Tuesday, May 29

About Writing and Not

A good writer notes down triggers, something to come home to; words or sentences that will unfurl upon reading, and all of a moment rushing headfirst at the mind’s eye. From a few carefully chosen words, one can be transported, so that the fingers are energized and sentences, paragraphs, pieces flower across the page. The foresight and ability of a good writer! I am envious, green, a rugged impostor.
I am not a good writer.
I am one to sit here and scratch around and come up with nothing.
If there were something for me to write, it would have come now. Determined to become a good writer, I must sit here and churn out the most tedious of prose and pray that it befalls not a single sober person. (If you are sitting there and reading this in the languor of a sober evening, I implore you to go away and drink, and then come back, or never at all.) Many times I walk between my chair and windowsill. Nothing changes, but I have enough romance left in me to imagine this Malbec will inspire me some. Foolish! What other profession can be carried out after the concerned has admitted they are unable to do it? Writing is exceptional, and yet I remain obtuse.
The storms came today just like they came on Saturday night. Back then I was in my parents’ guest bed and arose. The room twitched from darkness into view, stuttering, and all the furniture fluttering. I adjusted the blinds so that I could see. The lightning was thunderless. Flashes lit up the sky. I watched it for a while. I counted the seconds between each flash, which was a way to pass the time at one in the morning. I lay back in bed and kept my eyes open, white rectangles hissing, the walls shuddering around their own shadow.
When I came back to the city, back home today, the lightning flashed again and I was in a different place, fully clothed. There was no blind to open, but I had some coffee. There were a couple of women across the aisle, young and old. The young charmingly divided her attention between the old and view. There was a smell in the carriage of someone who did not air their laundry. The old talked happily, rummaging often through her backpack for foiled sandwiches and a whole lot of London-bound excitement. The city had anger problems; clouds hung low while lightning forked the avenues and roads. There was a mood over this patch of land. Brood over me, you bastard of cracked pavement and grey.
It was good to be back.
I bought a bottle of Malbec and some food. The rain was falling heavily. People arriving into the train station were all ruffled from the water, windblown and relieved to be out of it. The taxis circled. My driver had another dozen job ideas in mind as he acknowledged exactly where I wanted to go. I played guitar for a while and then sat down to write but nothing would come. I drank the Malbec, even though I don’t know anything about Malbec (yet writing it here makes it looks as though I do). When I failed at writing a few times – deleting and rewriting, deleting – I ended up here. Here. Writing about writing and not writing.

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