The chewed up wisps from the Kleenex that ran through the washer then my dryer, courtesy of a pocket in some jeans, blew all over my newly-vacuumed floor. They snowed down on me, caressing my face and my nose and tickling my eyelashes.
It was infuriating.
Clean out the pockets, family.
Vacuum my floor again, family.
I tried in vain to chase those impish fairies of tissue as they caught the breezes in my dead silent house.
Yet as frustrating as it was to see those Kleenex crumbs spreading everywhere, blowing underneath my couch faster than my lazy cat can blink at them, it was also beautiful.
My next thought was, “How universal. Everyone knows about Kleenex crumbs.”
There has to be something there. This tiny moment in life, seemingly so ordinary, is what great writing can be made from. It is where it starts. Start from scratch – start from Kleenex crumbs. Then, like the Forrest Gump feather, we zoom out to life. To life we all understand. Universality found in the mundane moment of a mother, harried, chasing around after the discarded trash of her family members.
Right? That could be great writing.
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