Every Experience Can Be A Writing Experience

Even a scorpion sting?

The night was pitch black, a bit cold, and I tip-toed across the room to my side of the bed, hoping not to trip on a toy. Derek was fast falling asleep as I pulled the covers up over my body.

“Good night, honey,” he said and leaned over to kiss me.

I shifted my weight towards him and felt a prick in my leg, like I rolled over on a piece of dry grass. 

I didn’t think much of it, especially when considering the things my boys bring into my bed, but as I rolled back I felt it again. It was now a tingle, like my leg was falling asleep and I shifted it around again. Suddenly, I felt a pain in my arm and I jumped out of bed.

“Going to write,” Derek said with sleep running through his voice, but of course, the sarcasm was still there. He loves to remind me I can’t sleep unless I write for several hours before hand.

“I think I just got bit by something, maybe a scorpion.”

The bed was a firecracker of blankets and sheets as Derek exploded out of bed.

“Where is it,” he shouted with my hair brush suddenly in his hand, ready to pound it.

“I don’t’ know, but it got me five or six times,” and I rubbed my arms around my body. My own touch freaked me out and in less then a second I was in the buck, but not completely naked if you count the scorpion I was wearing on my arm.

I correct myself, as it momentarily was on my arm and then crawling out of my shirt as I threw it on the floor.

The weapon of choice that Derek courageously picked (a natural wood therapeutic brush, if you must know) was then used to smash that creature. In moments of Cheverly, my husband will use profanity and I thank you for that, honey.

So, the scorpion was dead and I began the search of puncture wounds on my thigh and arm. How many would I find? Seven, eight? Does a person survive that many scorpion stings? And just as I started to feel helpless, I realized I didn’t feel too bad. They say the larger the scorpion, the less toxic and this was the largest scorpion I'd eve seen.  I was even grateful (talk about stretching the whole look-at-the-bright-side-of-things) that it stung me instead of one of my babies, so we said a prayer and I calmed Derek down so we could go back to bed.

The next morning was a bit like a hangover (I hate to use this specific cliché’ especially since I’ve never actually had a hangover), I was numb, tingly, a little unsteady, but don’t feel sorry for me. I’m a writer and I beg for things like this to happen so I can write about it later.  I can use the fear, the anticipation, the uncertainty; all those feelings and emotions will help bring to life a scene where my character jumps through the page because of her intensity.  Finding the miracle, the humor and my husband's reaction grant me depth as I look at experiences from a different perspective.  Knowing my next story/adventure is just around the corner keeps my senses alert and aware that every life experience is one step closer to a great manuscript.  What's even better is if my experience is too personal, I can share it in 3rd person, thus providing therapy through life's challenges.  Writing has so many perks!

What crazy life experience have you had, then later been intrigued to write about?