I was watching Sense and Sensibility the other day, one of my very favorite movies (yes, I really am that much of a girl). Normally I get swept away by the beauty and romance of the film, but this time something in the very beginning threw me off, and kept me distracted for the rest of the entire movie. If you’re not familiar with the story, it starts off with the death of Mr. Dashwood, who is required by law to leave all fortune and property to his eldest son from a previous marriage (I think he was widowed?). Anyway, the current wife and their three daughters are left with practically nothing- only a mere 500 pounds a year to live on. They are forced to move out of their home, leaving it to Mr. Dashwood’s son, and move into a small affordable cottage. None of them have jobs, of course, because they’re ladies, so they are forced to live frugally on this small yearly sum and find ways to stretch it far enough to support all four of them.

But here’s the part that gets me: even on such a small stipend, Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters bring a maid and manservant with them to their new home. Of course there’s the matter of inflation and cost of living and blah blah blah, but still- there’s a scene where they’re debating whether or not they can afford to buy beef, and they still employ a maid and manservant.

This brings up two questions in my mind. Number one, why am I not as beautiful as Kate Winslet? I find this grossly unfair. Look at her!

And number two, where the hell is my maid? I am a lady, aren’t I? I don’t have to worry about whether or not I can afford beef (although I think we all know that given the choice, a maid would win out over beef any day). I think this merits further investigation. If anyone knows of a kindly older woman who is adept at emptying chamber pots and hanging laundry out on the line, please send her my way.

The writing class was amazing.

The class is called “Intuitive Writing”, and the point is to get you away from your ego, from writing with your head. The teacher says we do so many things, like art and writing and dancing, the way we think they are supposed to be done, instead of doing them the way our souls would have them done. Last night’s class was filled with fun and goofy exercises that got us out of our brains and connected us to the stories that were inside us, just waiting to be let out.

One of the things we did was to pair up with someone and swap notebooks. On the top of a blank page in our partner’s notebook, we were told to write a completely ridiculous made up word, and then give the notebook back. The teacher set a timer and told us to write (and illustrate!) a story that somehow incorporated that word. We were given no time to think or plot or concoct- just told to put our pen to paper and go! People had some great words to work with, like ringodello and tongotat and zbefing. I gave my partner the word spelenko. She gave me zdqwiiixlfmn.

Ahem.

I had no idea where to go with that. But I just started writing, and this is what came out:

Once, a long long time ago, young Charlie Spencer was digging a hole to China under the apple tree in his backyard.

Suddenly, his shovel hit something hard. BANG! Young Charlie was curious. Surely a rock or a tree root wouldn’t have echoed so. BANG! BANG BANG! Young Charlie knelt down in the dirt and reached his bony brown arm deep deep deeeeeep into the hole. His fingers scrabbled through dirt and pebbles and dust until they brushed across something smooth and cold. He felt around for the edges, grabbed ahold tight, and PULLED! Out of the hole flew young Charlie, and he landed- BOOM- hard on his back. On top of his chest he held a box. A rusty box. A heavy box. A box with a broken lock. Young Charlie sat up, held the box firmly between his knees, and slowly screeked open the lid. Inside, the box was filled with rocks. Old rocks, ugly rocks, boring rocks. Young Charlie turned the box upside down and dumped the rocks next to his hole. He was mad. Young Charlie had hoped the box would be full of gold- or at least a bigger shovel. China was waiting- he couldn’t waste any more time! So he kicked the rocks aside- CLANG, BAM, RATTLE- and bent to pick up his old puny trowel.

But then something caught his eye. It was a piece of paper- a rolled up scroll- dusty and dirty and buried under all those rocks from that dumb old box. Young Charlie picked up the scroll, rolled it out flat, blew away some dirt, and read the single word: Zdqwiiixlfmn. Young Charlie was confused. Was it a code? he wondered. A secret password? He couldn’t be sure. He turned the scroll backwards, upside down, and spun it around, but still it made no sense. Young Charlie was mad again. He decided the best use for this stinky old word would be to yell it out loud, like a swear.

“Zdqwiiixlfmn!” he yelled. It felt good. So he yelled it again. “ZDQWIIIXLFMN!” He was starting to feel better. “ZDQWIIIXLFMN!” he screamed- and the scroll in his hand burst into flames! From the flames plumed black smoke. From the smoke rose a great red genie.

“You have summoned the genie of the rusty box filled with rocks by thrice calling my name. I shall grant you three wishes.” Young Charlie was stunned! He couldn’t believe his good fortune!

“But… there’s only one thing I want!” he told the genie.

“What is that my son?”

And that was how, on that day so long ago, under the apple tree in his backyard… young Charlie Spencer finally got his hole to China.

Ok, so obviously the point wasn’t to create some amazing piece of literature, or even a good story. The point was to let something out. We were all so surprised by what had come out of us, without any kind of forethought. It was such a fun exercise that helped us have confidence that all of us, no matter what our education or skill level, had stories inside us just waiting to be set free.

So I thought it might be fun to try something like that here. What I’m going to do is give you a word, one that I totally made up, and you’re going to write me a story. Set yourself a timer for 15 minutes, open up Word or Notepad so you don’t see what other people have done with the word before you write, and just go at it. When you’re done, do not edit it! I don’t want something sensational, I want something crazy and spontaneous that you never knew was in you. Copy your story and paste it here in the comments section. I can’t wait to see what you come up with! Are you ready? Here is your word:

flootarious

Go!

I’m starting to have this flutter, this tiny little feeling flickering at the base of my spine. It’s telling me that maybe- just maybe- I have something worth saying to this big, vast planet. Blogging is good, but I blog for me, not for anyone else. I blog to get me through. But now I’m starting to feel like maybe I have something I can actually contribute. It’s an itty bitty little feeling, fragile as a candle flame, and easily extinguished by those giant winds of shame and self-doubt that whoosh and rattle through my bones. But lately when that small feeling flickers and dies, I’ve found myself fumbling for matches in the dark, determined to get it burning again. It’s something I have to protect and nurture, shield from the harmful forces of myself until it’s strong enough to handle the unpredictable winds of my insecurities.

I signed up for a four week writing course that starts tonight; the quote in the brochure said, “It’s none of your business what you write!” I like that. I like the idea of paving a road in myself for my writing, bypassing all my crazy head tricks and letting it just flow out on its own. I can do that, I think. When I saw Anne Lamott speak a couple weeks ago, she said two things that really stuck with me. She said to space out a lot. As much as possible. And don’t be afraid to screw up big. I can totally do that, the spacing out and the screwing up. So maybe I can do this writing thing, too.

…how very very closely Bill Murray resembles a prairie dog?

I’m learning to call people all the time and ask for help, which is about the hardest thing I can think of doing. I’m always suggesting that other people do it, but it really is awful at first.

- Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions

Asking for help really is just about the hardest thing for me to do. When people call and ask if there’s anything they can do, anything at all, I rack my brain trying to think of something small I can ask them to do to humor them, make them feel useful, and get them off my back. “Oh, you know what?” I’ll say. “I’ve really been wanting the recipe for that pie you made a few months ago! I’ve just been craving that pie! If you could email me the recipe, that would just be so wonderful!” They tell me no problem, they email the recipe, and I don’t have to deal with them again for a few days.

I’m starting to lose faith in my ability to deal with other humans. I’ve always known that I’m sort of an odd duck, a bit left of normal, but when I sit down at the computer and actually start up a list of fake excuses to give people when they ask what they can do for me… I don’t know, isn’t that a little worrisome?

The problem is, right now I truly do need help. Real help. Down in the dirt mud up to your elbows help. And I seem to be completely incapable of asking people to help with things I honestly need. Instead I ask them for something stupid and irrelevant. And then I go around berating myself for losing my chance with that person. I can’t ask them for anything else now! I already used them up by asking for their apple pie recipe!

Like I would ever actually make a pie. Jeez oh lou.