Please read The Sock. Then, choosing your own object, write your own story, using that object to explain and/or reflect on the feelings your narrator has for someone else. In The Sock, Lydia Davis looks at the sock and is reminded of many things about her former husband.....using her example, write your own. If that doesn't make sense, send me an email and I can explain further.
Whatever your object of choice, let us see, taste, smell, hear, feel what the narrator feels as he or she reflects. See how much characterization you can fit in, too, using the techniques of action, speech, image, and thought... You'll probably note that The Sock is not heavy on plot. That's the way it is with almost all of Davis' stories. She's not at all a conventional writer.
Like many people, I sometimes reflect on my dependence on cars, and I know that I feel deprived when I cannot drive for some reason (because I'm carpooling or the car is being fixed) and resistant at times when I shouldn't be driving (because the car needs to be fixed or because I am tired). Given that even a temporary loss of driving ability can be difficult, I thought it would be interesting to meditate on feelings that might arise when one permanently losing his or her ability to drive.
By the time I started driving, I was able to rely on Internet printouts (now, of course, I can map things out using my phone), so I never used a Thomas Guide (I recall getting a smaller road atlas as a gift, though). Still, I do recall my mom using one extensively during junior high and high school, especially when I would tag around for my sister's auditions, which took place all around town.
A side note: In the original version of the story, the car was originally a Civic. I changed it per the suggestion of some of my classmates.
They would be coming to pick it up sometime that afternoon. Beatrice had so fervently wished that the Buick could have lasted a couple more years, even one more year. But, the mechanic assured her, it was hopeless. Unless, he chuckled, she wanted to spend thousands replacing the engine, the carburetor, the transmission. She’d be better off investing in a newer vehicle at this point.
But, of course, there could be none of that for Beatrice.
She shook her head. Beatrice was having enough trouble living month-to-month on a retirement budget; the burden of paying for another car, even a used one, would be too much for her to bear. And, Beatrice sighed, good luck getting the children to help pitch in. They’ve been urging her to give up the car for some time now, saying that she shouldn’t be driving anymore.
As if they had any authority to declare her unfit! Was she truly any worse than the zoo of motorists she had witnessed on any given day, who the government had nonetheless decided were suitable for the road? The drunks who insisted on going out after a night of revelry? The morass of distracted cellphoners, or blackberriers, or what-have-yous? Or the teenagers?
Did those children, so self-righteous and so cautious now, remember begging to her for a car? Or a precious chance to drive her car? Did they remember their plaintive whines, about how trapped they felt, how they wanted to go to this party or that concert, how they would just die if they had to stay at home again? And how could they be so rigid and cruel with their own mother?
Beatrice spotted one remaining object in the Buick. There, underneath the front passenger seat, was a dog-eared and coffee-stained paperback. The front page, which was only tenuously attached to the rest of the booklet, was dominated by a picture of the Sunset Strip and read, in large proud letters, “The Thomas Guide, by Rand McNally: Los Angeles County Street Guide, 44th Edition.” Beatrice turned it over, glanced at some perfunctory descriptive text, and noted that, in small letters,“copyright 1992 RandMcNally” had been scrawled in the corner.
She opened the book, almost automatically, to the worn page containing a map of the neighborhood she had lived in for decades, where Beatrice and Marcus (R.I.P.) had lived and raised the children. Though it was unnecessary, Beatrice had denoted her family home with a friendly blue-ink star, almost the moment that she had placed the guide in her car (then, an ‘86 Chevy). A second friendly star was in the corner of the same page, right on top of the kids’ high school. She flipped a few pages. A smaller star was placed over the complex where she and Marcus had been living since 2004, after the two of them, worn out from work, had retired.
Beatrice glanced at the road, and idly wondered when the towing company would come. Feeling faint, she thought about going inside for some juice, but instead she decided to sit down in the Buick and continue flipping through the Guide.
Some pages were immaculate, even after all this time, she noted. Others were lovingly abused: pages bent, faded pencil marks indicating where the kid’s friend’s house or soccer practice field or birthday party had been. She slowly closed the book and grasped it before bracing her back, standing up, and shutting the car door.
Beatrice shuffled over to the garbage bag and the cardboard box. The Thomas Guide was useless, she knew that. Even if she could still drive, it was useless. Completely obsolete. The maps were outdated, the Guide had led her astray more than once. Even she had, in the past years, started printing out Internet maps whenever she went driving. If Beatrice had been more devoted to cleaning her car, she thought, this Guide would have hit the trash bin a decade ago.
She looked for another moment at the stained cover. She could have thrown this away a decade ago, without pause, without tears. She was still driving then; she hadn’t been forced to throw away her car. There was the promise of new destinations, new adventures, new places to search. Now, Beatrice could look forward to a weekly walk to the market, and Lisa’s pledge to drive Beatrice to the mall once every other week. If she didn’t renege on her promise, that is.
Beatrice gently placed the Guide in the cardboard box, shaking her head at her own foolishness. Seizing the box, Beatrice left the trash bag in the driveway with the Buick, and slowly ambled back to her apartment, eager to calm her mind with a glass of orange juice before the towing company came to take the car away.
By the time I started driving, I was able to rely on Internet printouts (now, of course, I can map things out using my phone), so I never used a Thomas Guide (I recall getting a smaller road atlas as a gift, though). Still, I do recall my mom using one extensively during junior high and high school, especially when I would tag around for my sister's auditions, which took place all around town.
A side note: In the original version of the story, the car was originally a Civic. I changed it per the suggestion of some of my classmates.
For the Road
Beatrice slumped in the passenger seat of her once-reliable ‘94 Buick, and let out a sigh before opening up the glove compartment. She placed some old receipts in the trash bag outside the car, and threw a few old postcards and trinkets in the nearby cardboard box. After gathering her composure, she slowly stepped outside the car, took a moment to soothe her aching back, readjusted her spectacles, and gave the car a final look-through.They would be coming to pick it up sometime that afternoon. Beatrice had so fervently wished that the Buick could have lasted a couple more years, even one more year. But, the mechanic assured her, it was hopeless. Unless, he chuckled, she wanted to spend thousands replacing the engine, the carburetor, the transmission. She’d be better off investing in a newer vehicle at this point.
But, of course, there could be none of that for Beatrice.
She shook her head. Beatrice was having enough trouble living month-to-month on a retirement budget; the burden of paying for another car, even a used one, would be too much for her to bear. And, Beatrice sighed, good luck getting the children to help pitch in. They’ve been urging her to give up the car for some time now, saying that she shouldn’t be driving anymore.
As if they had any authority to declare her unfit! Was she truly any worse than the zoo of motorists she had witnessed on any given day, who the government had nonetheless decided were suitable for the road? The drunks who insisted on going out after a night of revelry? The morass of distracted cellphoners, or blackberriers, or what-have-yous? Or the teenagers?
Did those children, so self-righteous and so cautious now, remember begging to her for a car? Or a precious chance to drive her car? Did they remember their plaintive whines, about how trapped they felt, how they wanted to go to this party or that concert, how they would just die if they had to stay at home again? And how could they be so rigid and cruel with their own mother?
Beatrice spotted one remaining object in the Buick. There, underneath the front passenger seat, was a dog-eared and coffee-stained paperback. The front page, which was only tenuously attached to the rest of the booklet, was dominated by a picture of the Sunset Strip and read, in large proud letters, “The Thomas Guide, by Rand McNally: Los Angeles County Street Guide, 44th Edition.” Beatrice turned it over, glanced at some perfunctory descriptive text, and noted that, in small letters,“copyright 1992 RandMcNally” had been scrawled in the corner.
She opened the book, almost automatically, to the worn page containing a map of the neighborhood she had lived in for decades, where Beatrice and Marcus (R.I.P.) had lived and raised the children. Though it was unnecessary, Beatrice had denoted her family home with a friendly blue-ink star, almost the moment that she had placed the guide in her car (then, an ‘86 Chevy). A second friendly star was in the corner of the same page, right on top of the kids’ high school. She flipped a few pages. A smaller star was placed over the complex where she and Marcus had been living since 2004, after the two of them, worn out from work, had retired.
Beatrice glanced at the road, and idly wondered when the towing company would come. Feeling faint, she thought about going inside for some juice, but instead she decided to sit down in the Buick and continue flipping through the Guide.
Some pages were immaculate, even after all this time, she noted. Others were lovingly abused: pages bent, faded pencil marks indicating where the kid’s friend’s house or soccer practice field or birthday party had been. She slowly closed the book and grasped it before bracing her back, standing up, and shutting the car door.
Beatrice shuffled over to the garbage bag and the cardboard box. The Thomas Guide was useless, she knew that. Even if she could still drive, it was useless. Completely obsolete. The maps were outdated, the Guide had led her astray more than once. Even she had, in the past years, started printing out Internet maps whenever she went driving. If Beatrice had been more devoted to cleaning her car, she thought, this Guide would have hit the trash bin a decade ago.
She looked for another moment at the stained cover. She could have thrown this away a decade ago, without pause, without tears. She was still driving then; she hadn’t been forced to throw away her car. There was the promise of new destinations, new adventures, new places to search. Now, Beatrice could look forward to a weekly walk to the market, and Lisa’s pledge to drive Beatrice to the mall once every other week. If she didn’t renege on her promise, that is.
Beatrice gently placed the Guide in the cardboard box, shaking her head at her own foolishness. Seizing the box, Beatrice left the trash bag in the driveway with the Buick, and slowly ambled back to her apartment, eager to calm her mind with a glass of orange juice before the towing company came to take the car away.
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