After nearly 6 weeks, I click a Word document open. The whiteness blinds me and I shield my eyes from its accusatory glare. The knot in the pit of my stomach is baby-sized now and ‘WTF’ flashes in large neon letters to the beat of a funeral march. Loo-ser, loo-ser, left, right, left.
In a bid to escape, I jump paragraphs. As if leaving a line behind will usher a stampede of ideas, a veritable troupe of trapeze artists who will fling themselves onto the safety net of this page, then loll a while before swinging wildly onward to another.
I stand in the ring. And I stand alone. It’s awful quiet when you’re all gone, I say to nobody in particular. There is no echo. And the knot is now making its way up to my throat.
A peculiar freeze takes over this warm summer day. First a bird’s clatter, then an insect’s hum. But this page, it isn’t moving. I quake, to give the Valley company. Only the Valley’s tremors subside. Writing needs to be more like mowing a lawn. A precise patch of L-shaped tasks, and then you’re done. Trimmed, neat, rinse, repeat. The knot decides it prefers the ampleness of my stomach. It slides back gutward, suspiciously fuller. I continue to flail, in a cycle of panic and ambiguity. I would be happiest in an assembly line. Concrete, solid, done when done.
Noticing two straight sentences beginning with ‘I’ brings up concerns of ego injection. A lifelong aversion to navel-gazers jumps into the pool party that all my baggage decided to throw when I wasn’t looking. The knot’s moving heartward and the constriction hurts. I should wring the curtains and howl. Let me switch on the iron in preparation. And Purell my palms so the drapes stay white.
I can’t fathom potters or painters. Wash those hands, people. And eat with a fork. Ickiness makes me squirm. So I sit myself down, after nearly 6 weeks, and click open a Word document. Its whiteness blinds me and I shield my eyes from the accusatory glare. But then I think of the options and soothe myself that at least writing is clean. The knot yawns demurely, cups its chin, and waits for me to begin.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Haunting, yet lovely. You should do this for a living…
damnhobsons: Thanks, love.
Beautiful. I wish you’d write more. Like always, I will come back to read this, many times over. What lovely imagery, OJ!
Oh, and Ruskin Bond was in town and I saw (met?) him. I remember reading of your love for Ruskin Bond. That grand old man is as delightful as his books are! 🙂
Your words weave magic even when you have writer’s block. You are brilliant, woman.
She got tied up in knots
Word document sans spots
But at the end of it all
She has us in thrall
And what we have here — enjoyment — lots!
Roxana: Wow! Did he look well? The happiest 40 minutes of my life were the ones spent in his parlor. 🙂 I had to sit on my hands and try not to explode.
RS: Oi, Ms. New License! How’s the driving going? 😉
Aunty G: I’m always sticking up my question hands and asking myself how.
OJ: All the errands are now solely on my head and I begin to wonder why I wanted that license in the first place! Also, encountered a villain called “parallel parking”. He and I are not friends.
RS: 😆 You know what they say about great power and responsibility. Let me draw you a diagram the next time we see each other. I was taught parallel parking on paper by a rally driver and it’s been a cinch.