Of Bears and Penguins

In a little under 48 hours I have to turn in a first draft of a personal essay for my advanced writing class.

I'm stuck. Completely and totally stuck. Like there is a wall in my brain and the words are trying to get over and nothing. I picture it a stone wall, just too high to jump. The words, the ideas, the letters keep throwing themselves at the wall. They are not trying hard enough.

I've made a pot of coffee. The bulk of this needs to be done by early afternoon tomorrow, cause I've still got reading for Brit lit. I've been nice enough trying to cajole these little words over the wall, now it's time for business. I'm pulling them over whether they like it or not.

Maybe I need to simplify. Quit thinking of thematic elements. Quit thinking of characters and time and just tell a story. This is what happened. This is what I took away from it. Tell a story. Over a cup of coffee. Tell it to an audience. Tell a story. Just a story. An everyday story.

About a night in a diner and seven people who danced. That's all the story is. Just a spring night, a diner and seven people.

Sometimes when I'm stuck in writing, it's because I don't know how to start. This time I don't know where to start, go or end.

I sit down. I start. The writing is heavy, like an elephant. I don't mind heavy, I just need the elephant to pirouette.

The elephant refuses to dance. Just sits there on gray haunches. Looks at me, reaches out for a peanut.
"No peanuts," I say. "No. I've need you to dance," I say.
On gray haunches. Looks at me.
"Elephants aren't really made for toe shoes," the elephant says.
"But you're talking," I say. "Elephants aren't made to talk, either."
"Yes, well. Just cause your imagination gave you a talking elephant, it doesn't mean I have to dance," she says.
"Stop reaching for the damn peanuts," I say. "Why don't you have to dance? If your a figment of my imagination you should have to dance. Why, when I say dance you say -"
"Now hang on a minute. No one asked me if I wanted to be your figurative muse -"
"No muse ever came in a body like yours."
"Oo - there's no need to be catty."
"I'm just saying, if you came from my mind, then you ought to do as I please."
"I'm not even working for peanuts," she snorts. "Even figments have free wills."
"I don't really have time for this," I say. "Oh have a damn peanut."
She catches the peanuts and turns around, her gray shoulders start to shake.
"C'mon," I say. Roll my eyes. "You're crying now? Crying?"
"I-I-I am n-not crying," she cries. "It's just that you didn't have to be so harsh, if you had just asked maybe I would have danced. If you had given me a lavender tutu, some lovely ribbons. Glitter eye shadow. But now. Only demands."
I step back. I take a deep breath. I am not paid enough to work with uncooperative figments.
"Fine. Would you please try to dance."
"No. I don't dance. I'm an elephant."
"Gimme back the peanuts. Go'on, git."

I walk her to the edge of the page. "Go'on."

My natural writing voice is the voice of an elephant who wants a lavender tutu.

Just tell a story. Tell a simple story. A cup of coffee story. An all-night diner story. Tell the story. Of a group of seven who danced.