It is Friday night and I’m sitting in the tea shop with my laptop and trying to think of something to write. At this point, I would even settle for something to retool from the thousand-plus pages of my journal, but nothing appeals to me. Hundreds of possibilities, but they are all dead to me.
There’s nothing in my head, either. How could I be so empty? I’m calm and relaxed in the humid air of mid June. My limbs are heavy after having been worked to exhaustion during my morning chores around the house. What am I saying; I did a load of laundry and unloaded the dishwasher.
Maybe I don’t want to write because I have found myself in one of those down times, caught in a doldrum at sea with all of my sails whithering on the mast. I don’t want to write. Reading is fine, movies better. Even staring off into space or at the people filing down the sidewalk is better than writing. I soak everything up but give nothing back. How long will this last? Writing teachers say I should respect this time of incubation, or is it a convenient rationale for laziness? I don’t know, I won’t worry about it. I’m reading the Pen/O. Henry Prize stories of 2009. I’m watching Revoltionary Road and True Blood. I’m watching the leaves of the crab apple tree in my back yard turn yellow and fall to the ground with apple scab. I’m waiting for something to happen.
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1 comment:
This really resonates with me right now. I have no sense of urgency about anything. But I keep reminding myself that it's okay to simply be "setting the table" for the next day or week or month. Not every day has to be about producing something. Amen.
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