|
|
The Sandburg Factor
I was, once again, up against a deadline. True, it was self-imposed, but if I wanted to get serious about a writing career,
I had to do it on my own time, which meant nights and weekends, So, while I really wanted to take a long walk in the woods
that surrounded my little weekend cabin, I forced myself to sit and stare at my computer screen, praying for inspiration.
Maybe I could get my creative juices flowing with just a short walk, I decided, and looked up from the computer. That’s when
I noticed the fog that had crept in, silent and unheralded. I guess Carl Sandburg was right about fog coming in on little
cat feet, I thought, as I mentally high-fived my fellow author on his exquisite imagery.
So much for my inspirational walk, I thought. Oh, well, back to work. All I had to do was figure out a way to wrap up this
chapter of my book, which I’d been writing in my head for five years. You’d think, with all the time that I’d devoted to thinking
about it, that the actual writing of it would come easier. Pounding my forehead with my hand, I wrestled with a way to end
the chapter. Wait, how did the rest of that Sandburg “Fog” poem go? Something about sitting on its silent haunches.
I did have to hand it to the guy. I hadn’t looked at that poem since college, and I could still remember most of it. I could
use some of that imagery right now to wrap up this never-ending chapter, but, alas, inspiration had disappeared. The fog that was outside
the house seemed to have invaded my mind as well.
My eyes wandered over to the sliding glass doors that led to the deck. The fog was so thick that I could only make out ghostly
apparitions of the trees that floated around the house. It would be insane to take a hike in the woods in this dense fog.
I’d just get turned around and never find my way back, and I did have a deadline, remember? My mind parried with itself, as
the warring factions squared off. My eyes flickered back to my blank screen, then again to the deck door. Maybe just a walk
around the deck, what would that hurt? I gave in to my impulse, walked over to the door and let myself out. I raised my face
to the fog and let its soft dampness caress my cheek. I turned in quick circles, laughing at the way the fog swayed around
my ankles.
My playful dance, across the deck, cut a path through the cloud that surrounded me. Still laughing, and uplifted, I went back
indoors and nestled in front of my computer. With my creative juices cranked, I rapidly finished my chapter. When I looked
up again, the fog had moved on, just as Carl had promised.
Becky Lower ’69 | English and Journalism
Leesburg, Va.
|
|
