Thank you terror Thank you disillusionment Thank you frailty Thank you consequence Thank you thank you silence — Alanis Morissette, Thank You
Today’s Writing Group prompt: Gratitude. Write a thank you note you’ve never sent, can’t send or can’t express.
Dear Dr. Ditto,
I don’t know if you remember me. I came to you nearly 11 years ago only a few days after the worst day of my life. I was 25 and terrified. My world was upside down and I desperately wanted you to tell me it could be set right side up again. You didn’t, of course; you couldn’t. There’s no cure for the thing – there’s still no name, no one knows what happened – that stole into my room that night while I slept. I don’t remember your exact words, but the bottom line was: “You might get a little better but, for the most part, this is permanent. I’m sorry.” Ten months later, I got even worse, and your office was the first place I went, terrified again. You told me the truth of just how much worse I was and, again, you said, “I’m sorry.”
I want to thank you. For your expertise, certainly, but mostly for your kindness and your patience. My parents and I were so scared and had so many questions, and I often spent large amounts of my time in your exam room in tears. You told me I’d never get better in the gentlest way possible, but also made sure I knew that you and your staff – Kim was my angel, you know – would help me navigate my new life. You made sure I knew that this wasn’t the end, even if I was sure it was. When we wanted second and third opinions, you pointed us to the best places – UVA and Johns Hopkins – and called ahead for us. When I decided to go ahead with my surgery, you gave me your blessing and a recommendation for one of the best implant centers in the country. You gave me the map, but you let me chart my own course. And I always knew you were rooting for me.
I should actually send this letter, or a less flowery version of it. I think you’d be so pleased to see where I am now. Nearly 36 and so different from the sad, broken girl in your office all those years ago. I finished law school, you know. You helped; you wrote the letter that made them get the best accommodations for me, that made it possible for me not just to attend, but to kind of kick ass, too. Thanks for having my back.
I Googled you just now. You’re still practicing, and I’m glad. I think the world’s a better place for it. I hope you’re well.
We can’t all be heroes. Someone has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by. — Will Rogers
Today’s Writing Group prompt: Support: Write about a time you’ve been on the sidelines cheering for somebody else, literally or figuratively.
When I was in middle school, there was literally nothing I wanted more than to be a cheerleader. In my mind, cheerleaders were IT: cute, smart, popular, beloved by everyone. I tried out every year and never made it. The spots all went to the girls who’d done gymnastics their whole lives and could tumble.
When it came time to try out for the Junior Varsity squad – for 9th and 10th graders – at the end of my 8th grade year, I signed up, of course. We had a week of practice at the high school, learning a cheer and refining our jumps. I was so, so nervous. You had to be “on” from the time you ran into the gym before the judges until the time you cleared the doors on the way out. As I was running out of the gym, something in me knew I hadn’t been good enough, and all of a sudden something possessed me and I did a running roundoff, startling my try-out mate. She was all, “Uh, I did not know you were going to do that.”
I remember very clearly a few days later, sitting in 8th grade Spanish class at the end of the day when the afternoon announcements came on. They announced who’d been selected for the JV squad, alphabetically. My last name was at the end of alphabet, and my stomach was in knots, just waiting. In a turn no one could have seen coming, the principal’s assistant called my name. My face turned bright red, my classmates laughed, my teacher congratulated me. I’d done it. I was one of the chosen ones, and I’d beaten out several rising 10th graders who’d been cheering their whole lives.
It wasn’t until summer practices that I learned that there was a rule: the squad had to be made up of 7 10th graders and 7 9th graders – and only 7 of us had tried out. I’d won by default, not talent. Never mind. They couldn’t take it away from me, even if they thought I didn’t deserve it, so long as I worked hard. And I did. I never missed a summer practice, I followed all the rules, and I never earned any demerits. The first time I got to wear my uniform at school on a JV football game day was, I thought, the most exciting day of my life. It was also pretty cool that I got to cheer for my brother, the starting center for the JV team.
In late September of that year, I fell off some bleachers (in a noncheering-related incident) and tore all the ligaments in my right ankle. I had to wear a walking cast for, I think, 6 weeks, which meant no cheering. I was devastated. I’d finally gotten the one thing I’d wanted so badly and then couldn’t participate. They still let me wear my uniform on game days, and I still went to the games, but I had to sit in the bleachers. I still remember, to this day, when a classmate came up to me in the bleachers, saw my uniform, and said, “Are you like an alternate or something?” I was crushed. An alternate? Bitch, please. After that, I basically insisted that they let me be down on the field, cast be damned. I wouldn’t jump, I promised. (I totally jumped. Didn’t hurt in the least, but it freaked people the fuck out. One guy came up to me after a pep rally and told me I was a bad-ass.)
After basketball season, there was no cheering left to do, so I played softball in the spring. I tried out for cheerleading again for my sophomore year, but they’d changed the rules and the next year’s squad only had two 10th graders, neither of which was me. So I played tennis, then basketball, then the lead in the spring musical.
Then it was time to try out for the Varsity squad. I was chosen second alternate. That meant I had to come to all the practices in the summer, learn all the cheers and dances, and be prepared in case someone dropped out, but I didn’t get a uniform (or pom-poms – and only the Varsity girls got pom-poms, so I totally missed out), and wouldn’t get to dress on game days. One girl quit pretty quickly after the squad was announced, which meant I was bumped to first alternate. I never missed a practice that summer, and lots of other girls did, but before a certain date, you couldn’t get demerits for missing, so those girls got to stay on the squad. My dad, who never really wanted me to be a cheerleader to begin with, was really pissed on my behalf about that. Something about demonstrating commitment and all that. No one else ever quit, and I never got to cheer under the Friday night lights.
At the end of my junior year, sign ups went out for fall sports tryouts, including cheering. My dad had already planned his sabbatical from his job as a college professor to do research in Spain from August to January, and my mom and I would have to go with him (well, my mom wanted to; I had to). That meant no cheering tryouts for me. I remember the coach, my sophomore English teacher, stopped me in the hall during sign-ups to ask why my name wasn’t on the list. I told her I wouldn’t be there in the fall. She seemed disappointed, and told me she knew how much cheering meant to me and had always appreciated my dedication and determination. I guess that’s something.
When it comes up that I used to be a cheerleader, people are always shocked. Maybe now it’s my because of my weight, but it used to be because, they said, I don’t seem like the cheerleader “type.” And I guess maybe that’s true – I’m not especially peppy, and my hair has never had that trademark cheerleader ponytail bounce (see Lyla Garrity for reference), and I don’t particularly care to wear the same thing as 13 other girls once a week. But I loved, wholeheartedly and unreservedly, the season I spent as a cheerleader.
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction. — from A Room of One’s Own, by Virginia Woolf
Today’s Writing Group prompt: Write about your ideal writing space. Where would it be? How would you furnish it? What would you surround yourself with?
When I think of the “ideal” writing space, in my mind’s eye, I see a cozy cabin in the woods, with a window overlooking a lake. I see a window seat with comfy pillows and curtains you could pull for privacy. I see nearly every one of these nooks I’ve pinned on Pinterest.
The truth is, though, that it is uncomfortable for me to write in spaces like that. I need a desk and a good chair; I don’t buy for a second that Carrie Bradshaw wrote all those columns splayed out on her belly in bed. Think of the back pain!
My current set up is pretty good, if unfinished. Our office has a brick fireplace and french doors that look out to the yard, and there’s no TV in here. I like my desk well enough, and the bookshelf to my right puts my quote books within arm’s reach. I’ve got ambient lighting so I don’t have to depend on overhead light, which I hate. I still need to hang art and pictures on the main walls and quotes for inspiration on the wall between the shelves of my desk, just for me, but it’s coming along. The only thing I really need to fix is my chair. It was fine when I bought it – a relatively inexpensive rolling chair from Ikea – and it’s held up well, but I have come to realize that it’s not quite right. So I’m on the lookout for something more comfortable.
It’s funny to me that I seem to think with exactly the right pieces in place, I’ll be able to write regularly, magically. As if I couldn’t do that now if it were truly imperative to me to write.
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee Take all myself. — Juliet, in Hamlet (Act II, Scene II), by William Shakespeare*
Today’s Writing Group prompt: Write about your name. What does it mean to you? What do you think it means to others? If you could change it, would you? To what?
This is kind of funny. My name, Melanie, means “dark one” or “clad in black.” When I first learned this, I was probably 10 or 11. I got so pissed. “Dark one?” My brother’s name, Nathaniel, means “gift from God.” What the actual fuck? I was totally put out about this in a way that only an 11-year-old can be. Now I don’t care, of course. Although I like this bit, which I just discovered: “[Melanie] was the name of a Roman saint who gave all her wealth to charity in the 5th century. Her grandmother was also a saint with the same name.” Since my middle name is my Mimi‘s name, Diane, I dig this. Also, I’m big in Austria.
In high school, I only knew one other Melanie. She was not that awesome (and I say that not because I am so awesome, but because she ended up marrying a friend of mine long after high school – a friend who did not go to school with us to know better – and seriously fucked him up. They’re divorced now.). Even now, I don’t personally know any other Melanies, and I like it that way. There aren’t even that many famous people named Melanie. Melanie Griffith, of course. Both Spice Girls named Mel. Melanie Lynskey (“You have a baby! In a bar!”). Apparently I also missed my calling as an Olympian.
Somewhere I have a piece of paper on which my biological mother (supposedly) doodled various names while she was pregnant with me. I can’t remember what’s on there, but I think Melissa, for sure. I know my dad once told me that there was a time he wanted to name me Rhiannon, after the Fleetwood Mac song (“And then she is the darkness”). I think I might have dodged a bullet, although I love the idea of being named after a song.
Would I ever change my name? No. I had enough angst over changing my last name when I got married. So much so that I actually legally adopted my maiden name as my middle name (I pass it off as a Southern thing, but really, I couldn’t bear to part with my father’s name). I can’t imagine changing my first name; it’s making me shudder to think about it. Except for people at work, no one really calls me Melanie, though. Nearly everyone calls me Mel. My niece and nephew call me Mel-mel (at least for a little while longer; I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle it when they stop). Mimi calls me Melly. My dad often calls me Begonia (I . . . don’t know, but I love it). David calls me baby. They all fit, and I wouldn’t change any of them.
* As if there could be any other quote to start this post.
Hear Me in the Harmony 