A Writer’s Dilemma
My wife foraged through the mountain of boxes looking for something. Naturally, she found everything but what she searched for. One exceptional find was a binder with old postcards sleeved for protection. These antique postcards revealed an age gone by with one welcoming the troops home from WWI. With each page turned in the binder came a chorus of oohs and ahs with a description of the uniqueness.
She mentioned some interesting notes on the back of one and that set my writing brain to work. I pictured a scenario where a person found their grandfather’s postcards and letters to their grandmother after her passing. The fortyish woman and her near retirement mother discovered the love notes hidden in a box at the back of the closet. The first comes from a fort in America with the usual “miss you” sediments. As the mother and daughter keep reading the WWII postcards kept in chronological order, they become more personal. Moreover, the conservative quiet grandfather made cryptic suggestions for his return that embarrass both daughter and granddaughter upon thinking about it. They both laugh, cry and cringe as they read the early history of the grandparents. They don’t make much headway organizing the house that day.
It seems ideas for stories jump into my mind from the strangest sources. I don’t know if this will make a short story, become part of a longer story, or just a scene to store away in for future reference. Is this the life of a fiction writer? Wherever I go, read or hear has the potential of becoming a story to tell. Like or comment if you suffer from the same dilemma.
Did I mention my dog is a Karen? Last week we took Ginger to the vet for her annual checkup. Being a Karen, she complained, moaned, and otherwise showed her disapproval the entire twenty-minute trip to the office. To everyone’s surprise, she actually sat still long enough to obtain her weight on the scale. Then more petulant noises as we waited in the examination room with special complaints against those daring to walk near the closed door to the busy corridor.
The assistant entered the room for her vitals and Ginger liked the attention until prodded for her temperature, pulse, and other general health concerns. Then more squeaks of displeasure over another long wait for the doctor. Ginger wanted nothing to do with the doctor knowing the doctor does unpleasant stuff like prick her with a needle, pull at her ears, and shine a bright light into her eyes. The nice lady doctor reached for the kryptonite of any Karen dog and grabbed a handful of treats. No more complaints since there was a fair tradeoff.
On the way out, Ginger made friends with a cat in a carrier by squirming on the floor to it. The ride back home was quiet and peaceful. This horrific event wore her out for the day.
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