Yesterday evening was WWWP night. The evening where five fierce writers gather, their writing pieces in hand, and critique and support and snort and snark.
Ooops, last night there was one of the WWWPs missing in action. A bad cold had kept her home, overdosing on zinc.
Since Tammy was the one who was MIA, and since she is our resident Grammar *itch, we all scrambled to fill in for her. Where do those commas belong? How about that apostrophe--what is the most accepted placement? We did our best, but fell short. Not only did we miss her deft touch, we missed her writing voice.
I had seen a grammar pen, and mentioned it to my fellow WWWPs, but since no one believed me, I'm including a link. It vibrates when an error is made, which--in our group--led to some wild digression.
As writers, when something is missing, we know it. Succintness. A strong ending. A hook at the beginning. When we get the story down, then we can attend to the missing components.
Last night, except for Tammy, nothing was missing. Apparently Elvis had not left the building. Lynn shared a story she had written quite a while ago about a trip with "Elvis," which proved that a good storyteller's stories have great bones, no matter how ancient the story is.
Linda brought a story about the WWWPs. In not many words, she had captured the flavor and the evolution of our group.
And Beth...Beth has written a story that is honest and raw, exposing her vulnerability. She took a Chicken Soup theme and has condensed it down it its very essence.
Tammy, you had better be over your cold in two weeks. You had better get off your butt and join us. We missed you. When a piece is missing, there's a void...a void that a vibrating pen could not fill.
Friday I was driving home, on a main drag wannabee, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted someone coming out of a building. It's always been a building that I never paid any attention to, in spite of me passing it twice a day. Is it an office? A tiny restaurant? A hardware store? Not sure, because there is no sign--at least not one that I've seen.
Since this is the first time I saw any activity in front of this little stretch of a strip mall, my interest was piqued. And then I saw a sign painted on the glass door. This is what the gold letters said:
The Gravy Station
And then I realized that the man coming out of that building was holding onto a huge tureen of...gravy?
Of course, that is not what it said. I'm not sure exactly what the sign said, and certainly that man was not cradling a vat of fatty gravy, but all the way home, I thought about how wonderful it would be if we could stop by--on our way home--and get a tub of gravy.
You're going to make some mashed potatoes but are in the mood for something besides butter to dollop onto them? Stop by the Gravy Station.
You're going to have some biscuits and eggs, but you're hankering for some gravy to ladle over those biscuits? Stop by the Gravy Station. (They've got several types to choose from, after all.)
You're a bit blue, and want to take hunks of bread and sop up something rich and greasy? Stop by the...
Well, perhaps it's a good idea there is not really a Gravy Station. But it was a pleasant daydream as I hurtled home.
What kind of daydream has entertained you recently?
