It’s four days in, and already I’m unhinging my eyes. The vision drops off, as if tumbling over a continental shelf, or else it recedes into me (the insular self, or shelf, as it were) as I angle for the just-right word. Casting the line, then re-casting, hoping I come up with a koi or perhaps at least being coy. The writer’s life. The lifer’s right. Lightning or lightning bugs, indeed, Maestro Clemens.
My writing life is living one of those three-dimensional posters that we ’90s kids gazed into in Nirvanic oblivion, making the real picture finally pop out as if it had always been right there, just waiting with its bated paper breath ready to unfurl and lacerate the cheek. The mental calisthenics have begun–it’s the New Year, after all–and I am already stretching, wrestling, bending, and I hope not breaking, for the mot juste. In case you’re looking, it’s over there in the writerly ‘fridge, catty-corner [okay, kitty-corner, you damn purist!] to the bourbon, past the steadily melting bon-bons, and just adjacent to the bon mots. I scarf those like the brilliant Butterfinger bars they are.
So, I’m here owing to a self-promise that rooted from a challenge. My husband’s encouragement to write more for the public, again, got me going. Why not write your blog, he urged. Nothing’s stopping you. (But yourself, the Id intrudes. But the horror of the stark page, the writerly PFC concludes.)
And so, I write. On water (apologies to my close personal friend Johnny Keats), on webs. With dread. With passion. With consternation. With hope. With all the ‘withness’ that I can muster, or ketchup for that matter.
I have flung it out. The Wilkommen mat has shed its studs onto the grassy floor; if you are unshod, mind your feet, lest you be marked. Then again, part of that writerly equation depends on the value of you feeling something as you read. Fear, admiration, disgust, pain, puzzlement . . . valid all. My wish is that as we wend our way through this time together, if we do not become friends of a sort–each marked by each–we at least draw closer to some sort of understanding that perhaps knits us all nearer to some shared reality. Whether or not humankind can bear very much of it, it’s all we got, baby.
And so, I finally signal fiat lux (or fiat books, as the case might be, eventually). The flip has been switched. I mean, the spit has been filched. Uh, make that the switch has been flipped. This blog is open for service, with my promise of at least a quart of fiction weekly, all copyrighted, natch. You just gotta pop the hood over here at the Wordsmithery or do that old subscribing thingamajig. My best to you all . . . all three of you, that is!