i’m a writer. say it out loud. say it twice if you think it’ll make it stick. i’m sitting at my desk in my office in what used to be the dining area (i’ve set up a screen to separate it from the living room) and i’m pounding loudly on the keyboard. i’m angry. i’m scared. the words won’t come out and i’ve got a deadline to meet. i can’t force them, that just makes it worse. i take a deep breath and count to 5. i stand and stretch…reaching towards the ceiling and arching my back. “i’m a writer.” say it louder. “I’M A WRITER!” that’s better. i sit back down and begin to type again. a little softer, not beating the keys into submission, just letting the words flow. i look up at the photos of my life decorating my desk and think about all the wasted time in the last 30 years that i could have been doing what i love. but i wasn’t. i was playing games. just teasing the surface of what needed to be said. i know those years were wasted. i’m fighting to make up for lost time now. this thought makes me angry and i begin beating at the keys once again.
it’s time to stop for the night. i don’t want to wrap it up but it’s gotten late and d’s already in bed. she kissed my forehead hours ago and told me not to be too long. here i sit, hours later, still typing. nonsense and gobbledygook. damn. i want this to be good. i want THIS piece to be the one. the one that i get brave enough to submit to an anthology or a magazine and not just some website. i feel like crying. i want to bang the keys. i want to pop them off and rearrange the letters.
