The world is urging me to get down and wallow in its mess. World, you are not the boss of me! Have you forgotten who I am? I am she who dreams of sleeping on warm grass, the one who would like to live inside a little mole hole in the earth. The one who used to spend entire weekends in bed with her typewriter and landline, holding court in a tiny studio bedroom. The necessary-phone-call avoider. “Shunner of office parties” and “Disconcertingly often confused by dreams that feel like real-life memories.” Despiser of public linens and soft furniture. Fearful of discount hotel mattresses. Disturbed by sweater pills. Soaker-upper of cracking thunderstorms, inhaler of the coming-snow scent, savorer of tiny glasses of ruby port. Lost in the otherworld. Drowned by fantasies and falsehoods.
Yes, I am those things and more. So when the world, confused by my love of theatrics and cocktail parties, insists that I further engage with it, we hit multiple snags. The modern social-media madness of networking and blogging and thrusting one’s self upon unsuspecting web passersby becomes arduous. The smiles and handshakes clatter like cheap plastic trinkets in a bin. Retreat becomes necessary, no matter how brief. Time to add tinder, stoke the fire and coax the coals to blaze. Each expansion demands retraction. I salve the friction burn with silence. A deep, still water must always return to its natural, glassine state of reflection after the distraction of surface ripples subsides.
Like this … listen …
So that’s all I really had to say. But as I’m writing, I am thinking, “Even though I am writing, some may say that this post isn’t about writing. It’s about self-indulgence. Overwriting or, god forbid, purple fricking prose.” But that’s what I have to say today, and it is about writing and the nature of those who write (often introverted, neurotic, dreamy). It’s about needing to shut your actual mouth in order to hear what you have to say. It’s about enjoying all of the untold stories, the flash fiction of daydreams, that we tell ourselves each day in order to mold the jelly of passing time into something tangible and recognizable. It’s about knowing when to speak and when to listen, and then, what to put onto paper.