I’m really sorry.
I haven’t been pulling my weight. When’s the last time I contributed here? Too long to remember. That’s how long.
The truth is, I can’t find any words.
Well, not exactly true. I have lots of words. Too many words, but they’re all scrambled and jumbled in a heap at the end of my bed. They look like a fall leaf pile, but void of colour. And there’s a bunch that have blown under the dresser with the dust bunnies and in the back right corner of the closet behind the dress I bought for my niece’s wedding I never got to wear because of COVID. I’m sure there are some behind the toilet too. I haven’t checked. And frankly, I don’t want to.
I’m ashamed of that. I wish it was otherwise. I wish the pile didn’t overwhelm me.
I guess I could rake it up, take it to the curb and start fresh, even if I know I’ll keep finding more laying around.
Meh. I’m pretty sure a new pile will form anyway.
I wish the pile and its possibilities could excite me. Entice me to jump in and start rolling around, not caring how many get stuck in my hair. That used to feel fun. Discovering a vibrant, perfectly formed word – the quintessential series of letters that took hold and inspired me to hunt for more. Line them up. Rearrange them over and over again. Play with their shapes and sounds.
But the pile makes me feel tired right now.
Every word looks dry, like it would crunch and crumble to my touch.
I’ve left them too long. I haven’t known what to do with them. So they kept accumulating. I’m pretty sure my husband slipped and swore at one the other day. Frustrated I’m not doing anything with them.
So, here I am, asking you for more time–again. There might be a fresh one in there somewhere. Maybe soon I’ll catch a glimpse of a word I didn’t pay much attention to before that suddenly needs me to pick it up and find a better spot for it than on the floor.
That’s probably why I’ve left them there all this time. Why I keep gingerly stepping around them. Part of me likes them there. A reminder of who I’ve been and might be again.
I suppose there is hope in the pile. I’m just writing to tell you I haven’t found it yet, and I’m sorry.
One response to “Dear Restless Writers…”
I see a faint glimmer of gold struggling to make its way to the top of your pile. It reminds me of a newborn bird, shyly attempting to absorb warmth for it’s survival…it needs cuddling…it needs attention. Also, there are bits and bobs of green scattered throughout the pile that I’m sure will come to fruition under your guidance…the spark is waiting to burst into full flame…
Just do it…