In My Stall

I have decided what my novel will be entitled and I have a rough outline. The piece I posted a few days ago is a tiny part of a much larger writing that I simply must get out of my head.

My decision came in the bathroom of the theater. This weekend I went to see In Her Shoes. It was true that I had purchased a very tall Diet Coke and had to crawl across six very polite, patient people, but I also felt like I was struggling beneath a pillow placed firmly over my face; I was suffocating. By the time I got into a stall, I was nearly hyperventilating and I began to cry. I had a small conversation with myself, my back against the door, top two buttons of my jeans open, my hands rubbing my brow, my nose, my chin, over and over.

I have to write this story. I have to get it out of me. I have to pull it out of time and a backward space. God, I miss my grandmother. I miss knowing her as an adult granddaughter. I miss hearing her voice and knowing her story, the one that my mother only knows through the eyes of a disappointed little girl and a jaded woman. Where and how did it all begin? How did all these women ever get so f**ked up?.

I recommend the film. Full review forthcoming.