Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I DID LAST NIGHT...

Hi! Hello! Welcome! Glad you're here.

You really want to know, don't you?

That must be why you're here with me, reading these words, hearing them echo in your head as though they are being spoken to you, just to you, our little secret... My voice, the familiar warble you know and love... inviting you into the mystery of my Saturday evening... Or, if we've not met, perhaps you fill in the sound of my voice with some sense of voice that matches my photo, something blonde and LAish...

Before I tell you what I did last night, I want to point out that we spend our lives telling each other stories. How many times do you say the following or some variation thereof:
 Oh my god! I have to tell you something!
You'll never guess who I saw yesterday!
You'll never believe what I heard after yoga class!
Get over here right now (call me right now): I have something urgent to tell you!
Did you see what I saw?
Wait'll you hear who I ran into at the airport!
You have to hear my dream from last night...


By now, you may be saying, Rox, actually, I really don't give a hang what you did last night; can we just get on with the bloody prompt? And to this, I might point out that I have somehow faltered as a storyteller if you are not in the least bit interested in what I did last night, especially because it was so...incredibly... well, you'll see. Anyway, still, if you don't care, it's because I have failed to represent myself as a sympathetic character, one whom you care for, would like to root for, would want to witness a happy ending story to an otherwise ordinary Saturday night, yet again frittered away trying to use my crystal glasses as singing bowls to play the Close Encounters tune.

You may really be curious by now.

When we tell these stories to one another—our friends, our families, our beloveds, our stylists, our coworkers, classmates, FaceBook family,  blogs, strangers on the bus, etc—we don't think about how we tell them, which "good writing" words to use. We don't think about tense change or adjectives or anything like that. We just tell the story. Because if we don't, we're going to explode. A word volcano is smoldering beneath the throat line until we can tell someone, anyone, about the this freaky thing that happened at Starbucks on the way to work. So we release it. Then we feel better. In return, we sometimes get advice. Or someone tells a story in return.

As writers, we learn to build up those stories and make them sound really good so people will really want to read them. Sometimes it works. Other times the stories drown in the word dressing. But that's a conversation for another day. The point is, your stories don't have to be dressed in word-gowns in order to be heard. You just need to know which stories you really want to write  and then write them.  Truthfully. Chances are, we are going to want to read them. Look, if we want to hear about your dream or what you cooked for dinner, we'll want to read a story about what you did last night.

So... what'd you do last night? Wait. Before you write it, think about which part you really want to tell. No need to ramble off a bunch of details... which story do you want to write? Or, fine, if you don't want to actually write it, what part do you really want to tell (or already DID tell)? In a single evening, there are about 18,000 stories you could release from the folds of your experience, yet a mere few likely carry that sense of "dude, I got to tell you about..."

So write it. Write it like you'd tell it. Or told it. I can't wait.

Post here or private at rox@writingwithrox.com!


So, you still want to know? Really? Of course you do. If you've read this far, lingered with me for this long, you're already invested in my story... you care about me. Aaaaaaaw.

Still want to know?

Okay. I went to Dulano's with a good friend and watched a band called Sawtooth, whose collective ages would still add up to less than mine. One of the leads smiled like Buddha and sang and fiddled at the same time and I wondered, how can he do that? At one point, some Blue Moons in, I had to of course find the bathroom, but was to self-concsious to cross in front of the stage to get there. Oh, I eventually made it, but it took some pep talking from my overly confident companion. First I had to tell her a story.

I felt better.

Wr t g w h R x W y P —Voiceless

I lost my voice. This happens every year. Never before moving here, not ever.

In fact,  growing up in L.A. I  actually wanted to get laryngitis so I could sound like Debra Winger. I screamed into the loving tangles of my comforters and pillows some nights to earn the raspy edges of a "sexy" voice; at concerts I sang "I fight authority and authority always wins"at the top of my lungs, screamed from the nosebleeds my undying love and devotion to John Cougar Mellencamp and the eighties like on stage, with high hopes of waking up the next day and going to school sounding like I was deathly ill.

Why?

I don't know why. I don't remember how or when raspy voice equaled sexy, but this was the eighties and far stranger things were fashionable at the time (like, I wore leg warmers when it was 80 degrees outside, along with a sweatshirt tied around my waist—remember that one?)   All the same, in vain is as in vain does... my throat screamed in pain, but my voice was stronger than ever. I wasn't happy. Who can explain these things?

Well, the future can, it can! Here I am some 20 plus years later with laryngitis yet again. And even if it sounds sexy, it sure doesn't feel sexy! The weirdest thing about losing my voice this time is the realization that I talk to myself a lot. When I began the conversation in the shower this morning, it came out "sn   s     nsh  x?"  I answered back: "H       k!   oo      y! A      mn!"   I tried to outfox myself by singing or humming, but that did me nary much good. I tried various pitches, even the ones located in the depths of my authentic self, but nothing. In contrast, I tried my phone voice. Nada. Spanish gave me a bit, but not much, and French, well, actually, THAT did sound sexy, but that could be because of what I said.

Well, at least I still had my thoughts. "What are we going to talk about now?" I thought to myself.... and myself thought back, "we'd better get writing," for my talking voice is quite different than my thinking voice. Thinking usually leads to writing, whereas talking usually leads to trouble. But this, I realize, is a whole 'nother story in itself!

When I teach Healing Memoir at the Loft, one of the assignments I give my students is to write their VOICE story. "What do you mean our voice story?" they sometimes say. "You mean our writing voice story? What if we don't have a voice? What if I don't know my voice? What if my voice was taken from me? What if I never had one? What if I have several voices?" And to these very fine and evocative questions  I tell them to write the one they want to write. Which one do you want to explore more deeply? Of course wherever you start, I remind them, you will "find" the story you want to be writing on the page waiting for you.  If you start with singing, public speaking, hating your voice in recording, etc, you will maybe and likely end up going deeper... maybe into a memory, maybe toward reclaiming a silenced voice left behind long ago.

The more I write, alone and with others, the more deeply I hear into the voices of the personal and collective samskara, body memory, and the universal stories held there. When my students write and share their voice stories, cliche as it sounds, the words sing.  

So there's your prompt. What is your voice story? As always, write until you feel it is enough and post here or email for private. Hope to write with you soon!

Silently singing, melodically thinking, samskara, samskara... (isn't that just a deliciously viscerally meal of a word, though?!)

Rox

Adult Play Group

New! Thursday Afternoon Adult Playgroup

4-6pm(begins March 15-April 26, 2012)  $30/what you can

 Forget rush hour—come play! 

Writing, improvisation, laughter yoga, psychodrama, drumming and whatever more to get you out of your head and back into the flow of life!

Why does Jude get all the playdates? Not only FUN! as in barrels-of-fun fun, but more healing than you could ever imagine. Come over (red rover, red rover, send yourself on over!) and play... before you forget how!

CALL or E to reserve a spot!

Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—Is it REALLY fun at the YMCA?

(SOMETIMES)

(By the way, perhaps I should call it the WRITING WITH ROX (SOMETIMES) WEEKLY PROMPT...ya think?)

(If it's any consolation or provides any insight, Ma missed her plane. She was supposed to be here at 4, but won't get here until midnight tomorrow. She's the only person I know to regularly (let alone ever)             

                                                         miss a flight. And guess what else? She works at the airport. 

                                               

                                                        Yes, you heard right.

                          ANYWHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (oooooo)

How the heck do you do the C, again?

                                So I call the Y to cancel my membership this morning because I never go and they tell me I need to come in and sign something to cancel and I say the reason I need to cancel is because I never can manage to get there and she says sorry we need it in writing and I say can I send an email? And she says it's really quite simple, see, just come in the front door and fill out the paperwork, the proverbial paperwork, and I say, so you're telling me that if I don't come in today and cancel membership I will need to pay for another month of membership? That's about it, she says. There's no way I can make it over there today. Or any other day. That's why I need to cancel my membership. Oh well, she says.  

 Do you think I made it? (Hint: Ma missed her plane.)

Um.... so when did the Y become a cult?

The real reason I joined the Y was to use the whirlpool. You sure you don't want to see the machines? she asked. Nope! Just show me to the heat! The other and almost as important reason I joined was to play racquetball. After a several year hiatus (due mostly to making too many grown men cry) (on the inside), I decided it was time to get back in the game. The third reason, a bonus: free play-care (hey! just made it up!  Pretty cool, huh? Wanna buy it?) for Jude. (Oh, it's already been done? Okay). Anyway, the first two reasons didn't go so well. First, the whirlpool experience: NOT relaxing. Let's just leave it at that. Second, racquetball. Two issues: can never get the court (only one) and two, no one to play with. Friends think it's hilarious that I Craiglisted potential players and successfully I might add (with a funny story), but alas, they are not Y members so... 

What's your YMCA story? and/or

Do you play racquetball? If yes, wanna play?

Hope to write with you (sometime) soon (and/or racquetball!)