Making the WRITE Turn

It has been over a decade since I graduated from college. I had majored in English, and I yearned to focus the remainder of my twenties on writing fiction.  Most do not get paid to write a novel as it is being created, though. I considered (and desired) a Masters in either English or Writing, but was influenced too much on others and in 2003, I had neither. Instead I had a Juris Doctorate and no job.

It is 2012 and finally I am back to where I wanted to go. Writing.

Here is a short scene I crafted earlier this week. I work on exercises and am taking writing classes online to polish up my rusty writing skills. I have a novel-in-progress but that I won't be sharing here; it is being kept well under wraps as I don't like to discuss my plot ideas. Too often an over-excited young writer will lose their work by sharing a bit too much of their original ideas with others.

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      The stress of another day attempting to work from home while a deranged toddler ran amuck throughout three floors had caught up with Stephanie. She closed her laptop rather than let stress win another round, hung up her hat for the day and followed the patter of little paws which were heading away from her office to the kitchen. Maverick paced around the kitchen like a first-time father outside of a delivery room.  He circled at first around her, his tail unusually bushy, the silky black fur curling around her leg, and then he retraced his own path, casting a glance in Stephanie’s direction and an occasional chirp to ensure his presence, and rising irritation, were known.

      Stephanie smiled down at the long black feline, and made haste to freshen his food and water bowl.  Once the needs of her four-footed child were satisfied, she assessed her own.  Today’s nuclear toddler, otherwise known lovingly as Bella, had left a few minutes ago with her grandma, so Maverick and her were alone until Dean finished work.

      Stephanie grasped the bronze handle on the dark cherry cabinet next to the refrigerator, careful not to step on the long black tail below the kitchen desk, and removed her glass. In the fridge a bottle of her favorite Riesling greeted her, and while the hand painted glass seemingly mocked her with its repeated “NO”s in a myriad of green and purple fonts, Stephanie filled it anyway, smiling at the inside joke that had fueled its purchase by her husband, Dean. He knew that one word was the single part of her vocabulary she struggled to refrain from saying to a certain neighborhood “annoyance.”

      She crossed the kitchen and stepped out onto the screened porch, inhaled the crisp air, admiring the lake with its peppering of cattails over the shallow waters as they drifted lazily back and forth. The late afternoon sun and its accompanying light breeze made up for the fact that summer had closed its doors earlier in the week. Careful to balance her verbosely painted glass of Riesling, Stephanie descended down the stairs from the porch to the ground floor patio,

      The stamped concrete warmly kissed her feet as she reached the bottom step. She settled into one of their new tan sling back chairs that flanked the wrought iron table. Stephanie closed her eyes, crossed her feet, and took a small cool sip of the yellow nectar. Now she had settled into her version of paradise. 

A noise prompted her to open her eyes. Stephanie slammed her glass down, and sighed. Stephanie bit her lower lip and looked from her watch to her wine glass, which seemed to smirk its vocabulary back at her. Another hour before Dean arrived. She crossed her arms, and silently thanked herself for that generous pour.