Make a list of five things you are afraid to write about. – today’s Daily Post challenge.
Politics. Religion. Sex. My father’s life. My mother’s death.
The first two are easy to explain. Or they don’t need to be explained. Everybody knows the surest way to lose friends and antagonize people is to talk about politics and religion. I have passionate, deeply rooted opinions on both those subjects. So do the wonderful women in my writing critique group, the great folks I’ve worked with for thirty years, and my own dearly beloved family. Unfortunately, their passionate opinions and mine are not exactly on the same page. Or even in the same newspaper. So if I write a brilliant piece about politics or religion, who am I going to show it to?
Sex. Maybe I’m just a prude. I have tried to add a little sex to my novels. Honestly. The flirting is okay and fun to write. I can even manage what Mama used to call “necking” and the blissful time after sex when women cuddle and men snore. But that part in between always ends up being an extra bit of blank space between paragraphs.
My father’s life. He wore overalls every day. He smelled of tobacco. His eyes were an innocent clear blue, his handsome face relatively unlined when he died just before he turned 60. I was fourteen that year. When my friends saw us together, they always assumed he was my grandfather.
My mother’s death. She was hooked up to a ventilator, a tube down her throat. She wrote a note to me: get the sheriff – get me out of here. I said I couldn’t the doctor said it was to dangerous to move her. Her rage was silent, her accusations unspoken but clear. Her eyes said she hated me. I couldn’t face her. I sat in the hall while my brother went in and held her hand. But when she finally gave up, we were both gone.