Doors

When I am seated in a restaurant I always have to face the door.

When I was a little girl I remember a news report about a mass shooting in a restaurant. I don’t remember where or when it took place but I remember how I cried over pictures of the victims published in either Life or Look magazine. It was a horrific story, many killed, many injured. As a child I could not make sense of the tragedy. Imagining the fear and chaos and not understanding the madness of the random killings was the stuff of a nightmare for a little kid. Now it makes up adult nightmares as well.

Back then first person accounts of survivors stated that the restaurant patrons facing the door were the lucky ones; they saw the man as he entered with his gun and were able to take cover and save themselves. I always face the door, I always look up, always am aware.

I’ve researched that shooting during the 50s or 60s and I cannot find the incident anywhere. For a time I thought I was confusing the San Ysidro shooting at a McDonalds in California but I was in my thirties by then. I don’t think that was it, but it doesn’t matter. I still sit facing the door. My youngest daughter does as well. Is it because she's heard me tell this story so often or because of the times in which we live? Probably both.

What does this have to do with writing?

I sat in my rocker and tried to think of something serious to write this morning. Something of value, something which changed the way I live my life.  This is what came to mind.

When you want to write something which deviates from your norm what do you come up with?