All I got today?
Half-started posts.
Drafts.
Nothing.
Like so:
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Well it’s happened. I’m starting to think in 140 characters or less. Talk that way. Listen that way. Write that way. Between my two preferred modes of communication — Twittering and texting — I’m completely losing my ability to think in sentences that exceed three lines. On the positive side, this truncated way of speaking saves time. I can now answer my kids’ endless questions in economical, sanity-saving snippets. For instance:
Toots: Mom? Why is the ski blue?
Me: That requires a longer and more well-thought-out answer than I can DM. Ask your dad. He doesn’t use Twitter.
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Oh forget that one. I can’t come up with funny questions. Let me try something serious:
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He was dressed in a white golf type shirt, a blue baseball cap, and tan shorts. Typical suburban fare. He brought his iPad over and asked to use a wall socket. I was on the phone and had my laptop and cell plugged in, but he politely waited and then asked again. I nodded, caught a glimpse of the book tucked under his arm — A Year in The Writing Life — and smiled.
I knew.
He put his earplugs in, crossed his arms around himself and appeared to be listening. Meditative. Probably an inspirational podcast or author discussion.
I knew.
He hunched over the table, and appeared meek, nervous, unsure.
To start.
I knew.
The start is in the ending of all that.
The start is in the ending.
No more listening and reading and hoping.
Just writing.
The start is in the ending.
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Oh God. Stylized much? Take it a down a notch. Way down.
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BOOGER (to Toots): Can I use your pink scooter please?
TOOTS: No.
BOOGER: Please?
TOOTS: No.
BOOGER: I will give you Barbie the Mermaid and let you play with her all the time.
TOOTS: Even in the bath?
BOOGER: Not in the bath.
TOOTS: Please the bath?
BOOGER: No.
TOOTS: I’ll be your best buddy!
BOOGER: Can I have your pink scooter?
TOOTS: Can I have Barbie the Mermaid Tale in the bath?
BOOGER: All right.
So…can I have the scooter?
TOOTS: No.
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No. That’s no good. Bo-ring. Let’s get back to writing stuff.
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So the other day my husband said to me, “Your writing is much better lately. You must be back in the flow.”
Which pleased me until I realized that the “good” writing I’ve been writing lately? Is from two years ago.
I don’t know what it is, maybe I felt less fear back then or less beholden to an “audience” or had younger brain synapses?
It’s a bit upsetting.
Which leads me to make a list for “How To Get Your Spark Back.”
HOW TO GET YOUR SPARK BACK…
1……
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Eh, fuck it.
I hear ya. I posted a police report today. Enough said.
I love that I got a little bit out of all your different sides in one post! It was like watching Sybil. Only minus the blood in the shower (is that not one of the creepiest moments of all time?). Love you and your half-written schizo posts. :)
lol… yea.. i hear ya.
lol… yea.. i hear ya.
So. Looking. Forward. To. This. Weekend.
That is all.
Hm…spark…matches…cigarettes?
I love your writing. This is so honest. And real.
Always enjoy your writing, even the abreviated version!