The onion’s protest registered in the air throughout the house. Its flesh sizzled as it hit the pan and, soon after, it began basking in the sheen of butter. The metamorphosis began. Two eggs balked at the corner of the counter before they cracked and were beaten in rapid swirls. The Organic dill made its appearance from the cabinet above as a new aroma rose from the pan. The onions were caramelizing. The egg and spice joined them as the coffee maker hissed its message, “Mission complete.
The tomatoes would probably swamp up the whole thing and the writer doubted they would add much flavor, but she cut one up and threw it in anyway. They’d go bad in a day or two. She stirred and sifted the hotbed of shapes and textures and lifted out sections to the waiting plate. After a sprinkle of parmesan on the concoction, she slid the rest from the pan to cover the cheese. Her coffee and creamer poured, she carried the muddy mug to the table and downed her morning vitamins. Rinsing the fork she’d used to beat the eggs, she tasted breakfast and deemed it serviceable.
What to write about, she wondered, as she opened a web browser and began her morning rituals. The screen stared back at her, still groggy from the operating system update the day before. She adjusted the brightness and checked her glasses for streaks. All systems go. Must have sleep in her eyes. The fork finally rested on the empty plate, and she moved it out of her reach, purchasing better access to the keyboard. Her neck pulled at her head and coaxed her to tilt back and stretch before leaning forward once again. Her fingers reported to their assigned positions but remained poised and still. What to write, what to write …
Nearly two years of blogging and she’d learned a very important lesson – find your niche and stick to it. Her’s was “writing.” Essays, memoir entries, poetry – the style made no difference as long as it had to do with the artistry, romance, challenges, and techniques regarding the craft of writing. The blog readers had spoken. So this morning she pondered what sparkling, mystical pool of the art she would dive into. Candle flames danced. The floor heater whispered a smooth unending exhale. An unfinished book taunted her from across the room, and still she focused on the blank screen, its face devoid of expression – as clueless as she about what would adorn its space.
An angry truck roared past outside. huffing as it came to a stop at the sign, and mumbling something about gravel and ice before rounding the corner and grumbling off into the distance. The coffee pot ticked and popped on its hotplate, reminding her it was there if she needed help. She went for a refill as the empty breakfast plate caught her eye. It joined it’s family in the dishwasher. The icy floor tiles were not interested in her morning routine except to demand that she remove the stray onion skin that had interrupted its stubborn compulsion at order.
A second cup of energy sparked her neurons into more intense action. “Action,” she said aloud, and the house responded with awkward silence. She could write about creating action in a story, or inciting forward momentum in pumping out a daily word count. “Fat chance at that,” the house seemed to insert, and she had to agree – faced with the still blank page. Yesterday’s post pulled her to her blog page, and reminded her that decades of writing teachers would surely provide material for her to expound. “But that feels like cheating,” she replied, “unless I put some kind of spin on it.”
The chair squealed as she twisted in it, staring at the patio-door window to think. The blinds it wore were those cheap, plastic hanging strips that twisted to open, and shuffled along the track it hung on to open wider or close. Some of the strips were warped and hung crooked, exposing a striped portrait of the neighborhood. She let the spaces paint lines of light on her brain as she dissected the art of writing for a specimen that could hold her spellbound long enough to make her fingers twitch on the keys.
Alliteration, hyperbole, metaphors – she stretched her memory for other literary devices. Imagery, simile, irony – she loved them all and they had always been faithful, except for “hyperbole,” she recalled, that one time in college. Such friends could make or break a piece, she started to write about it, simultaneously questioning each as to their whereabouts earlier that morning. She broke their resistance, they started talking; she was making great progress. Some were even pointing their fingers, and just when several had named the culprit (“Personification,” whom she’d forgotten to put into the lineup – the space heater began an annoying incessant beeping.
Death found an author writing his life.. Designed & done on stone by E. Hull. Printed by C. Hullmandel. London, Dec. 1827.
The fuse breaker’s lack of cooperation had incited a strike. She moved from her seat and headed over to begin negotiations. The phone rang. Work was calling. She would have to finish the article another day. It was times like these that she was grateful for the MacBook’s battery. The laptop would protect the morning’s work, safeguarding it until her return. She had a lead now, she thought. It was only a matter of time before she could round up “Personification,” and expose its habit of transforming objects, animals, and even concepts like “death,” into humans.