Thank you Aimee Bender, who showed me I’m not the only one who thinks crazy shit and needs to write it down. That a story doesn’t have to follow traditional rules. It only has to make you feel something, anything.
Thank you Haven Kimmel for showing me you can write essays, that turn into a memoir, and then write fiction.
Thank you David Sedaris for writing about competely mundane shit that captivates. How do you do that?
On the day she went into labor, she cleaned her house. It was unexpected; she had known it was coming for some time, but clearly today was the day. She had been carrying the story inside her for months, unsure of what it would look or sound like, but excited as she felt it growing and kicking inside her gut.
Some knew she was expecting, and would inquire, has it come yet? Do you know what you are having? It’s a surprise, she would smile, you’ll have to wait as well.
To those who did not notice she was carrying, she seemed average, inconsequential. A regular girl going about her business. She liked the secrecy, the double life. The story’s cells were dividing, multiplying, flowering within her, with no external evidence of the birth to come.
The conception time was vague. In a way she had felt it growing for years, but it did not become evident until recently. She had been so busy during the gestation that it had been easy to forget about, until a gentle internal nudge would remind her to begin preparation.
The seed had come from many, many sources. Each event in her life, each writer that had inspired her, each book that had touched her soul contributed to its genetics.
When she realized what was upon her, her fears arose in an an army. What would people think when they saw it? Would they judge her? Would they be surprised, yet pleased as she was? Would they doubt her ability to nurture it, and advise her to give it up for practical reasons?
As she felt the labor pains, she nested. When she felt she could wait no longer, she sat in her recliner with a glass of wine. The dog and cats sat near, supportive but not intrusive.
And the story was born.
It was smaller than she had anticipated, but fiercely beautiful. It had her eyes, and her heart. The wisdom in its eyes was balanced with a clever smirk.
It gasped for air as it left the womb, out of the safety of her mind into the glare, the cool air giving it goosebumps. She quickly clutched it to her, and as it nursed, it reached out a tiny hand to touch her face.
Mother, it said.
She knew it would not be her last.
