How a Shoe Changed My Life
by
Phyliss Miranda
As summer wilted away, I sat at my desk methodically underlining the word "change" with a red Sharpie. I doodled through a list of things I'd like to accomplish. I wasn't getting any younger. Since I had recently buried my fifty-one year old sister, I realized that if I wanted to achieve any of my dreams, I had to get off high-center. A change was necessary; something I have difficulty accepting.
I focused on my list: conquer the guitar, skydiving lessons, rappelling, surfing, and write a cookbook. The guitar went by the wayside, when I remembered how the thin strings burned my fingertips. I vigorously scratched off the extreme sports...leaving the cookbook as my best option.
Now, this seemed a reasonable goal. Isn't our first learned skill, after holding a bottle, writing? All babies begin with food before graduating to crayons on the wall.
I brooded over the idea of creating a fantastic cookbook. Having inherited not only both of my grandmothers' original recipes, but their knack for cooking, I had always dreamed of writing a cookbook.
My future hung in the balance. No doubt this project was a positive step in the right direction.
Coming from the legal field, I'd written technical papers most of my career, but knew nothing about the craft of fiction. How could I learn the basics?
Luck beamed down. The catalogue for the local college arrived that very day. Obviously, God had sent a signal.
Starving for knowledge, the cannibal in me attacked the schedule and I began to plot my course...a course that truly changed my life.
I evaluated the offerings. How about a class twice a week? No, I’m not all that dedicated. I talked to the catalogue, half expecting guidance.
The first thing I discovered, no "cookbook" writing classes were offered. Hum? I pondered the listing. How about “Creative Writing", taught by a New York Times best-selling author? Doable and challenging. Maybe I'd write a novel. An idea had tangled in a tiny dormant cell of my brain for years. That's it...I'll write the Great American Novel.
Now that the decision had been made, where should I begin
Registration! I hurried and completed the paperwork. Afraid to wait for the mailman the following day, I broke my personal best on the trip to the post office. Didn’t want to miss the first class!
Three weeks to wait. What now?
I'd need supplies, right? With my credit card in tow, I scurried off to our local office supply house
Two hours later, I returned with an array of pens and pencils, a newly revised Webster's dictionary and thesaurus, two spiral notebooks, and two reams of paper. I grinned and plopped the sack of goodies on my desk. Maybe I should have purchased more paper, but if I couldn't get a four hundred page novel written using a thousand sheets of paper, I’d better forget about writing.
As if they were the Holy Sacraments, I placed the dictionary and thesaurus on my worktable. I sharpened the pencils and took out the notepads--one for my first book and the other for the sequel. I’ve always been a big thinker. If a little is good, a lot is better. That’s hunky-dory for dessert but a bit shaky for hand grenades and novels.
Simple so far! Mentally, I gave myself a bucket-load of kudos and a big pat on the back.
There I sat with a dream in my heart, a dozen #2 pencils, and two empty notebooks. Add a lot of determination, and I had everything necessary to become a writer. Didn’t I?
During the long wait for classes to begin, I studied the catalogue again and again.
What kind of an assignment would we get? Of course, it would be interesting, exciting, and exotic.
Humm, what if there is someone planted in my class to steal ideas? Maybe even sell them to big-name authors? I didn't want to give away the story that had been so close to my heart for years, so I'd better think of another plotline.
I opened my notebook and prayed my muse would snap to attention and inspire me to come up with a fail-proof concept.
A couple of not too bright ideas surfaced. What about my friend’s mother that I’m sure is a Mafia Princess? No! That might get me killed.
How about my cousin who married his third wife’s sister by her father? Too complicated, unless I wanted to write for soap operas.
"The Day" finally arrived. I gathered my school supplies, giving the thesaurus consideration, but decided to leave it at home.
Off I trotted, totting my books and thoughts. What does a writer look like? Being a New York Times bestselling author sounded impressive, so I figured our teacher must be writer-chic, sporting a leather skirt, Gucci boots, and a designer silk blouse. Or maybe dressed like Barbara Cartland--wearing the Hope Diamond and a hat. Yes, one with purple feather plumes. She'd carry a Louis Vuitton bag full of her books just in case someone wanted her to autograph one.
No doubt, I’d recognize this marvel.
I arrived on campus early. Shucking the apprehension that clung to me like a thirsty leach, I located the classroom. After studying my surroundings, I chose a seat up front, so I could get a good look at a real author--truly a phenomenon.
While we waited for our teacher, I made my first mistake. I struck up a conversation with a fellow student.
"Why am I here? Gosh, writing has always been my dream." I swallowed hard, hoping he didn't notice the omission of the word...cookbook. "How about you?"
My gut knotted at his answer. Ducking my head, I choked out another stupid response. "Oh, you’ve written two books? I need to check my registration." Two things for certain, I was probably in the wrong classroom and I wouldn't start another conversation any time soon.
Lordy, lordy, had I bitten off more than I could chew?
Entered our teacher, Ms. Nelda! A pert blond, wearing a spiffy black pantsuit with a floral scarf, floated through the door. Rather, she descended directly from the heavens. She brought with her an unmistakable aura. Surely she was the greatest writer I had ever seen. But then, she was the only author I'd ever laid my eyes on.
For the next one hour and twenty minutes, I perched on the edge of my seat spellbound by the wonderments that flowed from her mouth like lava out of an erupting volcano. I’d been to the Tri-State Fair and the circus, but I had never seen anything like her.
Ms. Nelda told us that a book begins with an idea, plus many hours of labor and perspiration.
I could handle the perspiration, but I’d have to think about the "hours of labor" thing. I remembered labor only too well after having my first child. It hurt like hell, I couldn’t sit down for a week, and my husband disgusted me for three months.
Then there was the "every bad character has a good trait--every good guy has flaws" theory. Then add "a villain has reasons, and a hero has weaknesses," and you have my schizoid cousin on one of her off days.
"Let your mind wander!" Now, I could do that. More than once, I'd left eggs boiling on the stove until they burst open and then burnt. What a smell! We had to eat out for a week because of the stench.
An idea is "what if?" Isn't that like: Where would my niece be today, if her mother hadn't slept with the milkman?
The sponge from within absorbed every morsel of knowledge
During a break, I scrounged up enough courage to approach Ms. Nelda. In what could surely be considered one of my most self-destructive moments, I became tongue-tied and uttered a brilliantly dim-witted statement. "LaVyrle Spencer is my favorite author."
Way to make an A, huh?
Ms. Nelda smiled and responded, "She's one of my favorites, too."
Returning to my seat, a ray of sunshine emerged, as Ms. Nelda began, "Get rid of guilt feelings." Now, that's something I can relate to. I don't necessarily carry much guilt over not getting things done, but this gave me justification for letting the laundry pile-up and not make my bed for days. My excuse? "I’m being creative, so deal with it!"
"Now, for next week’s assignment," said Ms. Nelda.
My anxiety level kicked into full throttle. She was about to give us the mysterious spine-tingling topic for our first piece of writing. "Write a story about...about what?" I whispered. Excitement seeped from my pores and congregated deep in my gut.
"A shoe," she directed. "A shoe on the side of the road."
What in the hay? That wasn’t exotic or exciting. It was boring. The only other word I could think of, without the thesaurus, was, well, boring! I lowered my gaze, afraid she might sense my disappointment.
At nine-thirty, I walked away from my first class, recapping as I drove home.
To become a writer, I had to perspire, let my mind wander, appreciate my schizoid cousin, remember my labor pains, and write a short story about a shoe. As a reward, I could leave my bed unmade and feel completely justified in doing so.
At home, I wrangled with the topic while I removed my makeup. Dang it! This writing thing might get complicated. To begin with, I had to find something unique about a shoe on the side of the road!
Glancing up, I saw the reflection of my wonderful, supportive husband in the mirror. He shifted his weight a little, as he leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, and watched me.
"How did your class go?" He touched the nape of my neck, as if he sensed things hadn't gone exactly as I'd hoped.
"I began my first story." Lordy, please don't ask what it's about, please, I silently pled.
I tossed the hand towel in the direction of the clothes hamper. "Uh, about a...uh, about a policeman and a nurse."
How in the world could I tell him that my first story was about a shoe? Well, I didn’t exactly lie. Nurses and policemen wear shoes.
Still dwelling on how I beat the truth around a stump, I crawled in bed. Sleep melded with story ideas and darted around me like a screensaver going awry.
That’s it! That’s my story, a policeman and a nurse.
I shot straight up and scurried off to my office. Correction, my little self-proclaimed cubicle in the sunroom. I had no idea that pajamas would become my creative wardrobe.
Forget pencils and paper, boot that computer! I flipped on the lamp, hoping not to disturb my husband. Didn't want him to think I'd become obsessive-compulsive. Later when Ms. Nelda told me, "You need an almost demonic compulsiveness to write," it all made perfect sense.
By candlelight--it was really a nightlight disguised as a mini table lamp, but candlelight sounds more like what a writer should say--I wrote my first short story...Footprints on the Heart. You guessed it, about a policeman and a nurse, and a shoe laying on the side of the road.
Little did I know that such a lackluster assignment would change my life in ways only a fellow writer can understand.