I've taken a vacation from blogging for almost a year and a half. Mostly this was about being newly married and trying to shoehorn all aspects of my old life into this new life with Tom, which really did not work too well because, after all, there are still only 24 hours in a day. Blogging, even writing, have been pretty low on the to-do list. Yesterday was our second anniversary, and we agreed that we'd do it all over again. This married life is sweet.

Lately, I've been playing with the idea of finishing my book, Aunt Testament, so I can move on to another project. To that end, I've joined a writing class taught by my studio partner at the GoggleWorks, Mickey Getty. We meet every Tuesday for two and a half hours. The writers are brilliant, talented women. We critique each others' work and do writing exercises, which brings me to the point of reviving the blog. It's going to be more about the writing life and my progress on my book. Also, though, it will contain snippets of the writing exercises we do.

Like yesterday's.

Write for ten minutes starting with "I remember...." Then write ten minutes starting "I don't remember...." Then write for ten minutes "I am thinking of...." The following is the result.

I remember the smell of the sweeping compound the custodian used on the floors of our elementary school. It picked up all the mud and dust and added a slightly oiled look to the surface of the floors. I remember being in Seventh Street School from third through sixth grades. I remember that the third and fourth grades were on the main floor. So were the first and second grades. But the bathrooms were in the basement. How weird to have the bathrooms in the basement. I remember the boiler room right at the foot of the stairs The girls' bathroom was at the end of a long hall, and had about four booths. There was a gas heater with open flames that kept the room warm — I remember that we used to toast ourselves in front of this heater.

I remember Jeannie Kudray.

I don't remember how I heard about this. I don't remember my brother coming home and saying that Jeannie Kudray had gotten hurt at school. I don't remember hearing the details, but I have a visual image in  my mind. I don't remember her toasting herself at the open flames. I don't remember her running, panicked, out of the bathroom, turning the corner and running down the hall in flames. I don't remember her long blonde hair streaming out behind her, and myself looking out the doorway of the music room. I don't remember the custodian grabbing her and beating out the flames with his bare hands. I don't remember the ambulance taking her to the hospital.

But I do remember that Jeannie Kudray died. She was in my brother's class. Lynn was four years behind me in school, so when he was in third grade, I was in seventh. There is no way I could have seen this.

I am thinking of the power of imagination. How my mind made up the whole scene so vividly that I can see it still. Intellectually, I know that I could not have seen this, but I believe in the power of that vision, that movie in my mind with a clutch of girls standing at the far end of the hall, their faces distorted by open mouths, horrified looks following Jeannie. I believe in that scene as truly as if I'd actually seen it.

My interior movie version of Aunt Testament is just as real. Some of the scenes are that vivid — as if I am watching them and recording what I see and hear, noticing every detail of color and sound and smell. Other scenes, though, are not as clear. They must be conjured up, assigned to my subconscious and written and rewritten to capture the same power as the visions. I could wish for all my writing to arrive in such technicolor bravado, but that would be tempting fate. I will myself to be satisfied with the visions I have, and trust that the rest of the story will be there when I summon it.

It is all mystery.