My friend Natalie hates it when writers write about writing, so she will have to forgive this post.
It seems that I have forgotten how to write. The words come fumbling off the tips of my fingers like Forrest Gump in braces. They are awkward and clumsy and incite pity from others. Apparently, if you call yourself a writer, you are supposed to spend a certain amount of your living, breathing time writing.
Sorry to disappoint whoever “they” are, but I have been busy:
losing my keys
starting school late
serving beer and scrubbing urinals (a.k.a. living the dream)
putting air in my tires
googling “how to break up with your therapist”
obsessively checking my mailbox for 7th grade type letters from Casey Cromer in Unit #1.
dog sitting and poop scooping
decorating the apartment I don’t actually spend time in
watering my rosemary plant that insists on death before life
I am taking a Writing of Fiction class this fall and am already certain that the 19 year olds in the class are creative writing prodigy’s who will scoff, mock, and shame my pieces that I am too afraid to write.
“They” (the writing gurus), say that you should write what you know.
I know bad dates, the best coffee in town, and how to make homemade pizza. These three things do not a fiction story make.
She sips the last of her wine as she gazes at the gentle flicker of the ivory scented candle, thinking about the parodies of life.
I mean…seriously?
LAME.
That is all I have anymore. Sentences dressed up like a made over guest on “What Not to Wear”.
