It's good to have a reason for being anywhere, perhaps especially on social media. I don't talk about it directly until the third anniversary of his surgery, but it infused everything I wrote, in a way that may be visible only to me. I wrote the tweets from 2015 while my husband recuperated from heart surgery, a time of profound change for him (of course) but also for me and for us together. You don't have to write about something to write about it. Holy moly.īut I also appreciated being reminded of important writing lessons.
Cnf tiny tweets how to#
For one thing, I learned how to download all my tweets. (To see the tweets themselves, over time, you have to go to the page.)Īside from the chance to commune with my many-years-ago self, this project was fun for other reasons.
Cnf tiny tweets free#
You can see the entire feature here-on the free side of the issue's paywall. And because my last name starts with A, my reflection is at the top. They include a few #cnftweets in print issues of their magazine and in their newsletters.įor their 76th issue (they've been at this "creative nonfiction" thing for a long time, folks), they redesigned their magazine and did some reflection of their own on the genre as a whole.Īs part of that issue, they asked several writers who have been tweeting (often, and for a long time) with the #cnftweets hashtag to take a look back at how their work has changed over time. Creative Nonfiction, the US-based magazine, asks writers on Twitter to tell a story, a "tiny truth," in a tweet with the hashtag #cnftweets. Maybe, I like to think, her Despedida surrounded by water was like her arrival surrounded by water.A few months ago, I mentioned being invited to participate in something and how rewarding it was to reflect on how my work has changed in the past few years. The day she left, the earth shook and the heavens brought down the rain. I held her hands more than I had ever in all my life. I had played Mom’s favorite Aretha songs. It’s like those times when you’re driving by yourself and the world seems eerily empty and still. The wind and rain crashed down, and I knew. The wind shook my car across the expressway and I inched my way back home. It rained so hard and violently, a cold front had come into the valley the night before driving the temperature close to freezing. That night I told Mom it was fine, she could leave. My anger boiling and seeping into the night.
I’d wake up with my heart racing, my blood boiling, my throat a hot stone. I cease to exist and crash into waves of water, right there on the chair.įor the short time, when Mom was in hospice after I found her, I’d have dreams I was so angry that I couldn’t speak. In this dream, I am mad, but then I become water and disintegrate. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d wish, in driving, we’d be found in salvation. I wished maybe we’d be transmuted to another world. The more she drove, the tinier the road got. This one Sunday, the road kept curving and curving and it seemed like we got lost. Hell, if we’re winning, let’s go all the way. My mom turned on her Motown classic tape on the deck, which my dad definitely thought was mundane. It was mundano, too worldly I guess to want to be out when sinners who were also enjoying themselves under the hot sweaty sun.
One Sunday after church, we packed the sandwiches and she said, “Let’s go to the lake.” We didn’t tell our dad, he never wanted to go with us anyways. The curves of roads in my dreams never change, they get tiny and nothingness overflows. Now I sometimes wake up from dreams where I’ve fallen off tiny roads, and off I go, towards nothingness. I took the wheel while she slept and it was the rainy season. I couldn’t do it because I had a susto when I was 17, driving to Florida with my mom. I couldn’t try because someone did a hex on me. It was the 281 exit going towards Edinburg I couldn’t bring myself to get on, no matter how hard I tried. I had this fear my car would veer off the side. I couldn’t drive on expressways on my own until I was 25. As a treat, she’d say, “Pack the cheese sandwiches.” Mom would take us some weekends when the truck was working and there was gas in the tank. You’d get there by driving out towards Edcouch, a lonely stretch of a curvy road, tiny and desolate as far as roads go down here. Once called the jewel of the delta, Delta Lake is a tiny man made reservoir where poor families would go and eat in the 80s, claim a table to have lunch or a picnic on the sand and have Easter Sunday cookouts.
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