My dinosaur has no name.
I’m not talking given names, such as Geneva, Angelica or Noel. I’m talking a species identifier. He’s repping today’s word, dinosaur, nonetheless. He’s got a nasty disposition and major dentition going on. Who wants to mess with that?
Until science catches up with him, he’ll be known simply as The Writing Beast.
See, Elise won him at a beach-side arcade, and gifted him to me. I kept him close, and a funny thing happened: I wrote fiercely. I left him in my bag – and wrote non-fiercely. It’s a simple correlation, really: The Writing Beast begets monster writing.
He’s nearby now, in fact.
In the photo, which Grace snapped for me, he’s stalking out his next victim in the midst of a succulent plant I planted myself. Gorgeous, isn’t it? Bad boy needs watering like once a month to survive. I can get behind a plant like that.
Plus, it’s prime dinosaur habitat.
It’s not those fearsome tusks or shroud of mystery in his makeup that give him mystical powers. It’s his source. My kid gave him to me. The one soon off for college, who’s navigating life transitions like a champ.
Once, when she was about 8, an old man called her “little one,” and she took exception.
I didn’t. She was my little one then, and is, now. I still call her that. So when she’s off studying and eating at the student union and tracking through the snow in her moccasins at Warren Wilson, her prehistoric gift will power me on.