heavy-hitting literary name (Charles Bukowski — no relation — was a famous poet).
I figure I’ll be stuck once I’ve made up Amelia Lessing and fake Nick Cooper, but I’m not. I don’t want to fall into the hell hole of high school writing that takes place in a classroom or dorm or coffee shop, so I fling my characters elsewhere: to a weird beach in Mexico I went to when I was little, with Mable. I remember a blue hammock, muddy paths after a torrential rain, and always the threat of panthers in the Yucatan. And that’s what I want to have in the story, this threat lurking in the background, so the reader never fully relaxes.
I know Charlie’s coming and my work is piling up and I need to stop by and see my dad, and that at some point I might even want to attempt a social life, but for the minutes and hours I spend writing, my mind and body seem to exist only in the story.
When I next check the clock, it’s almost eleven. I stretch my back, feeling the ache of having been hunched over. My wrists are sore (note to self: must buy gel pad so as not to loose feeling in arms), my eyes sting, but the rest of me is quite pleased. Not perfectionist pleased, but filled with something solid.
“What’s been captivating you?” Mary Lancaster asks.
I jump upon hearing her voice. “I didn’t even know you were there.”
She’s stretched out on her bed, propped up by a backrest some of the girls call husbands, made of yellow corduroy, which completes her beachy side of the room. “I’ve been reading here for almost a half hour. You didn’t even move when I came in, and I didn’t want to bother you…”
I stand up and doing post-running stretches. That’s how I feel, exhausted and exhilarated the way I do after a great run. I tell her this. “Does that make sense?”
Mary nods. “That’s why I didn’t interrupt. You looked so…intense. Like, when I’m covering someone, or if I have a plan with the ball, there’s nothing anyone in the stands can do to distract me — I’m all the way present there.” She looks at me and let’s her book fall onto her chest. “Is that what you mean?”
“Exactly,” I tell her. “What’re you reading?”
She shrugs. “The Tempest. Shakespeare.”
I smile at her. “I like that play — but not as much as the other ones.”
“Well,” Mary says, arching her tanned bare feet, “I’d rather be…oh, there’s lots of things I’d rather be doing than reading this. But…” she looks back to her book and picks up a blue highlighter. “Work’s work, right?” she starts reading and then pauses. “Hey, you’re all into books, tell me about this one.”
I massage my head, save my work on the computer, and then go sit on Mary’s bed. It feels both unusual and nice to be with a friend at this time of night. Normally, at home, I’d be by myself flicking through late night tv or else lying in bed watching the shadows change every time a car zooms by, either way trying to switch off my over-active brain.
“So…” I pick up the play. “The Tempest — there’s a storm…and all these characters…” I point to their names, “They get carried ashore, where they meet Miranda and her dad, Prospero. He’s the one who made the storm.”
Mary takes the book back. “Thanks. I’ve been reading the first three pages over and over again, but it’s not really my thing.” She mimes a drop shot. “That’s more my thing. Not that I don’t like books — just…it’s not that easy to relate to, you know?”
“Yeah?” I lick my lips and slick my greasy hair behind my ears. I need to shower to rid myself of my slime. “Maybe if you, you know, think about how it’s a love story — and there’s this conflict between the father and daughter — she falls in love with this guy Ferdinand — and Prospero doesn’t like that…”
Mary watches me. “I think you should read it, tell me all about it, and then I’ll write the paper.” She waits for my
I figure I’ll be stuck once I’ve made up Amelia Lessing and fake Nick Cooper, but I’m not. I don’t want to fall into the hell hole of high school writing that takes place in a classroom or dorm or coffee shop, so I fling my characters elsewhere: to a weird beach in Mexico I went to when I was little, with Mable. I remember a blue hammock, muddy paths after a torrential rain, and always the threat of panthers in the Yucatan. And that’s what I want to have in the story, this threat lurking in the background, so the reader never fully relaxes.
I know Charlie’s coming and my work is piling up and I need to stop by and see my dad, and that at some point I might even want to attempt a social life, but for the minutes and hours I spend writing, my mind and body seem to exist only in the story.
When I next check the clock, it’s almost eleven. I stretch my back, feeling the ache of having been hunched over. My wrists are sore (note to self: must buy gel pad so as not to loose feeling in arms), my eyes sting, but the rest of me is quite pleased. Not perfectionist pleased, but filled with something solid.
“What’s been captivating you?” Mary Lancaster asks.
I jump upon hearing her voice. “I didn’t even know you were there.”
She’s stretched out on her bed, propped up by a backrest some of the girls call husbands, made of yellow corduroy, which completes her beachy side of the room. “I’ve been reading here for almost a half hour. You didn’t even move when I came in, and I didn’t want to bother you…”
I stand up and doing post-running stretches. That’s how I feel, exhausted and exhilarated the way I do after a great run. I tell her this. “Does that make sense?”
Mary nods. “That’s why I didn’t interrupt. You looked so…intense. Like, when I’m covering someone, or if I have a plan with the ball, there’s nothing anyone in the stands can do to distract me — I’m all the way present there.” She looks at me and let’s her book fall onto her chest. “Is that what you mean?”
“Exactly,” I tell her. “What’re you reading?”
She shrugs. “The Tempest. Shakespeare.”
I smile at her. “I like that play — but not as much as the other ones.”
“Well,” Mary says, arching her tanned bare feet, “I’d rather be…oh, there’s lots of things I’d rather be doing than reading this. But…” she looks back to her book and picks up a blue highlighter. “Work’s work, right?” she starts reading and then pauses. “Hey, you’re all into books, tell me about this one.”
I massage my head, save my work on the computer, and then go sit on Mary’s bed. It feels both unusual and nice to be with a friend at this time of night. Normally, at home, I’d be by myself flicking through late night tv or else lying in bed watching the shadows change every time a car zooms by, either way trying to switch off my over-active brain.
“So…” I pick up the play. “The Tempest — there’s a storm…and all these characters…” I point to their names, “They get carried ashore, where they meet Miranda and her dad, Prospero. He’s the one who made the storm.”
Mary takes the book back. “Thanks. I’ve been reading the first three pages over and over again, but it’s not really my thing.” She mimes a drop shot. “That’s more my thing. Not that I don’t like books — just…it’s not that easy to relate to, you know?”
“Yeah?” I lick my lips and slick my greasy hair behind my ears. I need to shower to rid myself of my slime. “Maybe if you, you know, think about how it’s a love story — and there’s this conflict between the father and daughter — she falls in love with this guy Ferdinand — and Prospero doesn’t like that…”
Mary watches me. “I think you should read it, tell me all about it, and then I’ll write the paper.” She waits for my
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