You’ve seen it all. You’ve seen (and have accepted me for) all of my insanity. Me talking to myself, talking at you knowing you can’t respond because you’re what? A screen? A lovely screen of course, but a screen nonetheless reflecting back at me how bad my writer’s block really is, how bad of a writer I really can be. ("Besides, don't most brilliant writers go through lots of versions?!").
Well you've seen them all, all of the pages over the years and the hours and days and weeks spent pouring my soul and heart and thoughts out to you every day, the sole witness to the inner-workings of my brain.
I curse at you, scream at you, on occasion shake you for some inspiration to come out, for a good name for that character from Connecticut (I'm bad with names): Sara? Lindsey? Val?
You watch as I pull at my hair and take lots of deep breaths and drink endless cups of coffee and talk to myself and stare at the wall and stay locked up in my room with you for hours listening to the world happening outside of my window wondering why I’m in here living the lives of people who live inside you instead of those yelling and talking and honking their horns out on the street.
But I keep hitting the keys and you’re always there, something I can count on (no matter how much I scream at you), to appreciate and reflect and accept every little thought and every little sentence and every little chapter that zips from my heart to my brain to the reflexes in my hands.
You're stupid (a fool!) for sticking by me, but I thank you anyway because maybe someday your loyalty will mean something to someone somewhere and it will all be worth it.
But for now I’m sorry, I don’t know of anyone from Connecticut with a name like Val.
No comments:
Post a Comment