Erica Ferencik's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
The House That Ate My Soul
If only my couch had kept quiet, I might have been able to get some writing done in my living room. But apparently, it had a lot to say.
“There’s distressed, and there’s, um, distressed,” it said.
I looked up from my laptop for the hundredth time that morning.
“Perhaps it’s lost in the annals of time,” it continued, “but I did arrive with a leather maintenance kit. These scratches on me can at least be worked on,” it added poutily, “but I guess, when the muse calls....”
I rolled my eyes, got back to work. “You’re a couch,” I said. “Zip it. I’m writing my novel.”
The couch snarked, as couches do. “I’ve been hearing that for quite some time now.”
The rug cleared its throat. “Excuse me. I hate to bring this up, but do you realize I still have Cheerios ground into me from 2003 when your little niece visited? I believe she’s in college now, majoring in…what was it?”
I slammed my pc shut. “Film theory, for the love of God.”
“Sweet kid but what a little maniac. I also detect remnants of a former pet in my fibers….what was that cat’s name? Piddles?”
“Cuddles.”
“They have this product called rug shampoo…”
“Knock it off.”
“What if you’d NEVER had a shampoo?”
I harrumphed, gathered my papers and stalked off to the kitchen. Settled in at the counter. Took a deep breath. Clicked the machine alive.
“Excuse me, Shakespeare,” the microwave said. “But I’m feeling a little, I don’t know, crusty?”
“Aren’t you, like, self-cleaning or something?”
“Uhh, not so much.”
The refrigerator hummed, then piped up. “Don’t get me started. I’ve got frozen leftovers in here from the Reagan era. Maybe time for a purge?”
I jumped to my feet. “Good lord, will you all please shut up? I’m going to the basement.”
I swear I heard tittering as I gathered up my stuff and headed downstairs. I settled into an old desk and plugged in a lamp I hadn’t used for years. For a few minutes, other than feeling a little chilly, things were going well.
Until the lamp said, “Hate to read over your shoulder, but maybe cut back on some of those adjectives?”
“What??”
“And seriously, have you given any thought to your audience?”
“You know, I never liked you. Didn’t my ex pick you out?”
“Why do you think I’m down here with the spider webs?”
That nailed it. I packed it all up, got in my car and headed for the library. After I pulled into the parking lot and just before I took out the key, my car cleared its throat and said, “When you wrap up, maybe think about swinging by the car wash? It’s called detailing. Hellooooo…..”
I slammed the door shut and sprinted for the stacks.
“There’s distressed, and there’s, um, distressed,” it said.
I looked up from my laptop for the hundredth time that morning.
“Perhaps it’s lost in the annals of time,” it continued, “but I did arrive with a leather maintenance kit. These scratches on me can at least be worked on,” it added poutily, “but I guess, when the muse calls....”
I rolled my eyes, got back to work. “You’re a couch,” I said. “Zip it. I’m writing my novel.”
The couch snarked, as couches do. “I’ve been hearing that for quite some time now.”
The rug cleared its throat. “Excuse me. I hate to bring this up, but do you realize I still have Cheerios ground into me from 2003 when your little niece visited? I believe she’s in college now, majoring in…what was it?”
I slammed my pc shut. “Film theory, for the love of God.”
“Sweet kid but what a little maniac. I also detect remnants of a former pet in my fibers….what was that cat’s name? Piddles?”
“Cuddles.”
“They have this product called rug shampoo…”
“Knock it off.”
“What if you’d NEVER had a shampoo?”
I harrumphed, gathered my papers and stalked off to the kitchen. Settled in at the counter. Took a deep breath. Clicked the machine alive.
“Excuse me, Shakespeare,” the microwave said. “But I’m feeling a little, I don’t know, crusty?”
“Aren’t you, like, self-cleaning or something?”
“Uhh, not so much.”
The refrigerator hummed, then piped up. “Don’t get me started. I’ve got frozen leftovers in here from the Reagan era. Maybe time for a purge?”
I jumped to my feet. “Good lord, will you all please shut up? I’m going to the basement.”
I swear I heard tittering as I gathered up my stuff and headed downstairs. I settled into an old desk and plugged in a lamp I hadn’t used for years. For a few minutes, other than feeling a little chilly, things were going well.
Until the lamp said, “Hate to read over your shoulder, but maybe cut back on some of those adjectives?”
“What??”
“And seriously, have you given any thought to your audience?”
“You know, I never liked you. Didn’t my ex pick you out?”
“Why do you think I’m down here with the spider webs?”
That nailed it. I packed it all up, got in my car and headed for the library. After I pulled into the parking lot and just before I took out the key, my car cleared its throat and said, “When you wrap up, maybe think about swinging by the car wash? It’s called detailing. Hellooooo…..”
I slammed the door shut and sprinted for the stacks.
