Thursday, May 19, 2011

write

Sarah asks me how the writing is coming and I fumble for an answer. Yes, I am writing. But no, I am not writing. I think about the book often, do five minutes of what if, no I don't think so, maybe that, surely not, how 'bout this, no no that won't do until finally I say out loud, Wanna go outside, Billy Sue? She's always up for it so it must be her fault. Yeah yeah it's Billy Sue.

Who me?
 Nah, I guess not. It's not her. It's just that I take this too seriously. This book. I have always wanted to do it. I have forever wanted to collaborate with other creative people to publish this one piece of hard evidence that we were here and we made some observations and we cared enough to share a story with some unknown future just in case it would help them in some way or at the very least be the cause of a future upturn in the corners of a stranger's mouth. Then there's the what if I die right after the book and that story was the only thing I had and it was the only thing that went forth and what if it sucks. What if it so bad that with all the money I don't have left I buy copies for family and friends at Christmas and give it to them and as soon as I walk out of the room to get a drink they look at each other and start some type of discussion about a literary intervention where step number one is to have my Dad stop speaking to me until I promise to never write again?

What if I fail? What if it is not what I dreamed it to be?

That has to be okay. I have to say that is okay before I can type the first word.

It's okay.




A very busy United States Air Force Pilot contributed to this book. I have no excuse. This weekend I shall chain myself to this chair and the sure to be shitty first draft will be born.


Gratitude.

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