Rewrite

- by Paul Simon

I've been working on my rewrite, that's right
I'm gonna change the ending
Gonna throw away my title
And toss it in the trash
Every minute after midnight
All the time I'm spending
It's just for working on my rewrite
Gonna turn it into cash

I've been working at the carwash
I consider it my day job
'Cause it's really not a pay job
But that's where I am
Everybody says the old guy working at the carwash
Hasn't got a brain cell left since Vietnam

But I say help me, help me, help me, help me
Thank you!
I'd no idea
That you were there
When I said help me, help me, help me, help me
Whoa! Thank you, for listening to my prayer

I've been working on my rewrite, that's right

I'm gonna change the ending

Gonna throw away my title

And toss it in the trash

Every minute after midnight

All the time I'm spending

It's just for working on my rewrite, that's right

Gonna turn it into cash

I'll eliminate the pages

Where the father has a breakdown

And he has to leave the family

But he really meant no harm

I'm gonna substitute a car chase

And a race across the rooftops

When the father saves the children

And he holds them in his arms

And I say help me, help me, help me, help me

Thank you!

I'd no idea

That you were there

When I said help me, help me, help me, help me

Whoa! Thank you, for listening to my prayer

- from The New Yorker - February 28, 2011

So True

How to go forward with writing in the gray new days of winter?  Who guessed the answer would appear on the home page of Narrative Magazine?  Four straightforward, simple, direct instructions.  And all of them so true: "Write simple sentences. Report. Don't moralize. No pretensions."

For more of Gail Godwin's early thoughts on writing:

http://www.narrativemagazine.com/issues/winter-2011/making-writer

Breathless with expectation...

for the 50th Anniversary Restoration of Jean-Luc Godard's 

"Á bout de souffle" with Jean Seberg & Jean-Paul Belmondo.  

they've arrived...

in bright little droves, singing and mincing words, 

cluttering up the kitchen with consonants,

 tripping up the cat and coming back for cream 

in the middle of a long, dreamy afternoon

Thunderstruck

Thunder crowds my head. Some are struck by the bright stare of lightning, but I am simply thunderstruck. By stolen thunder, sun and thunder, thunderous prose, thunder thighs, thunder road, imaginary bolts of thunder, thunderclaps, and the screen door that slams when kids hear the first crack.

I grew up in the 1960’s in the Gulf South where thunder was a big part of life. Lightning, too. Thunder stayed with me, though—a lifelong reverberation.

Back in childhood, thunderstorms wrapped around me, the air like a fine cotton blouse, brushing up, arriving each afternoon for the usual visit. Breezes came through our dusty screened windows and filled the rooms with dampness. Loose envelopes might flutter down from my grandmother’s writing desk and the house become dim. I remember the approaching darkness and the wind, at first subtle, turning over leaves and then recklessly tearing them. The orange and grapefruit trees littered the driveway with twigs, dark green foliage, and odd-sized citrus. And then in the distance, the first rumble. I always loved that first echo, far off, promising to come nearer.

Now I live in the Ohio River Valley where thunderstorms are less frequent. There is a room in this house that is windowed on three sides and surrounded by trees. Not the citrus trees of my youth, but great oaks, white pines, and a tulip tree, which in spring hosts cedar waxwings and in summer ill-kempt raccoons. The view from this room is green and lush for about half of the year, and this is the time when I wait for thunder.

The recent weeks have been rainless. Clear, cerulean September skies and a late August that felt like early autumn. The days became warmer and the sweeping blue veiled itself in white, at first thin, barely there, and gradually spun with silken clouds.

But this morning there is no colored cast to the sky at all. Instead, there’s a damp gray blanket hanging overhead and the world smells like rain. Pure, cool, impending rain. And it’s quiet. Almost too quiet. I look out at the yellowing leaves of the tulip tree and wish for thunder.