I want to write accurately. It isn’t difficult if I let it be easy. -M. Taggart.
I want to write memory in one line. It should carry all the feeling that was with me. -It’s Sunday morning and it’s sunny. A few moments ago I sat on the deck and watched a grey squirrel run from our bird feeder. I had ruined it’s breakfast. Now I’m ready to write.
Good morning.
Shaking the crazy and then we’re here. Bubbles slide along our glass and we wonder how many are we. It’s possible it’s more than a few and then what. The bubbles continue to slide and the glass is low and we’ll all begin. If we do, we won’t know, and then there can be more. If a bubble stops in place we may be able to also stop but we’re not sure. We’ll be alone.
Here again-
No Abandon-
Knees are bent-
Alone.
Give us words which make us think. Tell us bacon is frying in the iron skillet. Tell us we feel vibrant and that our stomach’s groan. Tell us the bacon has been eaten and we are ready for this day. It is sunny. Clouds have yet to form. We walk into the field.
Here I go. Diving into cement. If only it was again wooden stairs I’d take my shirt off and head first. It’s nothing really. I sit and light this cigar and take a pull of beer and write about the hardest story I know.
This steel clad door had no bearing -M. Taggart
There’s an old chest in the living room. It’s large. The color of the chest is light. There are dark blemishes on the lid. My eyes go directly to this. I think of an old women and her face. She smiles and more than that she laughs and loves easily. This makes me like the chest. If the chest were perfect I wouldn’t know the old women.
‘You’d better write another story. Write the hardest one there is to write that you know. Go ahead and do that. . . . Go ahead and start the new one tomorrow. The hell with tomorrow. What a way to be. Tomorrow. Go in and start it now.’ -The Garden of Eden. Ernest Hemingway
I’ve now started the hardest story I know and It’s begun. – M. Taggart
His heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was in hell. He was sure of it. This moment; with this feeling of sickness, and pure hatred for what he felt, was hell. Welcome to hell.
No vomit came from his stomach. No vomit came from his throat and no vomit came from his mouth. His mid-section wretched up and down looking like an October cat in a filthy dance.
-This is an excerpt from my book. To learn more please visit:
While at a pub I watched an older couple split the bill. The man had asked to do so. I heard shame in his voice. I was reading and his shame brought me to listen. While it’s not my business, I understand the shame, and I want to tell him it’s fine. I observed and I wrote the moment within my mind and then the bartender dropped a glass into the bucket beneath the bar and it hit a plate so soundly that many of the patrons looked up. I wondered further how to write this well. The patrons had been in their own conversations, eating, and drinking. The sound brought them together. I watched as faces exchanged glances; a few smiled, some said hello. Recently I wrote ‘When writing don’t forget to live’ and this is what I had intended to convey.
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