Meri's Musings

Oh my gosh I feel so pressured to put important words on paper: carefully counted words, just the right number: fifty five, no more, no less. To  make words count so I'm not just rambling, frothing at the mouth, just spouting (or typing, as it were)  words to make myself heard and seen. Such stress! For more 55s, visit GMan .

It was the year she ate almost nothing,  listened to ambulances scream in pain  outside her gritty apartment windows,  and bought a Saturday night special. The year she obsessively watched reruns  of the twin towers collapsing.  The year she realized life  is a mechanical bull and  her inner thighs weren't  strong enough to hang on. For more 55's, visit G-Man .

This 55-word stuff is incredibly challenging.  Even if you get a concept quickly,  executing the idea in such a spare format  requires editing and re-editing, constant counting.  55 words, no more, no fewer.  What stays and what's surplus?  Always mindful that every word has to count.  Plot trumps description.  Cohesive narrative required.  Yet for all the brevity,   you want to insert a twist,  bring an unexpected guest to the table. Doodles. © 2010 Meri Arnett-Kremian. All rights reserved. He went first. The graphoanalyst told them what to write. She studied the exemplars, then said,   "Your wife is incredibly brilliant." She paused. "What does she see in you?" Chuckle. "Oh, I see. You're an animal." Right on both counts. Leopard man.  Once lithe and agile. Sexy.   New substitute wife. Dumb blonde. Same old spots.

Revisionist memories of our first romantic getaway when love held such sway: cliffs plunging into watery depths at the edge of the continent, sky and water merging somewhere beyond.  Holding hands, poking around galleries in Carmel, me imagining forever. You, professing undying love, secretly believing you'd find someone better if you kept your options open.