Carmen, Anthony.... They are telling me their stories. Speaking in layers that come together and pull apart the still flimsy cheesecloth of the story arc.
I run for paper, for napkins, for an open laptop. I write pages for them. Pages that make them breathe with each character I type. Characters for characters. Keys for keys. Unraveled memories.
And before I know it, I'm standing at the kitchen counter with a pencil in one hand and a very heavy pot in the other. My arm begins to hurt and I look down. How long have I been holding that All Clad pot? Was I on the way to the sink? To fill it up with water? Was I?
It doesn't matter.
I use it. I drop it on the floor and hear the sound it makes. A heavy clang.
Itsy dropped the pot. It made a heavy clang and the water spilled out around her, thinner than blood but slippery all the same. Clean it up Itsy, clean it up like you cleaned up the blood all those years ago.
What about you? Has your writing made you do anything odd lately?