I really want to write again and to find that little inner buzz that making beautiful words swing together created for me many years ago. I’ve fallen out of the habit, and with each year that passes, the fear that I’ll never feel even a little bit good as a writer grows stronger. Recently I’ve noticed that even writing letters or a little dinky press release has strained the muscles of my inner scribe — who has clearly atrophied beyond recognition — so much so that the intuitive clauses and punctuation marks that once seemed so obvious are gone.
So, again, I’m here to do my time. To bide my weary brain. I don’t know what that means. But, to allow myself to write shit about shit and be okay with that. How annoying.
I’ve had some things come to mind that would maybe be rich vignettes. Turning 40 seems to have put a new face on my old childhood. What once seemed common and unremarkable has become a complex shape in my hand that can be turned and examined from any number of angles. Some of these ideas are:
- Waiting at the bus stop with frozen hair
- After school, coffee ice cream, and Judge Wapner
- There’s been one particular one on my mind for days, even just an hour ago, and I can’t remember.
- The curling iron
- What WAS it?
- Babysitting for the Boyers — Was I fired?
- The day I realized ___________ — The one I’m trying to remember starts like this, I think.
It’s driving me crazy that the reason I resuscitated this journal is the very prompt that escapes me now. What the hell was it?