A Writer’s Lament
I sat to write a sappy thing about how love blindsides and blisters, peels and burns. The sunrise does this and my dog did that. My parents are dead and the kids have all grown up.
Yes, one more not very specific something about how exquisitely particular my pain is. I will balance inside a spun web where delicate fiber encases my agony and keeps me buoyant, but stuck. I can do gymnastics with words, you know.
How about a joke? Would it kill you to lean into some levity? After all, how many different ways are there to say, I am desperate to be loved?
When does the writer finish the book it’s taken years to write…
Were you hoping for a punchline? That’s not a joke.
I have of a smorgasbord of characters, just this side of neurotic and sexy. And the premise! An amazing, brilliant idea if I’ve ever had one. I even have the ending. Mostly. How much more do I need to do? Oh. A plot.
As my long dead, likely to have been me-too’d father would say, “Balls, Kangaroo. You need some balls.” Some kind of gonads to release this one. Any of them really. I tallied the score. That’s 4.75 first drafts of tremendous novels, one play, and volumes of short stories written over 30 years. Separated. Divorced. Abandoned. And still counting.
Because it’s not the publishing I crave — it’s the writing I need. Let someone discover my genius after I’m dead, even if posthumous success never works out for the author. A fellow writer might understand my convoluted logic and divinely inspired neuroses. I know that. But beware a story that’s too realistic. They’re rarely believable.
If I continue to catalogue (in gorgeous relief, of course) my laundry list of indelible injuries, will I be compelled to create new ones for fear of boredom? And isn’t writing about the thing you’re most obsessed with, the easy way out?
And what’s so wrong with that? For me, simple is the road less traveled and I’m exhausted.
Finish this book. It calls to me over and over long after the others stayed files with names I can barely equate to words I once passionately embraced, including a few on floppy discs. Timelines don’t work. Outlines peter out.
Shame and self flagellation are fun, but only in small doses.
So, when does the writer hand in the book it’s taken half a decade to write? As soon as I’m finished. Stop asking.
