Maybe I Suck

You’ve heard about successful writers who wrote only on napkins, or tiny notebooks, every chance they had, while working fourteen hours a day, raising ten kids and volunteering at their local homeless shelter. The point of their stories is to make other writers feel like shit when they don’t write.

Today, I found myself with a slice of time to call my own and, of course, sat down to write. I started working on a blog post explaining my absence, but I stalled before I wrote a word. Did I want to apologize for not being here, say I’d be coming back, finishing this story or that novella? Did I want to talk about publishing deals or plans for a new website design? Did I want to thank the people who still come here despite my recent lack of new posting (I really am grateful to all of you) or, did I want to just admit that I am tired? Tired from working non-stop, traveling constantly, expending all of my energy on a day job I perform for the money. I sold out to suckle upon the fatted tit of corporate America and I am too exhausted to sugar-coat it today. Too exhausted to write.

All my favorite writers say they write everyday. I admire that, and when I don’t write daily, I stop calling myself a writer. Unable to produce new words, I read old, filed away, story beginnings. I tell myself I am looking for something worthy of posting on the website, or something to spark an idea, but I am really looking for a reason to keep writing, to not give up. I find snippets of ideas, sometimes whole pages, more often paragraphs. I find breakups and surviving, sex and memories. I find funny things, painful things, and I find this, filed in August, 2006 and forgotten about.

Working Story Title – The Church

I’d seen him in the village. He was hard to miss. Heathcliff, Lord Byron, Jim Morrison; all my girlhood fantasies rolled into one tragically beautiful package. Dark, lanky, foreign; his lonely, haunted air captivated me from the first time I saw him riding his bicycle through the grove of olive trees near the town’s 500 year old church.

I saw him in the square, in the park, down by the river. Once, in the flower shop, he brushed against me but he never looked at me. I knew his eyes were so dark they were almost black because I’d watched him often, growing bolder the more time passed without him catching me spinning my lustful castle in the sky all around him.

He had a faraway dreamy quality about him. He looked bored, yet snapped with energy. He was always alone.

I never had the nerve to follow him home though I ached to climb whatever stairs led to his house, knock on his door and throw myself at his feet, confessing weeks of lustful fantasies, begging him to fuck me.

When I finally met him, it turned out I could not utter a word until he demanded it.

“Yes,” I screamed.

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