The Writing Should
I don’t write because I don’t want to. If I wanted to, I would. I would just do it. It’s really simple and heretofore, instead of bemoaning the fact that I don’t write enough or edit enough or submit enough, I’m just going to admit the truth. I don’t write as much as I think I SHOULD be writing because I just don’t want to. There are all these other things. And how much is this SHOULD anyhow?
I am now jettisoning the writing should. There it goes. From the window of my ship I can see it shriveling up in the absence of air.
So now that it’s gone, I will concentrate instead on what I do, instead of what I don’t do. I do write and have written today. Last night a wrote a good creative non-fiction piece. It’s the same thing I’ve written before, but this is its own thing. I don’t know yet if it will grow longer. It may. Here is last night’s version:
The burning is a not and a nothing. The windows are a black and a nothing. A blur. The night is a dark and a no. The ash is written past. The past is blind coming down. It all happened. I was twelve. It was an unusual morning. It was a nothing and a not.
It was fire. I was twelve. I was next to it. I was in my bed, looking out my door. It was there. It was fire. It was nothing and no in my head. And not. The fire outside and the fire inside. Two things. Same and different. I was twelve. There was no heat because I remember no heat, only yellow. There was definitely yellow.
It was morning. It was my mother’s voice. It was winter. It was fire. It was the house is on fire. The fire inside your head is yellow. And the ceiling. And the walls. It was a piano and a not. A new pair of shoes and a no. I was twelve. I could hear my brother. I could hear my mother. It was grey. It was yellow.
It was cold. There were alarms and lights. It was dark. It was circling. It was crow-like and clawed. It carried heavy clamps. It was crying and not, tears through no. No. No. It was the neighbor’s house and windows. It was watching and not. The house in your head is buckling. It was a buckling and a snap. It was falling and landing. It was going more black, more not and nothing.
It was over. It was smoke. It was a little choke in all the throats. The morning in your head is heavy. The morning in your head is afternoon, it is your grandmother’s house, it is throwing up. It is nothing. The house in your head is yellow. The house in your head is a no. I was twelve. I remember one thing more than all the rest. I remember it best. It was frozen. And this doesn’t thaw it.
~r.
view responses