By Kristi Paxton
In Stephen King’s book, “On Writing” he talks about going to
a special place (figuratively so) where you think and write, beyond what is
going on in your life at the moment. His “place” happens to be a basement.
“This is a place I’ve built for myself over the years. It’s a far-seeing place.
I know it’s a little strange, a little bit of a contradiction, that a
far-seeing place should also be a basement place, but that’s how it is with
me.” King goes on to say you might put your special place in a treetop or on
the roof of the World Trade Center (well, not any more) or on the edge of the
Grand Canyon.
Then Stephen King credits another writer, Robert McCammon
with this quote: “That’s your little red wagon…"
Interested in the concept of “your little red wagon,” I
researched McCammon’s story. You can read it on line at http://www.robertmccammon.com/fiction/a-life-in-the-day-of.html.
In brief, the story is about time and how you use it. It’s about trading your
watch and the almighty dollar for a pencil. It’s about taking time to live your
life and write your story.
Here is my story,
or at least a start:
Not so long ago, I decided to clean the garage. Two car
garage. No room for cars. Within a day’s work, I had one stall
nearly opened up—space for one car—if it were not for the outcast toilet in the
front right corner. The pot had been a sore spot for some time. I wondered why
it was there, and I wondered why my husband didn’t haul it away. Minus the
toilet, we could have kept the rest of the garage neat as a pin. Not! Instead
of cleaning the garage, I could write The Great American Novel. The old john
was a symbol for everything that was wrong in my life, and I blamed it. (and my
husband)
Just then, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of red. A
rusted Red Flyer wagon sat just outside the garage, a memento from when the
kids were little. Match! A sly smile formed on my lips, and I swallowed giggles
as I executed a plan. I wheeled the wagon closer to the toilet and eyeballed
dimensions. Yes. I think it will fit.
Using the same adrenaline a mother would use to lift a Volkswagon from a child,
I hoisted the toilet onto the Red Flyer with a grunt. There!
Imagining how it looked to passers-by, I pulled my personal
porta-potty down the lane, laughing all the way. Destination: garbage pick-up area. I ran back
to the house for a camera. Anger was
gone, joy in its place. Snap. Voilà! Time to write. (See photo)
What is your
little red wagon?
