Each goes to our own corners,
This welcome May-warm April Sunday.
My husband claims the bed,
Supine, hands crossed over belly,
Feet crossed at ankles,
A double helix at rest.
The old, skinny cat
A circle in his heated bed.
No day too warm for his frail bones,
Head resting on a catnip mouse almost
As old and skinny as himself.
I take to the couch,
Stretched into a stick
Under the window beneath the sumac,
Listening to a house sparrow whistle
The day shapes itself into and around us,
Resting with us into the afternoon.
Whether or not that’s really what Nick Lowe used to tell the bands he was producing, it’s an excellent method of doing…well, just about anything. So here goes, bashing:
I want to write. I want to write daily. I want to write as “the thing I do.”
I don’t want to do this because I’m a good writer. Once I might have been an ‘ok’ writer but that was in graduate school so maybe I’m just remembering the hubris of every grad student in literature. Mercifully, I didn’t save any of my writing from 40 years ago so I’ll never be able to dismay, despair or disabuse myself of this idea. No, I’m a pretty bad writer.
I don’t want to write because I get pleasure out of it. Writing sucks. Writing is hard. Writing is both torturous and tortuous because it twists my brain into the kind of little bundles socks and underwear come out of the dryer in. I hate sitting in front of a keyboard or picking up a pen whether I’m writing a blog piece, an email or a birthday card. I used to tell my students that was what made me a good writing teacher: I knew just how much they hated it and wanted it all to just go away. No, I don’t get pleasure out of writing.
I want to write because writing is there. Inside my head, thoughts are thoughts and they can grow and play and saunter around all night but they are never ‘there.’ Never within a moment; never here. Only by writing them down do they become the plum, become the juice of the time that I have right now as I dangle on the vine between the tiger above and the tiger below. I want to write because writing is being.