Head to one of your favorite blogs. Write a companion piece to their penultimate post.
Heck, I had to look up what “penultimate” meant. That automatically disqualifies me.
What happens to the brain when you run out of things to write about? For one thing, you start thinking about stuff nobody else would possibly think about and call yourself clever.
Estelle Getty as Sophia in the Golden Girls said of Ernest Hemingway, ‘As a writer he dried up, got depressed, and blew his brains out with a shot-gun.” Rather crass, but it was her (Sophia’s) response to a situation.
Anyway, this prompt left me looking for my shot-gun. What is more disturbing is that I have none. I might as well open my desk drawer, dangle my fingers over the edge, slam the drawer, and write about the first word that comes out of my mouth. So in the absence of a shot-gun and a desire not to wake my wife with “Ahhhhh &%*@!”:
I’ll write a little something else. Two days ago I got a package. It was from my niece back in Ohio. It contained some old family photos. They were photos of family, of simple times, and simple ways, and simple people.
No words have come to my fingertips that describe my feelings. I just have a lot of tears. It was as if a door to the past had been suddenly thrust open and I walked in uninvited. My only two siblings have died (sisters). Dad died in ’69 and Mom will be 100 next February. One picture surprised me. I had never seen it before, It was a picture of Dad. It was a picture of him shortly before his cancer operation in ‘62. It is how I remember him before the operation left one side of his face missing half of his jaw bone.
Anyway, that’s what prompted me today.
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