NaBloPoMo Prompt #3:
Can you listen to music and write? What song did you hear today?
I have not tried to listen to music and write in many years. I used to be able to manage both at once, particularly as a teenager, while writing terrible, oh-so-typical, angst-filled poetry.
As this blog has come to life, the soundtrack roaring behind me has been an unceasing cacophony of coughs.
A melody would be most welcome.
And a rest, that blessed space of silence, would mean that my little ones were finally feeling better.
This month I am following the NaBloPoMo prompts from BlogHer.
If you knew that whatever you ate next would be your last meal, what would it be?
I decided to ask my children this question, though couched in terms that did not imply death. I was supremely gratified that no one mentioned the word McDonald’s, though in the end, their choices were more like a list of starchy side dishes and desserts, rather than resembling anything like what I would call a “meal” (one child had four different potato dishes on her list).
My choice of a last meal would be pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans cooked with bacon and onion, and biscuits with butter slathered on top. I would also have a nice, icy glass of Cherry Coke.
I have realized though, as I write, that I would only want this meal if it was prepared by my mother. It is, after all, merely a stand-in for the person who has infused it with what it represents to me: comfort, familiarity, home, love.
I believe I would not want a last meal at all, unless my mother could cook it and sit at the table with me while I was eating it, graciously ignoring the fact that her grown daughter still likes to put her green beans in her mashed potatoes.
To ease in to the world of public blogging, I have decided to participate in BlogHer’s National Blog Posting Month. Each day for 30 days, BlogHer is providing a writing prompt. I am a day late to the game, but the prompt for Day 1 was :
What is your favorite part about writing?
I originally misread the prompt and thought it asked, “Why do you write?” I lay awake for an hour or so that night trying to mentally answer the question, and finally came up with an answer, only to reread the prompt the following morning and discover I had wasted all that mental effort.
Perhaps, though, all is not lost. As I thought through all of the things I write, the overall reason that I write became clear. What it all boiled down to was that my mind works better on paper. Every grocery list, journal entry, copied recipe, food diary notation, calendar entry, and note taken provides an external source of memory, a place to think through, reexamine and remember. Written words craft edges to days that otherwise would simply whirl by, many things forgotten.
Perhaps if I had taken the time to write down that first blog prompt, I might have remembered it.