Writing Requires Focus

 And I have a short supply of that these days. So after going round and round with a billion ideas for this post, I decided to cheat and post a scene from a novel I am sort of working on that I wrote over a year ago. It's a work of fiction called "The Teardrop," a novel about about a cookbook author and recent widow who on the advice of a psychic medium texts her dead husband while she grieves and one night, he texts her back.

 I have no idea if I will ever finish it, or if I  actually finish it if I will send it to an agent and so on. 

I'm having a weird week- RR's 72 birthday is coming up August 23 and I don't exactly know what to do with my emotions this year. (I will however have something to write about next week- so thanks, Ralph! ) That being said, here is a rather long unedited scene (with weird formating) that is 95% true- writers write what they know. Enjoy it or don't enjoy it- but feedback would be fun and might even push me forward. 

Aargh, why did I ever become a writer?

 Six months had come and gone, and Claire still refused to read the death announcement. Maybe in 20 years, she thought. Maybe that was something she could discuss in the grief group. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say, and she was nervous. She hated groups. Whenever she found herself in a group situation, she would pretend to take notes, but really, she was judging the other people in the room. But could she really be that shallow to critique a room full of people who had lost loved ones? Maybe not. Probably.

The fact that the grief group was being held at the First Grace Community Church in BayHo made Claire suspicious that it was faith-based, and so she called the number on the website the day before. 
   

 “Well, people who join us have different faiths, but it’s not religious or anything,” the church receptionist told her in a weary voice. “We welcome and encourage everyone who has lost someone they love to the group.” 

Claire was still deep in her shock and fog to question her, which happened on a daily basis—so much that some of her friend’s thought she had permanently lost her mind and so she tried—when she had the energy—to assure them that it was called ‘Widow Brain,’ and it would one day, her widow ‘friends’ on Instagram informed her, eventually, with time, go away. Claire wasn’t so sure, especially on days she couldn’t even find her way home from the grocery store. Or the time, a few weeks after he died when she yelled at some pedestrians jaywalking in front of her car. It was an hour later that she realized that she had most likely run a red light. That one haunted her when she remembered the group was large and included two baby strollers and one of the mothers had flipped her off. Claire gave her the finger right back, although she noticed that she was shaking. She would remember that moment for years. 

Claire walked hesitantly into the conference room wanting to share every wonderful story about her husband and sob so uncontrollably that the entire group would envelop her in a healing hug.  Instead, an ancient woman in the group handed her a bible. A damn bible, which was now in front of her on the table. She stared down at it because she was taken aback by the attendees, which was a motley crew of four women in different stages of senior-hood who clutched Kleenex in their hands— including the old woman who had given her the leather-bound book, and three men with rheumy eyes. George, who was 75 or so with a bald head and a greasy jet-black thin ponytail that hung to the top of his shirt collar had the floor. 

    “I've been coming to this grief group for ten years and it's really helped me,” he said, which gave Claire a spark of hope. “In fact, I met my second wife in this group and when she died, I came back, and it was just like I never left. I’m in the market for wife number three ladies.” He laughed so hard he started to choke, but no one moved. Finally, he stopped coughing. “Hoo boy, just kidding.” 
    This was not going well, and Claire wondered if she should leave when Tina, the leader, who looked like she had just graduated high school and the only loss she had ever suffered was her pet hamster opened her bible, which had a crotched pink and yellow cover. 
    

    “Oh hell, no,” Claire muttered 
    

    “Okay everyone, let's watch a video, but first, if I might read from Corinthians 15:54-55.” 
    

    Her voice rose and filled with fire as she somehow channeled Billy Graham. 

“When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.” “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” 

The room was silent and even George was stunned—and then Tina started the video. 
Two stick figures dressed in mourning clothes walked into a church and that’s when Claire decided to walk out. She closed her notebook and shoved her pen and water bottle into her purse. She stood and made her way to Tina who was smiling stupidly at the film. 

    “I'm sorry, I need to leave. It's too soon. I think I'm having an anxiety attack. This is too much for me.” 

Claire tossed her bible in front of the young woman who seemed to be in a trance and hurried out of the room and out of the building. She unlocked her Jeep, climbed in, and closed the door. She knew she was in shock and stared at the passing cars and slowly put her head on the steering wheel. 

    “Jesus Christ, I need a drink.”