Think back to younger days when imagination ruled your day. Did you abandon your imagination for more “grown-up” ideas and responsibilities? Grant yourself the space to be imaginative today and write on the following topic: While driving to a relative’s house, you notice that, with each turn, you go back further in time. What period in time is it when you reach your destination? What is the significance of being in this place, at this time?

“Have you lost your way, Son?”

My hands are gripped tightly around the wheel of my ’68 Ford Falcon, a wreck of a car I call Deuce, as I stare out the windshield at the old, aquamarine blue paint fading on the hood.

I dare not look left at the officer, or any farther along the street I’m on, Littlewood Road, where I grew up.

Or, is it “growing” up? I’m not sure anymore.

“Son, I asked you a question. Are you ok?”

I am afraid to move in fear of what might happen next. I am absolutely positive that, not 25 minutes ago, I was in my house in Towson, saying goodbye to my wife and three children, before heading to teach for the day.

Now I am 16 again, here on Littlewood, in the car that barely got me from red light to red light along Joppa Road in the early 1980s.

“Son?”

I turn to face the officer, and he sees something in my eyes he does not like. He takes a step back from the car, rests his right hand on his revolver, and speaks in a different tone — this time with a little less concern for me and a lot more for himself.

“Son, I need you to exit your vehicle slowly, but immediately. Do you understand me?”

I try to move, but my legs — they just won’t work.

“Off- Officer,” I stutter. “What- what year is it?”

The officer begins walking backward toward his car, his shadow thrown in front of him every time the single red cherry light pulses from the top of his car. The shadow is long, ever-growing, as he reaches the door of his police car.

He grabs the handset of his radio and tries to muffle his voice, but I hear every word.

“613 to Dispatch. I need a backup here at Littlewood and Joppa.”

I wave at the cop with my left arm, “Officer, you don’t understand.”

“You keep those hands on that wheel, son.”

He unbuckles the strap on his holster and grips the handle of his service pistol.

“Really, Officer. I can explain.”

But I know I cannot. How can I explain to him that, not twenty minutes ago, I was 46 years old, living in Towson with my family, and heading to school like I’ve done every day for the last 25 years?

. . . .To be continued? Most likely! ~rvw

First: SK is a wonderful friend who is a playwright. We meet maybe once a month to discuss each other’s writing successes, failures, and in-process pieces.

Second: C is was a colleague at my school until she landed a better gig at another high school. But before she left, she turned me on to this article in Writer’s Digest that talks about collaborative writing, where two writers of different genres/styles hook up to write one book/play/whatever.

Third: I had this dream last night about. . . .

The serendipity of her handing me this article and the idea for “Exit Interview,” along with a meeting to be held soon with SK is all too much for me to question. I’m flowing with it, Friends. It’s that good.

When “Exit Interview” popped into my mind, it did so on a stage. I actually saw the characters performing it, complete with audience and selective lighting for maximum effect. And so, my first instinct was to call SK and say, hey, I’ve got an idea for a play that I think you might like to write.

But then I thought, maybe I should just write the story and give it to him to write the stage adaptation.

Duh. If I exert the effort to draft a copy for him to write the play, I might as well take it just a little more seriously and take it through the full writing process and generate a publishable work that I can shop around, and he can take that copy and do an adaptation for the stage.

Voila. We both win. :)

So, I’m on schedule to write 1,000 words every day on this draft through 30 June (I don’t anticipate it being any more than 7,000 words) and then see what I have to work with. SK and I will meet, probably, by the end of the first week in July, and I’ll pitch it to him then, if he doesn’t read all about it here first.

(er–SK, should you do just that, please leave a brief comment that lets me know you are indeed sneaking a peak)

:)

What’s it about, you ask?

Bottom line is this:

Man is going though his exit interview. He is warm, the questions seem ambiguous at best, and he can’t wait to just get the hell out of there. The questions begin to get personal, and in his answers, he begins reflecting back at some of the pivotal moments in his life spent with others. These scenes play as flashbacks, and each time they come back to the exit interview, the lead character is getting weaker, and weaker, stung by the decisions that he made that were made for what he now considers the wrong reasons. When he gets up to leave, the interviewer asks the final question: how do you want to be remembered? The lead sits back down, confused by the question. The interviewer asks the question a second time, and when the lead gives him a blank look, he clarifies his question, which brings us to the real present, and which also brings us to the shocking realization that….

Now, now. Did you really think I would give it all away? You can probably guess the ending (or maybe not all of it entirely), but wouldn’t you rather wait to read it here?

I’ll post my thousand-word vomit drafts here daily, but just a word of caution: they are called vomit drafts for a reason. There’s a good chance that much of what you read will be changed. This process is used to get the first draft down in print. I then have something to work with, mold, edit, change, sculpt, paint, make it shine. It’s the sure-fire way to taking a piece to publication, because it’s one thing to talk about writing your story; it’s another thing entirely to talk about polishing a story you’ve already finished writing.