I’ve been stagnant on the writing front lately.
Wet, dark, drippy, puddle stagnant. The kind you avoid stepping in for fear of losing your soul or even a shoe, a high top converse to be exact. Nobody puts [Chuck] in a [puddle].
We lost one of Ave’s pink Chuck Taylor’s last summer; probably on the bus in downtown Cleveland. One moment, a lovely stranger was complimenting her footwear and the next an entire shoe was missing, lost and gone, nowhere to be found and yet I have the lonely sole survivor in her closet.
Why is that?
I broke my Kindle a few weeks ago. I have no idea how, but the screen is suddenly splintered and unreadable. I snagged the Hubby’s machine and put my now defunct reader away. Every so often, I pull open my gray chest of drawers (usually to get my vibrator) and peek in on my lost Kindle, only to find the screen still severed. And still I haven’t thrown it away.
What is that about?
I have no answers today.
Instead I’m stuck in a world of writers block, mismatched song lyrics, and cold brew coffee, which is my way of saying this morning’s leftovers poured over ice, with a splash of maple syrup and a hefty does of almond milk. You should try it some time; it’s fantastic and way cheaper and less racist than Starbucks.
Granted, I still pen my week in review posts, but those are fun and flirty and not really writing, not the kind where I let my phalanges drive the train. Recipe posts don’t count either. Sure they’re tantalizing and tasty, or else I wouldn’t share ’em, but they’re no surrender.
The way I typically write is I get an inkling of an idea, a random thought that strikes my fancy and before I know it, my mind takes over and my fingers cruise the keyboard faster than I can pound out the words. My first pass through is riddled with typos, missing letters, and random phrases because my digits can’t keep up with my brain.
Yeah, that feeling hasn’t happened in awhile.
Probably because the kid and I have been busier than a one armed man in a clapping contest. (Side note: does such an event exist? If so, it’s mean, dammit.) When I’m constantly going, my brain doesn’t have time to recharge, much less create. So I’m left with a mind fart so to speak. A puff of an idea, a burst of air that quickly dissipates and fizzles into nothing, unless you’ve had Chipotle for lunch, in which case it lingers, mostly in your digestive tract.
In any event, a normal person might read this post and opt out of hitting publish. Then again, we all know I’m past normal or at least giving a damn about it. Besides, half the fun is in the process.
It’s where we stretch ourselves, turn puffs of air into literary works of art with a side of black beans and guacamole. It’s where we learn, we fall, we mutter, we mumble, we step, we stumble, and we grow. The end result, the pretty picture, the tidy list is beautiful and boring. The real work happens in the middle.
Now if only I could throw away Ave’s random pink sneaker and my broken Kindle.
Tell me about your writing process.