mosquitoes_could_eat_me_alive
Anna_Began The "Idiots Guide to Creative Writing" suggested I just write anything. Anything at all. It said "In order to solve writer's block you should just sit down with pencil or pen in hand, or fingertips poised and just start banging away." Grocery lists, love letters, words. (That wasn't an exact quote so I'll probably go to jail for putting quotes around it...) It made no promises but it insinuated that the persistant rattling would unjam my brain and lead to an outpouring of creative verbage. So I did. And it did. For about six sentences. It is sort of like this: Someone emails you. They say, you have several weeks to write about the love of your life. We will not pay you a penny but you will be doing precisely what you want. You will be coloring in all of the blanks that fill your heart. Blindly, I accept what, at the time, I thought would be not a challenge. I let days slip by; I debated themes and topics; I drove to Ohio; I bought an airline ticket and touched a boy just behind first base. And now tonight, I sit here, an undetermined number of hours until I've missed some sort of perceived deadline and the little cursor just keeps blinking away. I want to scream. I have several mangled, jumbled paragraphs that literally make no sense. I'm jabbering on and on and marriage counselors (irony comes in all forms, you know) and W.P. Kinsella and late season acquisitions and sleeting rain and I reread it then and I actually see my insanity flitting around behind the effervescence of the screen. Somehow I managed to break into my old files after several months of trying and his eyes burned through me, though not like they do in person and suddenly, I was crying because I saw just how keenly I'd led the other one on. Not that I knew what any of it, Chicago, Findlay, April 19th would mean. But there are fuzzy memories of how it started, and tonight I read how it sounded all winter and now I know the pizza/magic pillows/pink scarves/and lined paper marathonia stopped it. I see clearly, a beginning, middle and end and judging from the way his words cut through me and then just fall silent, he has no idea how we arrived at the end. Guilt, in and of itself, will not be a reason to tolerate abuse, and I am not sorry I have fallen so euphorically in love with him. My feet are peeling, and all day I've been debating plans for a pedicure and what the timing of it all should be. I never thought I'd lose this one. And I never thought I wouldn't know what to do with the dream when it started coming true. 030623
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