Below is what I wrote from it. It demonstrates that you always know more than you think you know.
In it, I mention Darfur. At the time I wrote this, it was long before news of the genocide there became common knowledge in America. George Bush the Younger was still in office and the war in Afghanistan was still raging.
It was the news reports from Afghanistan which I visualized while writing this. When the name "Darfur" popped into my head, I remember another part of my brain thought, "What? Where's that? Is that a real country?" I even spell it wrong in the story. But I didn't edit myself. I didn't judge my writing. I just kept writing.
I have no idea how I knew the name of the country. Most likely, George Clooney mentioned it in an interview I saw. I watch a lot of George Clooney interviews.
The name and the news story didn't register in my conscious mind, but clearly, my subconscious absorbed it, where it lay in wait to be recalled for a story.
If I hadn't been writing with a timer, doing a 10-minute exercise, I know I would've stopped and researched Darfur -- found out where the country was, what was going on there, and (I hope) how to spell it. And that break would've prevented me from finishing this story, falling in love with Frankie, and wanting to put him in a screenplay someday.
So, don't psych yourself out. You know more than you think you do. You're better than you think you are. Let your stories write themselves.Love,
Lisa
P.S. I just now gave the piece a title. It didn't have one previously.
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Soldier On
His life had become unrecognizable. Frankie could still see and hear and process everything. His mind was exactly the same. But his body was gone. Literally and figuratively gone. His life had become a succession of assistants helping him and washing him and moving him. When the assistants weren't doing something medical or toilet-related, his family paraded one after another through his room, reading to him, talking with him, or just sitting and watching TV.
Why didn't they understand he wanted to be left alone? Why didn't they understand that it would be better to die than to live like this for the next 60 years?
He had no memory of the attack at all. The last thing he remembered is that his division had been sent into Darfour simply as a "peace-keeping" mission. They were under strict orders not to shoot and not to engage with the citizens in any way. They were simply a presence meant to instill fear in those wishing to instill fear in us, and meant to instill a sense of security in everyone else.
Apparently, they failed to do either. He remembered an elderly woman coming up and yelling at McCormick. She was screaming and crying and pointing at him and the captain. No one knew what she was saying, but everyone watched her.
Frankie watched her for a second and then began to scan the street. He thought she might be a diversion. At the moment that he called out to the captain to convey that very thought, that's when the car exploded. It had just been sitting there across the street. No one even paid any attention to it. No one was in the car. It didn't drive up. It didn't drive away. It was just part of the background picture, and since Frankie wasn't responsible for checking out the background picture, he didn't think anything of it.
He remembered the screaming, crying old lady and he remembered the percussion of the explosion. That's all he remembered.
The next thing he knew, he was in some hospital in the States, his family were all in the room, and he couldn't feel his legs.
He still hadn't been able to lift his head and look down. He didn't know if his legs were paralyzed or gone. He could see his arms because they were both in casts and were elevated with the wrists higher than the shoulders.
He knew he could talk once they took the tube out of his throat, but he didn't know when that would be. They told him he was injured and burned and they didn't want him breathing on his own yet, even though they said he would probably be able to eventually. He could move his face and make expressions. He could laugh and cry with his eyes, though his throat made no sound and his diaphragm didn't move.
So there he lay, wondering why he was laying there, hoping it was for a damn good reason. His life had become unrecognizable and with each day, he became more and more resigned to the idea that it would never be like it was, that this would be his life from now on. He hoped it was for a damn good reason, but he had a very strong suspicion that it was not. And just as soon as he could talk, he'd tell people about it.
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