I sit at my desk, staring out the window at the fading light of day feeling despondent. I know writing is solitary work but instead of being productive, the past two years have been a grind.
"I'm tired of being alone," I announce to Ben. No response.
"I said I'm --"
"Oh sorry I was lost in thought," he says, half asleep.
"That must be unfamiliar territory," I retort.
"Ba da bump," Ben shakes himself awake.
"What is it this time?" There is a sliver of snark in his tone.
"All I do is wait, wait for nothing to come," I make the usual bored complaint.
"You and Jean-Paul Sarte have a lot in common," his snark goes up a notch. I pitch a wad of paper at him.
I have been writing--rather trying to write all day but it's like searching for water in a desert. That's such a clichè, I groan, no wonder I'm getting nowhere. I hunt for a better simile.
"These panny times have been rough on everyone," Ben opines, his slim branches relax and he takes on a bushier look.
Panny times? Oh yeah that. The worst part is I was hoping to use the isolation as prod to focus my attention. Nope.
"It's like Groundhog day without Bill Murray," I sink along with the evening gloom.
"Or waiting for Go--"
"--Don't you dare bring up that play," I seriously threaten.
When I was a teenager I saw the play on TV and it left me baffled. What the hell was that all about? It wasn't until I was an adult when someone explained it was a metaphor on existentialism. It really was about waiting. Well, I don't always get metaphors and I can relate to the characters search for meaning, I guess that's why it pissed me off. Still.
"What should I write about in this week's blog?" Now it's my turn to ramp up the snark.
"You already have several essays in progress," Ben reminds me.
"None of them are working for me," I shake my head because my brain simply refuses to from a coherent sentence. Musicians fear the loss of hearing, the artist their sight. For a writer when the mind goes, it's the end. Rossini was famous for the speed and originality of his operas but quit composing at a young age.
" The melodies used to chase after me, now I have to chase after them," he explained.
I know the feeling. All I ever wanted to do was write. I wrote movie reviews in high school and college newspapers. I have written essays, editorials, letter to the editor. I have written multiple short stories, and four novels in long hand. Maybe I'm just dried up like the clichèd desert I wander through. Sigh, it's choice between staring at the blank page or staring at the wall-both are oblivion.
" I need a drink," I decide and get up from my chair.
"Hold it sister, you're not getting buzzed until you finish that article on recycling, tarot or the latest Whoopi Goldberg uproar," He's goading me now, but his demand triggers a wave.
Artists talk about being in a flow state when creative. Losing track of time, feeling euphoria knowing it's right. For me, it's like the perfect wave surfers wait to catch and I can feel it rise under me, pushing me forward.
I turn to my computer and start to write.
1 comment:
Ennui ma petit chou.
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