Here's the latest column, appearing today on the Beliefnet main page. 

I don't know if some of you are interested in the process of writing, but if 
so you might want to try to guess which was the one sentence that I had the 
most trouble with. I'll tell you at the bottom. I'm a "brick by brick" 
writer--incapable of making outlines, I just start in and lay down one 
paragraph after another, making sure the first one is squared away before I 
go to the next. Sometimes I don't even know where exactly I'm going when I 
start writing, or what my point is going to be; I just have a nagging need to 
"write something out," akin to talking it out. What's there emerges as I go 
along. So it's important that each paragraph, or even each sentence, each 
*word*, be as true and accurate as can it be before I leave it, because if 
it's not I won't wind up in the right place at the end. As I go along I keep 
scanning over the preceding paragraphs, "ironing" them, to see if anything is 
sticking out of place or doesn't fit. And there was one sentence here that I 
couldn't quite get to lie down flat.

This is the first mailing since we switched to an automated mailing list 
system. It's not a discussion list--if you hit "reply" it will still go to me 
alone. But it should make it easier for people to sign themselves up, change 
their addresses, suspend delivery during vacations, etc. You should have 
received a "welcome" message yesterday about all this, including the place to 
go to make changes. Hope it makes things easier for all of us. 

My pocketbook was roadkill, and I found that strangely liberating. 

    At dawn on the last day of the year, my husband and I were walking along 
a rural highway in South Carolina, following a trail of broken things. I had 
left my pocketbook on top of the car at a gas station late the previous 
night, something we didn't realize till we got to my mother-in-law's house 
about 45 minutes later. 

It was too dark to search then, but all night I fretted. Had it fallen off 
right in the gas station lot, and was someone even now using my Visa card to 
order a vintage Corvette? Was some fan using the cell phone to leave long 
messages on Ricky Martin's answering machine? How would I ever replace all 
those little plastic cards, when I couldn't even remember what half of them 
were for? I pictured myself spending all afternoon at the DMV, glumly waiting 
to pose for a new license.  

There was something even worse. I didn't tell Gary this. My list of Internet 
passwords was in that pocketbook. The card I'd been scribbling them on for 
years had gotten so bent and dingy that I thought I'd make a fresh one during 
the long car trip. So much for that idea. Not only could I not remember all 
those passwords, to speedily change 
them, I couldn't even remember all the sites on the list. 

All night, these tiny windows of vulnerability kept opening in my dreams. I 
felt like I was being shot at with miniature arrows. We set the alarm for an 
hour before sunrise and soon were back in the car, gliding along and scanning 
the other side of the highway. 

"There are a lot more black clumps on the road than you'd think," Gary said, 
as we passed another unidentifiable object. There were also plenty of 
flattened dogs. I'd never looked so intently at asphalt before. Behind us, 
the skyline shifted from oyster gray to misty pink, while up ahead the high 
tips of trees burned with sudden gold. 
And there it was. A quick U-turn, and we were upon it. Picture a black 
leather pocketbook, about the size of a small shoebox, run over. Its long 
braided strap, snapped, tailed out in a curl on the gray pavement. 

We parked and walked up for a closer look. The purse was still zipped, but 
had been popped open and exploded. Everything was smashed. The little 
blue-backed mirror was in fragments, reflecting the pearly sky, and the 
plastic shards of red and blue ballpoint pens and a pink nail file were 
scattered around it like confetti. The crushed highlighter splayed its yellow 
fibers, fanned out into a brush. The fuchsia lipstick was only bent, but the 
red one was good and smashed, and lumps and streaks of red were scribbled 
throughout the scene. 

It was strangely festive. I found I was kind of enjoying this. I kept walking 
up the road. I came upon the little case I keep business cards in. It had 
been banged on top as by a hammer, a single decisive blow. I liked picturing 
someone being exactly that mad at my business-card case. There was the coin 
purse, its mouth bent into a grin, nickels spilling out like broken teeth. 
Then I found the wallet. All its contents were present but not, technically 
speaking, intact. Cracks ran through both the Visa and ATM cards. Those were 
the two I'd been most afraid of losing, but as I looked at them broken, I 
felt strangely freed. 

I unzipped the pocketbook and poured out a half-cup of rubble: plastic 
splinters, broken key chain, smashed mints and aspirins. And this: my good 
ol' Timex, still shiny, still ticking, absolutely unscathed. I had been just 
a kid when the "It takes a licking and keeps on ticking!" ads were on TV. 
This was like finding out there really is a tooth fairy. I strolled on, 

Then I came upon the cell phone. This was best of all. It had been a large, 
clunky old phone, and it made an impressive spill that ran 20 feet or more. 
It was kind of exhilarating. I walked along in the chill, recognizing pieces 
here and there: the keypad, the batteries, the antenna and little plastic 
window, shiny fragments of this and that. There is nothing like the sight of 
a well-run-over cell phone to really cheer you up, early in the South 
Carolina dawn. 

As I got to the end of the broken-phone trail, I looked up the road toward 
the pale pink horizon. For one crazy moment, I thought, I could just go on 
Then I thought a little more. I could just go on walking, and in a few hours 
all I'd get to would be Ravenel. I had driven through Ravenel many times, and 
I didn't think it would be improved by walking. 

And then, after a whole lot more walking, I'd just be back at my 
mother-in-law's. Why not drive? If we went back now, maybe I could get to a 
store and start replacing all this stuff. I walked over to where Gary was 
gathering my bent and broken keys, and we began the drive back to town. 

I kept thinking about why the sight of an exploded pocketbook would be so 
gratifying. It seemed a sudden opportunity to be free from all these 
nattering things that pin us down, that incessantly whine of their 
importance. A pocketbook is literal weight, and you must guard it closely or 
encounter catastrophe. No wonder one style of pocketbook is called a 

Seeing it so run over, irrelevant and powerless, gave me a strange, momentary 
rush of freedom. It was a timid taste of what some more daring individuals 
must feel when they plunge into exhilarating, forbidden adventures and cast 
off responsible propriety. 
But even for them, there must be a wan morning-after, when pleasure is only a 
shrunken memory, and the most pressing concern is finding the Pepto-Bismol. 
For me, all my wild freedom deflated as I pictured myself trudging through 

In the car, I started making a list of things to replace. Perhaps this time, 
I'd go for a red wallet instead of a black one. I'd need to shop for a new 
cell phone, too, one of those tiny ones. There would be a lot of small, 
complicated things to gather as I rebuilt that nest of security, and it would 
be interesting to make decisions. This was going to be fun. 

The troublesome sentence was "All night, these tiny windows of vulnerability 
kept opening in my dreams." I was pretty sure I wanted to keep the next line, 
"I felt like I was being shot at with miniature arrows" but also wanted 
something about those windows to precede it. But why were they little 
windows? I didn't know. To be the size of the little arrows? the image just 
wouldn't get nailed down, but neither would it go away. I tried other ways of 
casting the sentence and some variations, eg "portholes", but decided it was 
not a good idea to bring in nautical imagery when the metaphor was already 
barely under control. Mixed metaphors is probably my biggest writing flaw 
(well, of the flaws I'm aware of) and I often think ruefully that I'm 
fortunate to live in an era when people just don't have high literary 
standards. My cap is off to my beloved High School English teacher, Miss 
Keith, who made us memorize Shakespeare and Wordsworth and had a red rubber 
stamp reading "Do Not Use Contractions in Formal English." When I meet her in 
heaven I'm going to have a lot of rewriting to do. 

Frederica Mathewes-Green

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