Writer's Block Part II
And The Magic of An Old Typewriter
[We left off this story when Marie woke from falling asleep at the old, dusty typewriter and found that coherent paragraphs had appeared on paper. The story featured young girls moving about in the woods, characters that Marie did not remember creating before her slumber. ]
Enjoy Part II
“What in the world . . .”
The little girls, one tall and one short, draped the tree brush over the seemingly endless hedges to make a roof between the top of the hedge and the gate behind it. Collecting these branches that they dubbed witch’s hair took the better part of the morning.
Now to cover the witch’s hair with leaves and natural mulch will take even longer.
“We better go get some snacks before we finish our castle,” they agreed before running back to the house that butted up against the woods that offered acres of trails around the Rouge River in Detroit.
At this time, they didn’t understand the uniqueness of this place in which to grow up. All they knew was that the forest was their playground. Their parents didn’t even investigate these trails like they did, so they were free to roam and play for hours on end.
Summer and winter, year after year, they played in these woods and escaped the trappings of the outside world. This is where the girls saw fairies and pixies dancing on moss-covered boulders. This is where they watched tadpoles turn into frogs. This is where they tried and tried to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together but resigned themselves to the fact that matches were a perfect invention and easy enough to find in the junk drawer at home.
This is where the petite girl hid away when her parents yelled and swore at each other. This is where she brought her notebooks of stories and hid them in sturdy treasure boxes set partially underground in their fort, concealed by witch’s hair and dried mud and leaves overhead.
Should this little girl ever need to be reminded of what it was like to be a child in somewhat of a tumultuous home, she needed nothing else but to follow one of their old trails and unearth these notebooks. She may someday need to know how she was able to overcome and survive those years.
She will always remember crouching under the tree brush and trying to write in the dimness of the shade. Through the tight branches of the boxwoods, little rays of sunshine would filter in and cast just enough light to illuminate her pages and the dark recesses of her mind, enabling her to keep her stories from clogging up her head and stifling her growth.
The people in her life became complex characters, some full of humor as well as angst. Some working through deep sadness or holding major secrets. Others providing wisdom and tools by which the young girl learned to adapt. These characters began to have lives of their own, turning up in stories throughout the girl’s life, inspiring her to catalogue all of their antics into organized narratives, for she was the writer of her family. She was the one who knew how to tap into her imagination and bring light to life’s most profound situations.
As Marie sipped her tea, she read of these little girls’ romps through the woods and wondered how these words came to be. She couldn’t remember typing them. The little girls were vivid and complex. They each had personality and intricate workings of their minds. Even their dialogue was believable as they built forts and hid treasure, or as they took turns relating their latest make-believe stories of princesses and elves.
Marie studied the ten or so paragraphs, reading one particular section over and over again. She remembered that she too had concealed a notebook in a treasure box and hidden it in the woods behind her house. Could it still be there? Could she actually find this notebook all these years later and discover new characters for new stories? Should she go back to these woods and search?
Had she found her muse? She remembered the light that she used to write by all those years ago in her fort. It was just the light she needed now. She would follow the details of these typewritten paragraphs and find the old sturdy fort. She would walk in the little girl’s footsteps. Perhaps this little girl would show her the sun.
Perhaps she was this little girl.
[Anytime you like & share a story, others find it more easily and we build community.]
[As art often imitates life, this story may bring up memories of your own—when stories swirled around your head in images that begged for capture. Walking in the woods is a sure fire cure for writer’s block for me. Try it sometime. I’d love to hear your cures in the comment section.
And if you enjoy the setting of the woods, you might like reading more detail in my upcoming memoir where you see how prominent that environment was in my childhood. It was a beautiful escape.]
For me it was the beach, Shell. Lovely descriptions here of your favorite place in the woods. Thanks for sharing this!
How strong some childhood memories are. Thank goodness I spent so much time outside