I’m fifty-one. I thought by now I’d have many books, published, read, admired. I thought I’d make a lot of money, a least some money, at least enough to buy a house and maybe another house and very nice shoes. I thought I would have arrived and yet I have not. Except that I have arrived just not where I thought I’d get to.
I have published a novel and a book of poems. I have an agent. I have a book being shopped round by my agent. I have many very much highly-respected publications. I’ve taught creative writing at the university and I have been to fucking Bread Loaf. I have done everything. And I wasn’t really serious about the money. The money is the ridiculous dream and I knew better all along and that most likely I’d be dead before any of that, of course I knew that. I have done everything.
I am not now what I thought I’d be then. When upon a twelve year old girl who began to write poems. That girl. And how very long it took to call myself a writer. A real writer. How very long and then a great long roll of glory until now. Until today. When I am not writing. Except for this.
And the insistent babbling the whining the on and on the just shut up and write something down already. But the voices are too quiet, distant. Not insistent enough to make me desperate enough to write again. Until, when?
And the whining. The blow by blow daily blah blah just live another life already.
I am afraid that it is the estrogen. That went away. I started writing when it came and now?
Please some unknown some character some unrealized dream come speak to me tonight and wake me up and keep me up and irritate me. Infest the girl with the rhythm. The swing I am swinging so high the chains are looping, looping. The impossible fear realized but also how free. There must be floating involved. And falling. Through orange. There’s a creamsicle in there somewhere. And something else that rhymes with air.