Growing as a writer

I thought I'd do something a little different today and print a little piece I wrote several years ago. I've done a little polishing to it, but not a lot. I think it's interesting because the style seems so different from my style today. It's more descriptive, more passive. I remember writing it (and remember feeling like it was good), but I hardly recognize it as mine. Perhaps I'll re-write it and post that, too, just to show you the evolution of a writer.

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The Hitchhiker


First of all, I'd just like to say for the record that the guy was too far out in the road…

It was mid-November in Decatur, Illinois. November is mostly a gloomy, depressing month in the Midwest. The sky is grey and the temperature is cold, but not grey and cold enough to snow. Just grey and cold enough to dig out your winter coat and gloves and convince yourself that it's not quite cold enough to try to find your boots and wool pants, even though walking from your car to the front door causes you to brace against the icy gusts wrapping around your legs and up your skirt.

I was nineteen years old and driving down 22nd Street in my navy blue '67 Mustang. This street branched off of Pershing Road, where all of the new car dealerships were located and then curved softly south. There was a drive-in and a bowling alley on the west side of the street, and the Firestone, Caterpillar and General Electric factories on the east side. It dipped underneath a train trestle, then rose again to some small businesses, a gas station and a used car lot, before ascending over the middle of the A.E. Staley Manufacturing Company. Staley's was a corn and soybean processing company. It was a large concrete lot covered in tall buildings, drying vats and smoke stacks. The smoke stacks hacked up brownish grey clouds of industrial gunk pretty much constantly. On a good day, it smelled like French fries. On a bad day, it smelled like old socks.

The speed limit over most of 22nd Street was 45 mph. I'm not certain how fast I was going on that particular November day, but I'll guess that it was at least 45 mph, since I never went under the speed limit. As I was coming out of the curve onto the straight stretch in front of the G.E. plant, I saw a hitchhiker standing on my side of the road. He was a young guy of medium height, medium weight, medium everything. He looked like every other young guy in Decatur, from his pale Germanic features to his uniform of jeans, tee-shirt and lined flannel shirt. I remember thinking he looked pretty cold out there on the side of the road, with no hat or gloves.

As I got closer to him, I also remember thinking there's really no shoulder on this road. The side of the pavement dropped off in a kind of cliff, and I always worried that my tires would fall off the edge and I would spin helplessly out of control until I hit something solid and wrecked the car. Of course, I never worried enough to slow down; I just continued to drive at the speed limit and let the fear and risk run through me like an electrical current. That day was no different. I maintained my speed and stayed on the road, whipping by the hitchhiking boy.

The first thing I heard when I drove past was a strange, THWACKING noise. Looking over at my radio antenna, it was vibrating quite out of time with the forward motion of the car, and making a little "wubba-wubba-wubba" sound. Puzzled, I did what you're supposed to do every ten seconds; I looked in my rear-view mirror. The hitchhiking boy was behind me at the side of the road, holding his hand and jumping up and down. I had hit the hitchhiker with my antenna.

The guilt was immediate and severe. A little white-robed teenager sat on my shoulder and scolded me for my physical attack on this poor stranger. "You should have been going slower," she told me. "You know there's no shoulder there. I'll bet you were exceeding the speed limit!" Then her evil twin showed up, in a red suede mini-dress that was much too short for her. "He's not lying in the street. There's no blood. He'll be fine. It serves him right for being too far out in the road!"

I drove another block, then turned on a side street and circled back around to the dancing young man. Guilty or innocent, I felt the least I could do now was offer him a ride.

Okay, before everyone howls about how dangerous that was, may I remind you that I was a nineteen year old Pollyanna who let teen angels and demons duke it out on her shoulder?

So I pulled over and asked where he was going. It turned out that he was trying to get to the intersection of Route 36 and Nelson Park, which was about halfway to my house, so I told him I'd give him a lift and he got in. It was mostly a quiet, slightly awkward ride. Every once in awhile, somebody said something about how cold it was, or made a remark about the scenery. I noticed that the guy kept rubbing his hand, and I couldn't decide whether to open my mouth and confess… or not.

Suddenly, he said, "Man, before you picked me up, some black car drove past and hit my thumb with the antenna."

Black car? My car was blue, not black. He didn't recognize me. This was where I could tell him. I could confess and make my peace and remain a good girl.

"That's too bad. Were you hurt?"

He shook his head. "No, no. It just stings a little."

"Oh, that's good." I believe I heard the slightest thump as my Teen Angel fell over in shock.

I pulled up at the stoplight, and he said, "I'll just get out here. Thanks a lot for the ride."

"No problem." I sped off, down Route 36. I may have been a Pollyanna, but I wasn't stupid.

You'll be relieved to know that I've never picked up another hitchhiker since that gloomy November day. Of course, I haven't hit any, either.

THE END

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So... recognize me? How about your own writing? Ever go back to things you've written a while ago and wonder whose mind created that?

Today is the first day of the rest of your month

I'm going to try to do something that has previously frightened me senseless - I'm going to try to blog every day. I usually think this is something either left to people with a lot to say, or people who THINK they have a lot to say. I tend toward large periods of silent pondering, followed by bursts of blabbing, which is exactly how I wrote my novel, Freezer Burn. So this may be difficult for me but I'll give it a go.

Today I thought I'd discuss subject trends. I've noticed a phenomenon where, after I've written a column about some random topic and submitted it to the newspaper, suddenly everyone else is discussing the same thing. Don't misunderstand - I'm not saying that I'm such the trendsetter, everyone follows my lead. I am saying that everyone starts talking about what I've just sent in and hasn't been published yet.

And they're not "in the news" topical, either. This week is a great example.

I wrote a column about teaching my 16-year old to drive. It hadn't even appeared in the newspaper, and yet there were suddenly multiple blogs about teenagers learning to drive, and adults remembering their first driving experience.

How did we all think about teenage driving? Why did we all want to write about it? Did we all just get zapped with the driver's training flu?

This has happened before, and I'm sure it will happen again, but I'd love to find a way to investigate the phenomena. In the meantime, let me tell you a couple of stories from my early driving days.

First of all, I should tell the hitchhiking story.

When people start talking about all the things they've run over, or nearly run over, in the middle of the road, I know all I have to say is, "All I've ever hit was a hitchhiker" and the floor is immediately mine, after the laughter dies down. So here's what happened:

I was 19 years old and still living at home, in Decatur, Illinois, with my parents. My dad had a dark blue '67 Mustang, 3-on-the-floor, which we shared. He worked graveyard, so I could drive it all day. It was a cool car, except that something kept happening to the clutch so it would get stuck in 2nd gear, but I digress. What's important is what was happening that day.

It was November, which is a grey, cold month for Decatur. It's not cold enough to snow, just cold enough to make you get out your gloves and turn on the heater. I was driving down 22nd Street, which passes through a very industrial part of town, lots of factories (mostly closed now), a bowling alley, car repair shops, etc. The speed limit is 45, which is about 20 miles faster than it should be, since there is no graceful shoulder to the road; the edge falls off really sharply and you'd probably spin helplessly out of control if you ever accidentally left the pavement at 45 mph.

Nevertheless, I'm certain I was traveling at least the speed limit because I never went slower than the limit. The thought of leaving the pavement frightened me, but I just let the fear run through me like an electrical current and put the pedal to the metal. I was 19, for Pete's sake.

I remember seeing the young man on the side of the road that day. He looked like every other guy in Decatur - medium height, build, Germanic features, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a lined flannel shirt (we called them CPO jackets - anyone remember that?) - and he was leaning toward the road, his thumb extended. I remember thinking that he had no gloves on and his hands were probably freezing. I also remember thinking he was leaning really close to the road.

As I passed him, I heard a sharp, THWACKING noise, after which I heard, "wubba-wubba-wubba". I looked up and saw my radio antenna vibrating. Then I looked in my rear-view mirror. Hitchhiker Boy was holding his hand, leaping up and down.

I had hit his thumb with my antenna.

My guilt was immediate and severe. I hit someone. I began having an argument with myself.

"You were going too fast," Good Gayle said. "You know there's no shoulder there."

"There's no blood," Evil Gayle replied. "He's fine. Drive on."

After a block, Good Gayle prevailed. I drove around to where the hitchhiker still waited for a ride and pulled over to pick him up. Before you all start jumping down my throat about the danger, let me remind you that I was a 19-year old who argued with herself. God had his hands full with me.

It was a quiet, awkward ride. H-Boy kept rubbing his hand. Finally, he said, "Right before you picked me up, some black car hit me with their antenna."

Black car? My car was dark blue. I said the first thing that came to mind: "That's too bad. Were you hurt?"

What - you were expecting me to confess?

"No," he said. "It's just a little sore."

I dropped him off, and continued home, and never told my parents about it - EVAH. I also never picked up another hitchhiker. Of course, I never hit another one, either.

Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to Mary Lou.