I am having trouble writing, today. I have feelings (many of them good, actually), but there exists this block between my head and my fingers.
I can feel around the edges of the block, feel the cool, sweet air just on the other side of it. But I cannot move it.
I think that it might be red streaked with black, but I haven’t a clue. Every time I try to get a glimpse of it, it skitters away.
Moving writers’ blocks.
What WILL they think of next?
I think that this wall, this thing that is preventing my writing is this probably self-generated. I think it is an accumulation of rust and disuse. Like the gears and coils of a bombed out British clock shop.
Maybe, she thought, maybe if I just apply a little elbow grease and resolve, I can clean up this place. Make it habitable again. A place of rest and excitement and color, again. I could do it, she thought. It would just take a little patience. And practice.
Cara was draped over the back of the couch, doodling in the decades-old grime on the windowsill when the light faltered. There was a susurration of noise, more felt than heard, and the closet and bedside light dimmed. She held her breath, waiting to see if it would come back up to normal. This time though, the lights stayed, three levels darker than before. Her heart skipped a couple of beats, fear pulsing in the thin skin of her temples. The shadows under the furniture yawed and reached scabrous-dark fingers a bit closer to where she sat. Any time now.
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Last December, a writer friend invited folks to write dark Christmas stories. The catch? They had to be 100 words exactly, no more or less. I participated and had a lovely time with it. Here’s my entry.
Today, whilst running amok and doing my tasks, I had a bit of a scene replaying over and over in my head. It wouldn’t stop, it wouldn’t budge. Just this person, drawing in the grubby dust of a neglected windowsill.
But that was *all* there was; no story, no linking, no way to move it past. This is, I am convinced, a bit of a writer’s earworm. And like earworms, it wouldn’t go away until I said/sang/wrote it aloud.
But again, no real story. No real anything except this very vivid image. And then I recalled Loren’s 100 word story challenge. Ooooh. Yeah. That might work.
And so here you have it. My mental word-worm. I hope you enjoy it.
It has been an exciting1 few weeks around Chez Bon.
Soon after the holidays, Mister Man started to look a little peaked, a touch pale. And then a downright pasty gray. Turns out that he was very ill – in the “Yeeeeeeeeeeah, we’re gonna need to put some extra blood2 in him and keep him for a week, mmmkay?”
Apparently, when one is on Coumadin, one shouldn’t take Advil oh at all. Even if you ARE a nurse and you DO know what you’re doing. Because blood thinners plus ibuprofen equals bleeding ulcer.
Oh, what the fuck EVER.
Cheesuz pleezus.
Anywho, we’re home. Mister Man is fine, albeit a bit chagrined. He has new meds to take and has to go back to the doctor every week until the cows come home, Hallelujah and pass the co-pay.
Oh, except, oops – new job. His insurance has not yet kicked in.
Joy and trumpets, as a friend of mine used to say.
In the meanwhile, I’m still looking for a job. I’d like one in the field that I ran up a ton of debt for, but at this point am looking for damn near anything, up to and including house cleaning, pizza delivery, and substitute school teaching.
A dear friend gave my resume a look-over and made some suggestions. I am mid-implementing them.
I guess what I am trying to say is that no, I have not forgotten you, dear blog. Things just exploded in painfully exciting new ways and I’m still sorting the collateral damage.
Boom, baby.
In the meantime, here is a bit of a story that I wrote eons ago. If I have already posted it – I apologize. I would look but it’s ten ‘til midnight and I’m a touch exhausted.
Much love to you all.
“Joy”
Laurel panted, clinging to the side-rail of the hospital bed. Her whole body ached with the exertion of the birth. Her avid eyes watched the nurses carrying her baby back and forth. She knew in some small, less exhausted corner of her mind that they were doing important tasks with Jocelyn. Probably important. Still, she wanted her baby. She wanted her without understanding exactly why. She thought about that for a moment. Didn’t she love her baby? Weren’t all mothers automatically in love with their babies? What was wrong with her? Was she broken? Did the birth break something in her head? A wall of green and purple snails moved in front of her, blocking her view of Jocelyn, ending the tired chase of her thoughts. She tipped her head back to see a nurse standing there.
“Hey, sugar. That was a hard one, hmm?” A large hand, covered in blue nitrile, tucked a sweaty braid behind her ear. “I got something for you. Thirsty?” A straw bumped against her lips, her slack hand molded around cold plastic. Laurel sucked on the straw. Slightly watered-down apple juice squirted into her mouth. For a split second, Laurel forgot her exhaustion. For a moment there was only the cool, sweet juice. In seconds, the cup was empty. She looked up at the nurse to thank her and saw a pink-swaddled caterpillar in the nurse’s arms. Black hair escaped the top of the blanket.
She took her baby from the nurse, tucking her hand automatically under Jocelyn’s butt. Her thoughts began to rabbit around her head again. What if the nurses noticed her lack? What if she hurt the baby because of her inability to love her? She gazed down at Jocelyn, trying to frame an apology. Puffy eyes gazed blearily up at her. A tiny pink mouth yawned toothless pink gums at her. She bent her head down to place a tentative kiss on the mottled cheek. Warm-caramel baby smell wafted up. Laurel felt every emotion concentrate down to a piercing sun in her heart. The nurses smiled at each other and quietly left the room.
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ETA:
I hope the tone of this doesn’t make you guys think things are all doom and gloom here. As I said, it’s just been a waterfall of happenings. We’ll muddle through and get things back to what passes for normal around here. I just wanted to touch base and give you an update. I still plan on writing my bits and pieces, processing out my thoughts and words. I still have a major overhaul, with much new content added, planned.
————————————————- 1– And by “exciting” I mean “craptastic”.
The Process 