It’s been awhile.
Not since I’ve written; that I do every day, all day. The words pour out of my head and through my fingers, the constant tap of the keyboard and the invoices in the outbox a reminder that, at least by definition, I am still a writer.
But those words—I am still a writer–feel a bit like the justification language that I so dislike, an effort in twisting words into excuses instead of letting them unfurl into something that soothes my soul. I told a friend last week that I wish she could see what I feel are tornados whipping around me. They dance around each other and barely miss colliding, reminding me that one misstep puts me right in the middle of the storm.
The tornadoes are the surprise text messages, the dropped balls, the doubled expenses, the unmet expectations, the crappy conversations and the other stuff of being an adult, a single mom and a procrastinator that no one warned me about as I pass from one graduation to the next, and then jumped into the real world. I’m sure my tornadoes aren’t unique; still, they sometimes multiply faster than I can count, leaving me dizzy and disoriented and more than a little exhausted.
I miss this space. I miss the clarity that comes when my brain shifts to autopilot and my heart takes over, directing my fingers to the keys and my words to the page. I miss the feeling that I can only describe as this peculiar mix of amnesia and a hangover, when I revisit my words and feel like I’m seeing them for the first time, because they weren’t preplanned or twisted to fit a word count requirement or edited and polished so someone else might like them.
As I slowly woke up this morning I thought I was dreaming the roll of the thunder and the constant plunk of the raindrops against the window above my head. The storm brought with it a delicious dream that I spent an entire day with only words that no one expected me to write. The soundtrack of the day was the same staccato of the raindrops that lulled me back to sleep, slowing down to a whisper and then whipping again to a frenzy, unrelenting and angry, demanding to be heard.
But now the demands of the day and the constant whirr of the tornadoes are louder than the plunk-plunk-plunk on the window, so it’s back to tapping words that start in my head and facetiously wave at my heart as they whiz by.
I miss this space.