Writing Dreams Into Reality

The Fight To Write

I spent 15 minutes writing and it felt like torture. My emotions shifted to code red.

I felt vulnerable, out of control, lost, young, exposed, unsafe, alone, frightened. And yet I also felt curious.

Curious about a person, who moments ago didn’t exist outside my head. Actually she’s existed almost two weeks now, outside my head. Who knows how long she existed INSIDE it.

I know her name. I know her pain. I know her confusion. And yet I can only write about it 15 to 30 minutes at a time.

I, my ego based, type A personality self doesn’t find that worthwhile. That part of me says to the others parts in a condescendingly sweet tone – we can do better. We can go longer, do more.

But we can’t. At least not yet.

And going longer, being better, doing more isn’t even all that necessary. Having something to make better IS the point.

I have to write it before I can make it better.

And then another part of me, my stoner, the part that’s always wishing it off on tomorrow, looking for the easy and quick way thinks, well hell, you’ve written 500 words just describing this character.

Isn’t that enough writing for today?

An argument ensues between my type A and my stoner. I, the preservation part of me anyway, goes and makes peanut butter toast on Ezekiel Sprouted Whole Wheat Bread.

I munch on that, while I type this and let the two of them argue about something that isn’t important.

I take a sip of thick Sumatra coffee laced with a thimble of Moroccan cinnamon and think about a line I read in a book I won, but which isn’t the book I expected.

No wait, it wasn’t in a book, it was on a blog and I don’t even remember the line, just that I ingested it and I’m waiting for it to be integrated.

Of course I didn’t bother to write it down, bookmark it, share it or anything else when I read it.

I can use the search for that to distract me while I pretend to ignore the argument still raging in my head – which neither of the parts of me are going to win.

It’s just not a winnable argument.

It’s during these times of ignoring part of me and distracting myself from the act of ignoring, that the question of my right, my ability, hell my sanity float forward, freely and unbidden.

Can I really do this? Can I really get out of my own way, stop pontificating long enough about how difficult writing is to actually write the remaining 400 or so words of Naomi’s flash fiction story?

I’m down to one more bite of peanut butter toast.

My teeth automatically begin grinding into the ripped piece of chewy bread, tongue darting between every third or fourth compression of my jaws. My mouth has it’s own rhythm and system for the disintegration of any food like substances placed within it.

It started with purposefully innate suckling and took years to form all the pieces of that system.

How long does it take to form a writing system which works as perfectly? And is anything about writing innate?

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