Words are what I do. I make things, sentences and paragraphs. I make poems and essays, stories. I have written whole books. And now I am only writing short essays about weight loss for my weight loss community. I have an idea about writing a book about my weight loss “journey.” I still think of the fantasy novel. I think of the novel of novels, the characters waiting there. I think of my old novel, Click. I wonder if I’ll write again.
I wonder if I simply will not, do not want, cannot do. If there were other creative things, making things, doing, being. But there is only the body and I suppose this is a creative thing, learning the body, teaching the body, myself moving and learning what my body can do. What I can do. Have I become a body? Am I flesh now, not words? Will God not send me music?
For the first time in so long, since major depression, I am unconnected to my words. They are distant. Insincere. Even as I write this it seems false and forced. When I was in my MFA, studying poetry and so depressed, I wrote poems that aren’t poems. They are poems, solid, but even now they mean nothing to me. The book of them—I don’t like it and for that reason I can say they are not good poems. And very few people bought the book and who in the world actually read the poems?
These are not sour grapes but then I am so disconnected perhaps I cannot feel the sour. Is this lithium? Is this the absence, the girl gone dry for want of estrogen? Is this what I am now? Am I a girl a woman now really I’m fifty-one own up to it am I a woman girl without words? Will God never send me music again?