I'm taking a Creative Writing class this semester. I've jumped off a bridge in a foreign country and I've taken a college tap dance class (with no prior tap experience). Neither of those things freak me out as much as the thought of writing. I generally feel sick to my stomach every time I hit the "Publish" button on this blog. Writing for yourself is one thing, having other people read it is another. This is actually a little easier than the thought of sharing in front of my class. You guys are virtual. It's kinda like how some actors never watch their own movies once they're finished. I'm still not sure I want to be around when people read what I write. But as scary as writing is, it's also fun. So from now on I'll be posting some stories, and, well, who really knows what else at this point. Some might be good, others might be bad. I'm just going to jump."Smear Resistant"
They said I needed a ritual, a writing ritual. So I went to Office Depot to buy supplies. I needed a notebook. A notebook that would be devoted solely to my writing. I needed a special pen, one that could only be used for the special notebook, so that when I see that notebook or grab that pen-it means it's time to enter another world. The automatic doors lead me into a store that feels nothing short of a gateway to endless possibilities. What will be printed on the thousands of blank pages in those boxes? I try to pick up a box. It's paper, how heavy could it be? Soon enough, I learn. Heavy, very heavy. I mean, after all, it's basically a tree in a box. Even pushing it free from its other box friends proves to be a challenge. Left arm in the ready position as if I was preparing to catch a partner in a trust fall, while the right slowly pushes it into the waiting arm. It drops. I wasn't ready. My knees buckle, the muscles in my arm tense. This was a mistake. Gotta put it back. Squatting, I muster what little upper body strength I have and heave.
Whew.
The stack's not as orderly as it was prior to my arrival. Red faced I look to the left, then the right. No one is on this aisle. Alright, keep moving before anyone sees you. Scanning to the right. No, I don't want a 3-ring binder. Those are the worst. I've graduated from such paper keepers. Besides, my fingers have gotten into enough trouble opening and closing those rings. Middle school days, thumbs pressing down in slow motion, waiting to see the exact moment the rings go from the partially opened mark to wide open. The shockingly loud noise that occurs when it does. Like when you're winding the crank for a Jack-in-the-box. Pop! Goes the weasel. Why we choose to intentionally inflict that sense of fear within ourselves, I'll never know.
One subject notebook, college ruled. A plain cover, nothing flashy. That's what I want. Nothing that will call attention to me writing. It's my little secret. I'm supposed to write with the door closed (until I'm ready to revise). A figurative door, of course. That's what Stephen King told me. I'd like a soothing color, but to no avail. Kittens, birds, and lilies cover their notebooks or everything is wide ruled. Ick, wide ruled. That's for children that haven't quite figured out how to write at a normal font size. I'll go with a red cover, college ruled. That'll just have to do.
A pen, I still need a pen. I have pens back at the apartment. I don't need a new one. Wait, yes, yes I do. It has to be special, remember? I'm trying to create a ritual. There's a whole wall of pens. Black pens, blue pens, red pens, green pens. Fat pens, skinny pens, tall pens, short pens. I've never been able to write with the juicy ball point pens most people love. Up until about a year ago, I had this condition called hyperhidrosis. Diagnosed at the age of 15 when my parents finally took me to the doctor. An excessive sweating disorder that affects 2.8% of the U.S. population. My friends jokingly referred to it as hyperhiGROSSis. I'll give them points for originality. My hands and feet would sweat if I was nervous, if it was hot, and even if it wasn't. It made things a bit socially awkward at times. I'd avoid shaking people's hands, I hated playing Red Rover or Twister, and holding hands to pray-I'd always hope it'd be a short prayer otherwise I'd get questions like, 'Why are your hands wet?'
Because I dipped them in water buckets before we started praying. Didn't you see me do that?
In elementary school, my papers wouldn't sit flat on the desk. They'd start to curl up on the edges due to the moisture on my palms. As I'd move down the page, I'd have to write extra careful so as not to rip a hole in the page. I'd walk up, put my work on my teacher's desk, turn quickly and walk back to my seat before she had a chance to raise an eyebrow at the damp thing lying on her desk.
Like a lot of kids, my mom made me take piano. I only lasted a year. My piano teacher would keep a roll of paper towels on top of the piano so every few minutes I could dry my hands off. Even though I had surgery to cure this absurd problem of excessive sweating, out of habit, I continue to avoid juicy pens. Which leaves me with the super cheap kind. The ones I'd see my grandfather use to work the crosswords. Smear resistant. Bottom shelf.
Incognito notebook and (not so special) special pens in hand, I reach the cash register. The cashier barely looks at me as she rings it up. I smile. I've got the tools for my own box of endless possibilities.
