The question of the hour. “What have you been writing all summer?”
I should just tattoo “Nothing” on my middle finger and be done with it.
If only that weren’t typed with such a heavy sigh. If only I could lose myself in the bright light of the gargantuan monitor that sits before me in this darkened room, and spill myself like a glass of blood-red wine all over the keyboard.
Like a lost lamb who knows she’s headed for a slaughter, I’ve just been wandering aimlessly, looking for a way out anywhere I can find it, but I’ve known all along that the only way out is through the grinder.
The words aren’t there, other than some rather deep pontificating on venues such as Facebook, or calling in to the local talk radio station and sounding off. Having a mock-political debate with people, knowing full well I sound like I know what I’m talking about, but truth be told, don’t have a clue. It’s just another way to vent, and hear the sound of my own desperate voice.
Seems I was a pretty angry young woman at one time. I grew up, got married, built a fairy tale life, then it all came down like a castle made of sand in a crushing tide. Now I’m just an angry old lady. I have aches and pains, am eccentric and crotchety, and bitch incessantly about the youth and how the world’s gone to hell in a handbasket.
And I’m not even done with my thirties yet.
Ever hear the story about the frog and the scorpion?
I want to write. I think. Maybe I don’t. Maybe now that I’m being discovered, I want to be hidden again. But like a witch’s curse, it’s my nature. It’s what I do. Eventually, when the medication wears off, when the fleeting glow of flirtation fades, friends have walked away or stayed, when wisdom steps in to take the hand of the loneliness of being a writer – I will write. Everything else is skin deep, but writing is as deep in me as a razor’s cut in the skin.
It’s too late, I’m out there. And you can’t take it back once you’re out there.
As the good doctor said (see clip above), maybe I should just try writing again.
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