Garages, stories, and the mind

And the never-ending churning of ideas

In the ripe year of 2011, my mind crafted me a character named Alex.

She towered over most women, being 6’ 2”, glared down at others through her ridiculously large, oval glasses. Her black hair was straight and her blue-gray eyes, when peeking through agitated, slitted eyelids, would stop nearly anyone in their tracks. Her crow’s feet suggested she was around her mid to late forties.

I had a brief story around her, besides she had lived over 200 years since the last war and shed her fake identities to keep herself safe. Who wouldn’t pursue someone who was believed to have died in the war? But my mind didn’t extend beyond crafting sporadic scenes.

The story, I told myself, was for fun.

I focused on my other story, about the last survivors of Atlantis returning to restore their city, while Alex stayed in the background. If I felt frustrated, I would use music as a venting mechanism and daydream about her beating up all the bad guys.

That’s how it stayed for many years until my senior year of college, around six years later. I’d grown attached to Alex and had crafted a backstory over the years. Because of my schedule, I couldn’t take the science-fiction/fantasy writing course. I could, however, take a one semester choice of study. I collaborated with the teacher to determine eligibility for my writing minor.

So, I set out that semester to write Alex’s story.

But things didn’t go as planned. Crohn’s and my own paralyzing perfectionism kept me from writing until a few days before any assignment was due. By the end of the semester, I felt I had accomplished nothing.

After college, my parents downsized into a mobile home. Due to their age, this beautiful place will be their final one. A mix of bittersweet emotions flooded me as I helped pick out the home. We settled on one that felt like a nicer, warmer version of my childhood home, albeit smaller.

My dad, now in his early 60s, wanted to build a garage. That would be his project.

They set their mobile home as far back on the lot as possible without losing all the backyard. My parents hired Morton to build them a metal, 2-car garage. I watched them pour the concrete, place the poles, and finish the walls. It finished in what I can only guess was a week.

Now finished, my father looked to purge his unnecessary items and organize it to his liking. The garage was his domain, after all. I thought nothing of it. The garage was a onetime, large purchase that he would make his own.

It didn’t end once he organized.

In my first apartment, I sat alone.

I’d broken up with my 4-year, long-distance boyfriend. It’d been toxic, so much so that I’d lost myself. Slowly, piece by piece, I restored myself with local farmer’s markets, binging doll making videos, and going to the therapy I knew I needed.

Soon, I rediscovered writing. I opened up my old character sheet on Alex and the various snippets I’d written. It hurt to read what I’d written in the college course. My teacher had only required some character sheets and a rough plot. Then, someone had assigned me the task to write. Yet, I didn’t know how Alex’s story was supposed to go.

A new flame of inspiration ignited in me. I joined weekly Twitch livestreams, vomiting out every idea, plot point, character arch, and setting detail I could. I had built something that I at least somewhat understood. Once I felt more comfortable with the story’s trajectory, I starting writing it again.

Desiring the luxury he’d had with his attached garages, my father set out to insulate his newly cleaned and organized Morton garage. He debated for weeks the type of insulation that would work with the metal ridges inside the walls. Afterwards, he picked out the size of foam insulating sheets that would cover the most for the best price, while not compromising all quality.

These decisions took longer than expected.

He finally decided, invested in a tool to help, and got to work. He wanted to cover the insulation, which was fair. I helped him with it, as did my mother. As a final touch, we added bars across the ceiling along with insulation panels.

Both my husband and I helped with this stage. We were overjoyed when my father finally completed his garage, until last month. My father started browsing the Home Depot store over lunch one Sunday. Or, “the Home De-Pot,” as he likes to call it. He mentioned buying something for the garage.

“Garage? I thought you were finished with the garage,” I said.

“I still have to make the attic space for it,” he said.

“Attic space?”

“Yes, for storage!”

Days later, Zach and I are talking while I finish dishes.

“I hope when I’m older I don’t go over and over things. Fruitless things, I mean. Kinda like my dad’s garage,” I said.

“I understand the garage, but I get what you mean,” he said.

Afterwards, I put my headphones on, turn on my music, and sit down at my desk. None of the documents I wrote years back over the Twitch livestreams are there. I don’t know where they live, if not somewhere in near-space. So, I begin re-writing the plot for Alex’s story.

First off, I want to deeply apologize for the long break. I was weaning off medications and, while it went well for awhile, my mental health took a turn. Nothing crazy, but enough to steal me away from writing these newsletters.

Wishing you the best,
Ada

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