Good Material

Dear Sir,

There's a reason writers say "Be careful or you'll end up in my novel," and here it is: We like to take truth, and real-world experience, and put it to good use. Sometimes we even embellish it. (We like flair, especially in prose.) This means I'll, somewhere, tuck an impolite government-office employee like you into a book I write.

You should know that, to explain this character's consistent and unsettling attitude, I'll build him as such: A 40-year-old and (always) single man who lives with his overbearing mother, finds himself gelled in the center of a mediocre career--wherein he treats his customers as if he's doing them some grand favor, when in actuality it's the whole of his job description--and who leads a sad and unsatisfactory life.

This is the kind of picture you paint. Or, at the very least, it's where you point my imagination.

Sir, would you have guessed you are good fiction fodder?

I do feel for you,
and I wish you the best (even though I cringe when I see it's you at the counter),
might even offer a holiday prayer for you,
Sincerely,

Janna Qualman
writer
and human
who only wants pleasant respect
but also a good story on paper

Thank God for the Yogurt Cup

Sometimes, you know, stuff happens. Sometimes, if you're lucky, that stuff makes you giggle madly. Just before you realize it makes good fodder for fiction.

Allow me to set the scene:

Annual church float trip. Our group has descended upon the campground, covered it with tents. We've visited, eaten and had campfire, and my family, because bedtime approacheth, have walked the hill to the public restroom, ensuring no need for mid-night traipses to the potty.

We four have settled among pillows and atop semi-cushy blankets. We listen to the whir of the electric fan my husband has rigged to a car battery, think dreamy thoughts. Sleep takes first one, and the next, another, me.

But soon (all-too-soon) I am awakened.

I try to ignore it, the reason I've come to. Because it's not that bad. Because really, could I tippy-toe to the tent flap over three mounded and peaceful bodies? Could I unzip it soundlessly, climb out, traverse the rocky, tree root-laden ground with my clumsy nature and ridiculous nearsighted eyes? It's got to be, what, one in the morning? It's too dark, it's too late, it's too much an inconvenience.

Oh, but no. Something has to be done. Because I really have to piddle.

I try to coax my bladder into surrender, just until morning. Please. But it doesn't work, and I have to brainstorm. There's got to be something I can do from within the comforts of our tent. Now.

My thoughts slam into memory of the empty yogurt cup my daughter carried around early in the day. The yogurt cup I tossed in my bag, the one within my reach, telling myself it could come in handy for camping. For some purpose.

Thank God for the yogurt cup.

And so, well, you know. In the corner of the tent, right next to a handy slot that opens to outside.

Fill. Dump. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

In retrospect, it may have been easier to walk the hill.

I lie back, settling in once again. And I giggle madly.

That's good fodder.