Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
Getting an early start. It’s Tuesday evening. This part of my process is all about getting rid of the blank page. Not all that likely I’ll write what you will read here on Thursday. But, for me, I need to dive into a pile of words and thoughts and images and hopefully find the combination that will make sense.
(Wednesday morning): …and, and! this approach to writing allows me to stumble over stories. No, seriously! I was out surfing for a jigsaw picture to start the day (thanks, a lot, Mimi.) and I came across the old photo above. It is of the Provo Woolen Mill. I have an index card* for textile mills in general, wool in particular, courtesy of my WIP, ‘Almira’ and ‘Blog Dominion’. In the former, the mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts figure prominently in the book and the latter, one of my main characters, (Orel and Theresa Rees), happen to live in Provo. So naturally, I had to read more about that part of the history of Utah. (Plus there was a voice saying, ‘Six Sentence Story!’ follow me”.)
Denise is our Host. The challenge is to write a story of six (and only six) sentences, using, relating to or otherwise involving the prompt word that she provides each week.
This week the prompt word is:
Habit
Cherysa Rees felt her son, Raun, lean against her legs clutching at the folds of her grey skirt like a sapling in a strong wind as the Rees family stood together on a knoll overlooking Provo Bay and Utah Lake; behind them, deceptively moderate slopes rose from the valley up to the rocky outcroppings of the Wasatch Range.
“We are a family of three-going-on-four, the farm is small and our neighbors are good people,” she spoke with a quiet confidence.
Ammon Rees felt a curious sense of responsibility accepting a position overseeing the operations of the new mill on the banks of the Provo River; feeling older than his twenty-seven years, he heard himself quoting scripture, “But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.”
His wife smiled, her right hand on her son’s head, a gesture more instinct than habit, her left hand over her midriff, “You are wise, my husband, the machinery you are coaxing to life will provide for us, even as we build a community to welcome home others who have yet to arrive.”
Ammon gathered his wife to his side, spoke quietly, the waves of her dark brown hair mingling with his offering temporary privacy standing in front of the new Provo Woolen Mills, “I confess that I fear the work of the farm will be too much for you, even with help from our neighbors.”
Cherysa smiled across the shade of the space they shared, her eyes on his, “The three of us will do as we must while you come here and prepare the future of your son and your daughter-to-be.”
* not-old Readers? like bookmarking a page or a site, except not digital…a little rectangle of heavy stock paper intended to keep track of references and ideas and such…