I’m back–again. But with news! I am officially a Queens College MFA graduate. I can’t explain to you how happy it makes me to accomplish one of my many writing goals. For those of you who stuck around since the beginning of this blog, who know my story, thank you.
For those that don’t know, I’ll give you a crash course. When I first started this blog, I was just getting into writing. I didn’t take my first application and submission seriously because I didn’t know how competitive writing programs were. I thought I would have an advantage by knowing the director of the program, but I was actually making it tougher for myself. She knew what I was capable of, so she wanted to see how I could get even better. When I didn’t get accepted, I made the decision to double down on my writing and work twice as hard at getting into the program the following year. I accomplished that goal, and it felt so good telling people I finally got in. Now that I’m done, a year ahead of everyone I entered the program with, I feel humbled by everything I’ve learned. Now, I feel like I can begin my career as a writer.
So, what’s the point of all this? I have a lot of time on my hands to write while I try to find a job in the publishing field. I’m back to trying to write at least a short story a day. I have lots of pieces piled up from all my classes so I’m going to start with those.
This piece comes from a tiny text craft course. I don’t remember the prompt we were given, but I like the sound of the piece itself. My guess is that we were writing stories with one-sentence paragraphs. We were often given prompts from old, obscure books and magazines, or tiny objects and toys my professor brought into class. If I have the original prompt for any future story, I will write it or upload it to these posts. Enough of me. Here’s my story:
At one time, it was believed that to name a child after a living person meant death for one or the other.
I didn’t realize this when I named my son after myself.
I was so proud to give him my name because it took just as long for him to be conceived as me.
His mother, like my mother, blamed herself, while she was in labor for four days, to keep my spirits up.
I blamed myself for the same reasoning, that luck was never on my side.
We knew when he came—I had a feeling it would be a he—we would treat him like our miracle.
There was no explanation for his death, according to the doctors.
An orthodox Jew, who overheard me on the phone with my father, told me about the problem with my child’s name.
I treated luck like I treated horoscopes.
What would Freud think about this?
Holistic treatment for names should be the next big thing.