The Things That Speak To You

On the verge of a new day here, one that will be cold and fierce, yet confident with potential.

I've been working on a short story--a flash--about a girl on a school bus. Many of my stories involve school buses, such a prominent entity in my early life. I still remember the kids who rode mine, the route, the big fight between the Hovis boys and the Komaris at the corner of Mohawk and New Roads one Spring afternoon. I remember learning the word "prick" and arriving home to ask my mother what it meant (:o). I remember scrunching down in the seat with my friend, Jodi, and pretending that we were riding in Kit, the car from Knight Rider. I remember reading Christine and Cujo and The Jungle (and many others) on that dusty, hour long bus ride to and from the school, and I remember loving Randy, the boy across the aisle.

I lived in the country. We were caught, us country kids, between a harder life--less sentimental, it seemed--and an academic one. We lived on the outskirts of a college town and of course, there was a class system. When I spent the night at my friend Chrissy's split level in town, we played in her yard on her trampoline, watched PG videos, looked at her mom's yearbook, and ate fajitas with corn succotash for dinner. At Tammy's trailer only a mile from mine, we had water fights while we washed the dishes, consumed R rated horror movies, practiced applying heavy eye liner and curling our hair into those huge flowery bangs, and went cow tipping/deer spotting with some neighbor boys following pathetic games of Sexual Trivial Pursuit.

The recurrent theme is my writing is that of the underdog, usually a person who is a victim of circumstance--the poor elementary school girl abused by her dad and neglected by her mother, struggling to feel of value, which she considers to mean "beautiful;" the sixth grader who gets an education during her bus ride, learning about the things that people will do for "love" or attention; the Mexican immigrant making salsa at the restaurant and waiting on privileged girls who think that she is nothing. There is justice in words, even if only for myself. It is power to give these people little dignities--to make them smarter than the bully, make them tougher, make them better--even if they don't realize that yet themselves.

If you are any sort of artist, what kind of recurring themes fuel your creations? Do you have a social agenda? Do you like the power of imagination, lighting an idea and following its swirling scent? Are you drawn to certain colors or subjects? Do you prefer linear or convuluted; patterns or an eclectic mix? Are you a realist or a dreamer? Concrete jungle or forested one? New Mexico or Manhattan? Corn field or beach?

What are the things that speak to you?