The morning is still new. The scent of creosote grits the air with its bite of wood and iron. It snowed a little in the night. White crystals gather around the dry remains of garden plants. Wrapped in a wool sweater, I await inspiration.
I live all the time. I write some of the time. Life becomes an adventure when you tell it in writing. Everything goes in, and it all comes back out, on the page. Fiction or not. It is what I saw and heard and broke my heart over. I felt the weight of your sorrow and raged against my own. None of my characters are me. All of my characters are me.
This story I am writing chews close to old family bones. I shake a little in the guts when I write. I am afraid of being found out. The ghost of my father hovers behind me trying to see what I have written. ‘You shouldn’t have said it then,’ I tell him, ‘if you’re going to worry about it now.’ Anyway it’s too late to take it back. And my brand of cockiness, of being defensive, will be exorcised by my writing and I am desperate to touch on that reality.
Sometimes I have to stop and get up and move around and only then do I realize I am angry. Old anger and I am writing by hand, tiny trenches in the paper.
I accept these feelings as part of what it takes. I lived without writing for too long. I can’t stop now.
© Margaret Grant and magoffleash, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.
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