Archive for November, 2009

As my Lexmark spits out the last few pages of my first novel, I serve up kudos, rounds of applause, and two thumbs up to you:  Poe, Melville, and Crane. Not only for your obvious literary genius, but also for your strength while toiling away over your manuscripts with gusto, dipping your quills into wobbly bottles of ink made of charcoal and soot. A damned feather you used – no small wonder you imbibed. You inspired me you crazy fools.

I bow down to you, who wrote using only a pencil, or a Remington #2 typing machine where Herculean strength and the heft of an ox was needed to depress the keys. Tenacious you were, real bastions, and I stand in awe of your determination.

Cheers to you, the many authors whose creative work might possibly have been fueled by the fumes of Whiteout, its psychosis inducing empty bottles laying about your desks – the fog served you well.

To you, Google Earth, my passport to the hinterlands of the far-flung States of which I write. I tip my hat to you, Big Brother – you saved me.

And a toast to the geeks, whose technological wizardry made this all possible – the Gates of the world whose software enabled the single handed slaying of entire paragraphs, towns, or even characters full of Times New Roman text – wielding only a mouse, my merciless mercenary. For this…I esteem you.

I’ve been told to do “something” with my writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil. I’ve been told that I am “deep” for just about as long. What I’ve heard the most though, is that I need to put my “imagination”, this wild mind of mine, to good use somehow - good use most certainly meaning earn some money while you’re daydreaming s’il vous plait.

But that “something” would not have been possible had I had to pound away my prose on the old turquoise Smith Corona I used in high school, or God forbid, compose by hand with penmanship that stopped developing somewhere around the third grade.  The manuscript would’ve hit the trash, the typewriter would’ve hit the wall, and I inevitably would’ve hit the bottle.

But you, you Titans of technology allowed me to create a world where people don’t simply walk, talk, and breathe – they saunter, debate heatedly, and gasp short gulps of air. And on a whim I can make them, peruse, converse, and inhale deeply with no need to toss the paper and start over.  I exalt you.

And of course XXXOOO to the wind beneath my wings - my friends (especially Paul DeLuca and Gracie Feldman) and to my family, the mob that you are, who patiently listened and encourged while I wrote.

You empowered me, all a y’all, and I thank you – you always told me I could do it mom, and I did.

The yoyo was white. Originally. Now? Well, by now it was far from white. It seemed that every color sharpie known to Wal-Mart had scrambled for its own little part of the toy upon which to scribble. As it spun down to the grey and orange flecked carpet, the colors blurred together into an unsightly brown. But when it snapped back up, flying into skilled fingers, the yoyo held still for a millisecond, revealing the detailed patterning drawn by the owner. Red fingernails dug into the plastic impatiently before chucking it to the floor, only to catch it again the next moment.

The skilled fingers belonged to Mackenzie B. Only “B.” because she never wrote out her whole last name on her artwork in grade school to drive her painting teacher up the wall. As the yoyo froze for a moment once more in her palm, one could quickly read “ZeeBie” in multi-color bubble letters along the surface.

She tapped her foot irritably and blew a stray curl from her face through bright red lips. She pushed her rose colored glasses farther up the bridge of her nose and ruffled her mass of black curly hair. She had been waiting for this moment for months. Just think, her reward for weeks of labor would be her hands in less than ten minutes. She peered around the large bald man in front of her toward the teller. She tapped the man on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, could you tell me what time it is?” she asked confidently, a trace of impatience leaking into her words. The man lifted a thick, tattooed arm and showed her a bulky black and red watch on his wrist. She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve been standing in line nearly half an hour …” she muttered, flicking her yoyo up and down even faster. She wanted her reward. “Love the watch by the way, sir. Thank you.”

Zeebie stopped the yoyo and pulled her paint-stained purse from her shoulder. She grabbed a small notebook and scribbled a few words and digits with a purple pen.

“Excuse me, sir?” she chirped, tapping the man on the shoulder again. He turned and raised his eyebrows at her. She flashed a smile. “Yes, hello, I’m Mackenzie B., you can call me Zeebie. I’m an artist. You have the perfect stature for a piece I was thinking of doing. Here’s my number. I stay up late, so if you’re at all interested, feel free to call from 9:00 am to 2:30 am.”

She ripped the page from the notebook and held it out to him. The man towered over her small, unflinching figure, staring at the bright purple phone number. Zeebie blinked and wiggled the paper.

“Well take it. You never know, right?”

The man slowly took the slip, keeping his dark eyes on her suspiciously. Mackenzie B. pulled out her yoyo once more and started to hum absent-mindedly, still tapping her foot. The yoyo continued to bounce up and down until the man left and she was at the front of the line. She faced a pale, mousy red-head hidden behind bullet-proof glass and large spectacles that, quite possibly, could have also been bullet-proof.

“Yes, how may I be of service?” the red-head asked in an unexpectedly bold voice, making Zeebie cock a brow. She sized up the teller again. “Must be the glass force field they’ve got goin’ here…” she thought. She reached into her purse and grabbed the key to her treasure. She took a deep breath.

“Hi, I’d like to make a deposit, please. Here’s my card and check.” Zeebie slid the objects under the slit in the window. The teller’s eyes widened behind already magnified lenses, giving the same effect as a goldfish in a bowl.

Zeebie smiled at the teller’s surprised look, picturing the 12 ft x 24 ft painting she had been working on for the past four months. She felt her pride swell up inside her. Mackenzie B. continued to spring the yoyo up and down rhythmically as she went through the bank’s tedious procedures. By the end of the process, the small toy was bouncing three times as fast and was blurring into a brown that was three times as ugly.

After the transaction was complete, Zeebie thanked the teller, pulled a Polaroid camera out of her purse, and snapped a quick photo of the fragile, red-headed figure. She grinned at the bank receipt showing her five thousand dollar deposit, the glorious self-earned treasure. Five thousand dollars! Mackenzie B. left the bank dancing to her iPod shuffle, the yoyo of many colors dancing with her in celebration.