so I guess I sort of cheated,” I finally confessed. “‘A little bit of something in my hips.’ Sorry,” I added. “That was lame. I guess.”
“So you need more words,” Dr. Charmin said.
“Maybe.”
“That’s what I thought.” She turned and started picking through the stacks and clutter on her desk, placing her own journal in one corner. I drummed my fingers on the bottom of Margie’s chair, wondering what was next. I had that can’t-swallow feeling on the top of my tongue, a knot that wasn’t hunger in my stomach. “Never any time like the present,” she said at last, turning back toward me, “to begin.” I took what she was handing to me. I opened it up and quickly flipped through. It was a book made up of all blank pages. Just page after page of white blankness.
“There’s nothing in here,” I said.
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? You have to findyour own words that fit. And when you do, this is where you’ll keep them.”
“Is this homework then?” I asked, though I should have just said thank you.
“No. It’s a challenge. See how far you can take things.”
“Okay.” The clock on the wall said 3:35. The game had begun across the hall; I could hear the whistle of the referee, the cheering of the parents in the stands. The sky outside was hanging low, full of cold and weather. I stood. I gathered up my things and hung my backpack on my back. I held the wordless book in my right hand.
“Find the words you need,” Dr. Charmin said. “Write more of your own poems.”
“My own poems,” I echoed.
She looked at me with those big storm eyes.
She said, “You know what I’m talking about.”
19
A N EPITAPH is what they write on tomb-stones. An epigraph is the thing they stick at the front of books. Something that announces the story’s purpose or starting place. Something that puts readers in the mood.
That’s what I wanted for my Book of Words—something to return to whenever I lost my way. Dad would have called it Strutting Out the Old Henry Ford, because that guy was good for about a billion sayings and because Dad started most of his projects that way, with Big Words from a Big Person to get the client in the mood. Ralph WaldoEmerson was also huge in the sayings department, and so was Winston Churchill, and there were plenty of others, too, in the books Dad had on his shelves. So I started there, behind Dad’s office door on the second door, with his best books of sayings all around me.
Language most shows a man: Speak, that I may see thee. That was Ben Jonson, and that was plain dreary.
The only interesting answers are those that destroy the questions. A Susan Sontag quote, and I had zero idea what it might mean.
A poem begins with a lump in the throat. That one courtesy of Robert Frost. I found it sentimental.
Jilly was on the phone down the hall, talking to Elaine about their latest shopping spree. Mom had Mrs. Garland over for Christmas decorating. They’d dragged a small, sweet blue spruce into the house and boxes of lights in from the garage, and out of the basement they had pulled the crates of ornaments and crèche scenes, mistletoe and tinsel.Their talk smoked up the stairs and under Dad’s office door, and even though I concentrated on the sayings, I heard every word.
“Men never tend to their own gardens,” Mrs. Garland was saying in her authoritative voice. “They take advantage and then they take for granted. Oh, and doesn’t that look nice, with the white lights.”
“Gorgeous,” my mother said. Then: “What I find unnatural is the presumption that they give us a ring and their father’s last name and then a house and some children, and that’s romance. But romance is noticing what we do to stay new. It’s being here and feeling lucky that we don’t belong to someone else. Doesn’t he miss me?” my mother wanted to know. “Doesn’t he want me to miss him?” She was pulling at something, grunting. She was scraping a stool
“So you need more words,” Dr. Charmin said.
“Maybe.”
“That’s what I thought.” She turned and started picking through the stacks and clutter on her desk, placing her own journal in one corner. I drummed my fingers on the bottom of Margie’s chair, wondering what was next. I had that can’t-swallow feeling on the top of my tongue, a knot that wasn’t hunger in my stomach. “Never any time like the present,” she said at last, turning back toward me, “to begin.” I took what she was handing to me. I opened it up and quickly flipped through. It was a book made up of all blank pages. Just page after page of white blankness.
“There’s nothing in here,” I said.
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? You have to findyour own words that fit. And when you do, this is where you’ll keep them.”
“Is this homework then?” I asked, though I should have just said thank you.
“No. It’s a challenge. See how far you can take things.”
“Okay.” The clock on the wall said 3:35. The game had begun across the hall; I could hear the whistle of the referee, the cheering of the parents in the stands. The sky outside was hanging low, full of cold and weather. I stood. I gathered up my things and hung my backpack on my back. I held the wordless book in my right hand.
“Find the words you need,” Dr. Charmin said. “Write more of your own poems.”
“My own poems,” I echoed.
She looked at me with those big storm eyes.
She said, “You know what I’m talking about.”
19
A N EPITAPH is what they write on tomb-stones. An epigraph is the thing they stick at the front of books. Something that announces the story’s purpose or starting place. Something that puts readers in the mood.
That’s what I wanted for my Book of Words—something to return to whenever I lost my way. Dad would have called it Strutting Out the Old Henry Ford, because that guy was good for about a billion sayings and because Dad started most of his projects that way, with Big Words from a Big Person to get the client in the mood. Ralph WaldoEmerson was also huge in the sayings department, and so was Winston Churchill, and there were plenty of others, too, in the books Dad had on his shelves. So I started there, behind Dad’s office door on the second door, with his best books of sayings all around me.
Language most shows a man: Speak, that I may see thee. That was Ben Jonson, and that was plain dreary.
The only interesting answers are those that destroy the questions. A Susan Sontag quote, and I had zero idea what it might mean.
A poem begins with a lump in the throat. That one courtesy of Robert Frost. I found it sentimental.
Jilly was on the phone down the hall, talking to Elaine about their latest shopping spree. Mom had Mrs. Garland over for Christmas decorating. They’d dragged a small, sweet blue spruce into the house and boxes of lights in from the garage, and out of the basement they had pulled the crates of ornaments and crèche scenes, mistletoe and tinsel.Their talk smoked up the stairs and under Dad’s office door, and even though I concentrated on the sayings, I heard every word.
“Men never tend to their own gardens,” Mrs. Garland was saying in her authoritative voice. “They take advantage and then they take for granted. Oh, and doesn’t that look nice, with the white lights.”
“Gorgeous,” my mother said. Then: “What I find unnatural is the presumption that they give us a ring and their father’s last name and then a house and some children, and that’s romance. But romance is noticing what we do to stay new. It’s being here and feeling lucky that we don’t belong to someone else. Doesn’t he miss me?” my mother wanted to know. “Doesn’t he want me to miss him?” She was pulling at something, grunting. She was scraping a stool
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