Thoughts fumble and rattle and dance around in my head. A story unfolds as I sort my laundry, make my bed, and drive to work. Worlds develop with witty characters and complex problems and surprising resolutions. I’ll jot down a line or two in my phone, an idea in a notebook in an effort to put a pin in it. The thoughts are quick and slippery though, gone as soon as I’m done smirking to myself. Or if I do catch them and manage to pen them onto paper, their glitter and shine seem to fade all too quickly. The story that so seamlessly came together in my mind doesn’t translate to page. I stare at the words and wonder what is missing, what I’m forgetting, where the wit and complexity escaped me.
Is it me? Am I not the right vehicle for this? Maybe the wiring in me has loosened from my head to my fingers. Maybe years of trying to simply be an adult female have taken a toll on concentration and patience. Maybe years of trying to be more practical has actually hurt my imagination. I simply must sit. Just sit and do. But the chair is uncomfortable and that light is too bright. I simply must buy a cushion and adjust the lamp. Now I can sit. All I have to do is type. So I try. I type and I type and I delete and I delete. If this were a children’s book there would be a beat.
She wrote and wrote
She created a boat
And sailed in a sea of words that float
Bundling up in a coat,
With a net, trying to catch what she wrote.
But these are just words bouncing in my head. Focus, focus. I know I have things to say and stories to share. The computer stares blankly at me asking me why I even try. I’m thirsty. I wander to the kitchen to sip on some water. I try not to get distracted by the television in the living room or the notifications on my phone. Discipline is something I admire from afar. Something other people seem to have. Successful people. I know I can be disciplined too if I would just sit down and write.
I finish my water and wander back to my seat where my computer is waiting for me. Somewhere in the distance, across this city, perhaps an editor is also standing by. I imagine somewhere in the future, an older version of me twiddles her thumbs and rolls her eyes as time ticks by and my current self wastes it. The truth is that the desire to capture thoughts and the pressure of future goals soon become too great to ignore so I begin.
Words start to flow into coherent thoughts, thoughts I had seemingly misplaced earlier. Like a cat trying to find a lap to sit on, my thoughts had been waiting for this page to rest on. They come out when I am finally still and purr happily along the page as I sit longer and longer. All they were waiting for was me.
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