Home Town Inspiration

Atkins ResevoirThe other day I was told, “You are lucky to have grown up in a place that people will always want to come back to.” 

In the spring months since my homecoming, I’ve enjoyed bringing my notebook with me out in the woods and doing free writes. I’ve been turning these into poems, which I am looking forward to sharing. Here is one:

ATKINS RESEVOIR

I’m writing from the spot of so many firsts

Far from cities and nightclubs and bathrooms.

The mountains are dark blue

The sky is grey.

Driving here I passed a sign:

Your community farm.”

Whose community?

Whose farm?

Send me back to the city

Where I belong

Or at least where I can disappear.

I always go to Target when it’s raining

And try to forget about the world outside.

Writing letters to you is my new poetry.

I miss the tortured city days.

I miss the destructive side of myself.

It gave me an edge.

Now the wind blows the pine trees and little else.

I am dying to be swept away but then why on earth are my feet planted on this ground?

This ground that is so much my own.

I can’t share.

I’m selfish as an only child.

This is my turf and no one can possible know it like I do.

In the summer I will walk on the other side of the reservoir.

Maybe I will be alone

Through the woods

Until I reach the rock.

There I will hang my belongings on the knob of a tree

Remove my clothes

Climb the rock

And dive in.

I’ll swim across the expanse on my back

Till I reach the island

Emerging on land like the first dinosaurs

Gasping

Eyes wide open.

I’ll sun myself

Pine needles sticking to my wet skin.

The sun shining red behind eyelids.

But today is just a rainy spring day

And I am eternally waiting.

 

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The Inspiration

A comment on my last post brought to light an interesting story which I haven’t yet told. The inspiration for my novel,Club Prism, was a night from many years ago with a group of amazing girlfriends. We were in high school and we were in the habit of driving around in my car, an old Chevy Prism, listening to music, talking, smoking cigarettes.

This was a particular night, we were five in the car, I was driving. We were messed up in the way that only teenagers get messed up. The roads were empty and the words came quickly. None of us can pin point exactly how it started, but we found ourselves creating alter egos for ourselves.

Creating isn’t exactly the right word. One had the feeling that we weren’t creating as much as re-discovering. Details easily fell into place and the connections between the characters became solidified. The center of it all and the bond between them was Club Prism.

So it began. Back then there wasn’t a story, a mystery or a plot. Only a group of stunningly original, complex,  strong women. Years passed, we went off to University. We stayed friends. We all grew in our own ways and pursued our own goals. But we could never quite shake the power and magic of that night and those characters.

We found ourselves, years later, still intrigued by the alter egos. They would come up in conversations over dinner or at a bar. I felt the idea developing in my mind, to tell the story. And just like characters, it was there, without even knowing it.

I asked for my friends’ approval first. I didn’t feel right creating our story without it. When I told my friends that I wanted to turn Club Prism into a story they were both thrilled and enthusiastic.

Immortalize it, they said. And so I try.