Bossy Bestie

So my bestie, Kelly, tells me I need to stop slaving over each blog post and just simply write down what I do on any given day. 

She says, “It doesn't have to be perfect.  Just write this: 'Today I' and fill in the blank.”

“You don't get it,” I say.  “I can't.  I really can't.  It's physically impossible.”

“You're a jerk,” She says.

I tell her, “You don't understand.  I'm a sensitive, fragile writer.  I’m like a slug, I have no natural defenses.  Now shut your face, or I'll shut it for you.”

I find myself rewriting and revising emails, journal entries, and texts.  I even edit and revise TO DO lists that I write on little pieces of paper and keep in the right-hand pocket of my scrubs.  I can’t write a sentence without painstakingly re-reading for clarity and voice.  Those last two sentences?  A total of four rewrites.  I do it without wanting to, the same way a swimmer must come to the surface for a gulp of air.  It’s my oxygen, this revision.  I wish I could refrain from it, hold my breath and just keep diving for the unknown depths below, but I can’t.  After a few seconds, my lungs burn and my fingers ache to swim back.  Of course it doesn’t hurt to keep trying. 

Today I:

• Managed to not cry when the alarm clock went off.  (No combination of favorite tunes and snooze buttoning makes the morning easier.)

• Sent a series of prayers heavenward like devotional smoke signals.  (Will God accept code?)

• Chewed caramels until my teeth hurt.  (Eating sticky candy is like whistling through the dental graveyard.)

• Thought and thought and thought until it hurt.  (Is reflection supposed to be painful?)

• Rewrote my TO DO list: do the laundry, wash the mini blinds, clean the stove, order more ink for my Pilot Plumix fountain pen, borrow Gorilla Glue from Mom, look for a job.  (No matter what I cross off, something new always fills its place.)

• Ate pasta, drank wine.  (Isn’t it wonderful?)

Yes, Kelly that was hard.  If I told you how much, you’d probably punch me in the neck.  Nathaniel Hawthorne said, “Easy reading is damn hard writing.”  Good Ol’ Natty Hawthorne.  I think, maybe if he were still alive, we might be besties.

 You don’t have to say it, Kelly—I love you, too.   

Reason I Didn't Write Yesterday: Morning Moodiness

I'm not Lazy! I'm Green!

      It's what we writer's DO.  We work on a piece of writing.  Rewrite it, revise, re-see, re-do, re-ray-me-fa-so-la-ti-do, and repeat.  Every mutation, every permutation of that piece of writing becomes stronger, better, more fit and able to face the world ahead. 
      I would never leave the house in a half-sewn dress. And I would never post an untried piece of writing.  It first needs the paring down and polish of a few workshops.  But recycling old writing...well, I'm not above that.

      I wrote this poem years ago, when struggling with my hatred of poetry.  Don't worry, we've reconciled.  Now I only vaguely dislike poetry and occasionally, on holidays, I let it take the children to its parents' house.    

The Wallpaper

My two great aunts stand

positioned around the room like pillars

blouses untucked and shirt-sleeves rolled up

past their dimpled elbows.  Armed with sharp scrapers

the cousins and I wait for Uncle Julius

to spray our section of wall with steaming water

from the dull gray cylinder.  We wait

while the water soaks in and the flat smell of the hot

damp paper radiates out from the wall.

It is hard work

this scraping away of memories

gouging with metallic force into layers of life.

It makes our shoulders ache.

Aunt Marie hums while she works

imagining how the new walls will look.

In only four short years she will leave this house

alone with its empty footsteps, whispers of laughter

the Thees and Thous of Uncle Julie’s formal prayers

drifting through the air like motes of dust

ghosts of child cousins playing in the creek out back.

The afternoon sun swings around the room

in a dusty golden arc.  Uncle Julie’s large white sideburns

stand out like exclamations against his work-reddened cheeks.

What a wonderful mess we are

arms covered in clots of colored paper

feet hidden by the soggy curls that slide off our scrapers.

I will remember the rustle and noise, the piles of scraps.

And sharp-eyed Aunt Elaine who once complimented me

on the shape of my nail beds and the way she stands back,

nods, and approves of the delicate clusters of rosebuds

covering the scrolls of new wallpaper

that lie like promises in the hallway.



Reason I Didn't Write Yesterday: I'm Stuck