Wednesday nights have recently become one of my favorite nights of the week due to a small writing group with a few of my nearest and dearest. I’m in the company of women who I love and trust and it was just the sort of “kick in the pants” I needed to get words flowing again.
The structure is rather loose, though we all joined an online community perfect for organizing small groups where we can post our writing ahead of time for discussion and critique when we meet. It’s working well. One of our more experienced writers (ahem), thought an assignment might be a good idea and she was right.
Two weeks ago she gave us the lyrics to the Norah Jones song, Humble Me, and told us to write whatever we wanted using the song as inspiration. It could be a poem, a short story, whatever. The one thing we all had to do though, was use the same line, It never rains when you want it to, somewhere in our piece.
Last night we met and read the assignment pieces. It was wonderful. I loved hearing where everyone went with it, especially with the line. They were all so different. Being one who brings real life to everything I write, including poetry, I decided to write a prose poem entirely fictionalized. So many have suggested I attempt to write more fiction (if for nothing else) as an exercise to become a better writer. I must admit, I really enjoyed writing this poem, as yet untitled. Don’t expect rainbows and lollipops…
It never rains when you want it to. My mood is dark and all I want to do is hide my face under this tangled blanket. The sun has other plans. I feel scratchy like the strike strip on a book of matches. Allergic to myself. How is it that I always manage to fuck everything up? Fuck it up before it fucks me. Hurt before being hurt. The crying baby with eyes that aren’t mine are a constant reminder. She looks into my soul with those eyes and I wonder how I will tell her. Tell her that it was her momma that blew it all to pieces. That it was her momma who couldn’t keep her legs closed and it was her daddy with his pained and twisted face who set off on a new life because what else could he do? The same thing my daddy did, and when he rescued us yesterday broken down on that dusty road with the sad expression on his face I knew what he was thinking when he looked at me. “You’re just like your momma.”