This morning my brain continues to clear as the sun continues to shine it pulls me up me so far down spiraling with the low constant smothering clouds of the last couple of weeks. I’ve decided that when the rain comes again and the clouds will not lift I am just going to walk out into the rain and get soaked through and pretend that I’m little.
I am so full of poems and stories and words I’m just bursting with ideas for this and that and oh yes that. I walked out this morning and looked up smack dab at Orion my time of year has come these stars I know the bowl of heaven has flipped itself over God cradles us.
I made myself a schedule for this week. So far today I haven’t looked at it. But I know that I need to write today, but not so much that I strain my eyes else I will wander through the evening squinting for light it’s October. In 1991 and in 1994 I went into the hospital for depression for someone is going to kill me, three years apart the very same week of the year in October. For years October was a danger but not so much now. But every year I do squint for light where where is the sun? When we switch back the clock I will feel much better. I am a farmer’s daughter.
I have refurbished and fractured an old story that was never quite right. I just took a bit of the old and rewrote the thing. It’s very different and the charm I lost, all those funny images and rhythms I lost I will fold into something new. I have too many good stories and I need to pull them together and see what sort of collection is waiting for me in the little yellow folders stories finished and published story beginnings and middles stories just wee bit started and begging calling come back come back you loved us once.
When you write everything, all of it—short stories, essays, poetry, and all the in-between things, it’s hard to dive straight into one thing and say yes, this is my current project. I will drive it forward and whip it and smack it and mold it until I kill it until its horns are mounted on the wall. I want to write down the poems. I want to write down the essay and see where it goes. I want to grab hold of the people talking in my head and write them down. And then there’s me in my head streams of memoires and words just itching me just nagging come come you will love me you will love me you will love me more.
And this is how it looks—Sunday morning I popped a poem down on my phone in Sunday school. I began another poem in church. Two days before that tiny things little cups and sauces and stubby dolls called to me gather here gather here the tea set is waiting. At some point in the last few days I wrote the beginning of a story. A month ago I wrote a new poem. And I wrote what will become an essay. I think I started another essay too but I can’t be sure. This morning sitting on the stoop with my cigarette I was gifted the first line of what will be a prose thing maybe fiction maybe not fiction. This is not clear. This is how things work when you write all these things and you want to answer all their calls and yearnings and they can get very loud up there very loud. The one with the widest mouth is not always the one who gets the first food.
This is what happens when you perk and perk and burst when a little girl blows on you and you scatter across the yard tumble leap frog all your failed attempts to turn a cartwheel. When part of you is dancing and dancing prancing strutting her way back down the halls of high school see me see me lookie lookie me look at me now.
So I will choose a thing today. But I will probably choose more than one thing.
And all of you writers know the worst part—at some point you want to submit the damn things. And that is just drudgery if you are like me if you think you’ve a good plan and then realize nothing is finished nothing is perfect. Except when it is. I can always feel the perfect pound of the final nail.