That Mortality Moment | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

That Mortality Moment | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Mortality Moments

I spent years, almost a decade researching my family's genealogy. I was almost back to Jesus when reality, cold and stark confronted me. The one fact that was conclusive beyond all reasonable doubt? They were all gone and I wasn't.

I packed them all away one spring morning. I leafed through the papers one last time, pages upon pages of born here's - died here's. Their dashes flashed by like a flip book.
There it was...That moment...The moment that I realized that I will never do all that I want to do here on earth. There are places that I won't see, faces that I won't touch, people that I won't love, books that I wont' read, wine bottles that I won't open and chocolate that I won't eat.

Mortality. I am sure each individual reacts to it in their own way. I remember going into the kitchen and making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich after mine. I personally dislike the ~bucket list~ craze. Not that I didn't like the movie, I just don't like the idea of limiting my dreams and goals to the contents of a tin pail.

That moment forces us to face facts. Like, there are some things that I have always wanted to do that I won't. i.e. Eating lunch sitting on the paw of the Sphinx after riding a camel across the dessert.
There are some things that I want to do that I may get to do i.e. Play connect the dots on a Dalmatian, Zip Line, Hot Air Balloon…
And a lot of things that I don't want to do that I will. i.e. Put on another pair of panty hose.
Tearfully I asked Don after another mortality moment (A close brush with death when a large green tree frog jumped from a door onto my bare chest) "Why do you think that so much weird stuff happens to me?" He replied "Because you live."
If I live a lot, I am going to get hurt a lot, but... I will increase my chances of injury AND pleasure both. So, I don't really have a short list, my list is short. Learn to fly, fly away. Every breath is a mortality moment.

Little Ass Of Mine | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Little Ass Of Mine | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

A Little Ass of Mine

You tell someone that your write, they immediately get this hypnotic zen look in their eyes. Possibly imagining cozy little writing nooks with perfectly sharpened pencils and hardly used erasers, laptop writing near an infinity pool overlooking the Atlantic among-st meticulously groomed gardens, Coy ponds and fountains, or finally the revered spoken for booth at Starbucks complete with endless foaming heady latte's passed to them.
I really don't say anything to quell their delusions,for the lack of something cool to say about my own writing style. I pretty much throw stuff on the wall, if it sticks, it stays and there's nothing charming about that. I have always been intrigued by what motivates writers. After Googling different authors, I find writing is not the starry eyed euphoria their fans think it is.
Of course it sounds great to take a laptop to a infinity pool or a Bali beach and tap out your next novel. But, it's not all location, location, location. Although there are some superstitions, mostly writing is a state of mind.
As a rule, it appears to me that writers have simple personal preferences rather than all out superstitions. Coffee, no coffee, lucky pen, candles burning, bright light, no light. alcohol, no alcohol, music, absolute silence, writing when everyone in the house is asleep, covering the delete button with tape, writing in pencil until the lead is worn completely away, favorite slippers... you get the picture.
My desk consist of scribbled pages of dis-jointed sentences and one really stupid list  titled Words I think are cool and want to use. The areas of the desk that are not covered up with the above are eclectically painted with coffee cup rings and wine dribbles. The wall next to my keyboard would confuse and disturb anyone but me. Color charts of salt water and freshwater fish, a flyer from The Peanut Dude in Mt. Pleasant, a feather from a freshly killed turkey that Suzannah Miles plucked from it's carcass as it hung over it's murderers back (with permission of course) while we cruised back roads for stories one day, pictures of family, friends, grand-babies and ya ya's mingled with senior porn birthday cards, printed pics of crafts and ideas, coasters from fun evenings, ticket stubs of events, cocktail napkins and finally...my favorite, Mules.  
I must admit that I stole my writing mascot from Faulkner. Although he did drown a whole team of mules in the river in his novel As I Lay Dying, I believe he had a fondness for their tenacity. He had a painting of one over the mantle near his desk. Faulkner knew his mules, my favorite line of his, I keep this one on the wall beside me as well. "A mule will labor 10 years willingly and patiently, for the privilege to kick you once."
The last living Faulkner to the legacy was Dean Faulkner Wells (Faulkner's niece) who wrote Every Day by the Sun. After reading a few paragraphs from her lovely memoir it wasn't hard for me to imagine Faulkner glancing up at his mule often for inspiration. Rick Bragg wrote in his article "Until I read her book, I didn't know that Faulkner struggled for years to pay the bills and win the respect of a hometown that largely ignored him and occasionally mocked him." I can only imagine their jealousy, their taunting and their snide whispers as he passed on the street.  "Get a real job, one that pays, writing is a hobby not a career."
One such hater was his own uncle, a judge that said "There's a black sheep in every family and Billy's ours, not worth a cent."
It wasn't until MGM came to town to film Intruder in the Dust in 1949 that the town began to take him seriously. So, yes..maybe a little satisfaction was warranted as Faulkner imagined  his naysayers getting a swift kick in the butt from his painted mule.
I read an article a few years ago about how you know you've arrived as a great southern writer. Former professor Jerry Leath Mills, UNC Chapel Hill concluded after studying thirty prominent twentieth century writers that there was indeed a single, simple, litmus-like test for the quality of southerness in literature. "Is there a dead mule in it?" he asked.
I haven't found the right dialogue to insert a dead mule into yet but I do rather fondly consider the ass my writing talisman. I clearly identify with the stubborn mule especially on the days my fingers sit idly atop the keyboard paralyzed as I stare mouth agape at the sentence I wrote that I am supposed to expand upon.  "Mama, there's blood in my cereal"  When my fingers get to tapping again, I give a little nod to my mule.
It may not be grandeur, but life doesn't always inspire on demand. I've written a page or two soaking wet leaning out of a shower. And another with an eyebrow pencil in the PigglyWiggly parking lot. But the truth is, I write when and where I want to, because I like it and that ~Little Ass of Mine~ picture on the wall reminds me of that and helps me to keep it real.  

Old Love | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Old Love | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Moultrie News Column This week of ~Old Love~

Old Love, Click here

Old Love

I am a card holding, hopeless romantic. I've pressed hearts into sandwich bread, squirted letters with perfume and made a Valentine message candy board. These are the G things. No not G strings. Although I can see where you could get your point across by wrapping a fried bologna and egg sandwich in a thong. But...thank GAWD! I didn't do that on this day. What I did was bad enough. Well, Valentines day rolls around and I'm grinning like a Cheshire cat in the kitchen while I pack a few sandwiches for Don's lunch. I had just written an explicit love letter, wrapped it in heavy foil so the Dukes mayo wouldn't bleed the ink and then planted it smack dab in the middle of his Curtis Bologna sandwich. Lunchtime came and went, not a word, no call...nothing. I concluded he had a busy day. Unpacking his empty lunch box that evening I asked Don coyly "Did you like that sandwich." Without blinking he tells me he traded with Mike who "Liked it immensely." I can't even describe my embarrassment. Don promised after seeing how mortified I was that the guy didn't read the letter, I wasn't convinced and prayed for weeks that he would find new and better employment. This week after being bombarded with adds for Pajama Gram, the huge Vermont Valentines Teddy bear and darn near tripping over a two foot card at CVS, I decided to look at Valentines a different way. Through the eyes of the old. Ask a widow/widower and they will tell you, old love is never old enough. A friend's grandmother and grandfather had been married over 70 years. When this was mentioned at his brides funeral he replied "And that wasn't long enough." I remembered an experience of my own. I was driving through our neighborhood on a clear fall day. I saw a gentleman in his upper 80's trimming his bushes in front of his house with his electric or gas hedge trimmer. I had to stop the car and turn around to make sure my eyes hadn't deceived me. Chopped leaves whizzed threw the air as the man and his boy toy gleefully chopped away at his shrubs. A walker stood alone in front of him as he held on to his power tool with both arms. Behind him, his wife in her housecoat held him tightly, arms wrapped around his waist. I will be anonymous here, but will tell you that my little experiment in old love has warmed me and humbled me immensely this week. Ask an 88 year old who has been left alone when her spouse died 8 years earlier. Ask them about love. Ask how they met. Hallmark wishes it could catch the expression of joy in their face as they gently caress a photograph while telling you about that dance when they met. The funny thing he said to her and finally the day they left them alone. Old love is good. Old chocolate, not so much.