Must to write


This will be a short post, as it’s 12:02am.  Bill Wither’s is telling me about how there ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, and the laundry has to be put away, and the bed made.

I left the house this morning before 11am and just got back in.  Sometimes my days off are busier then my work week days are.

One of the things that came up during my rambles through the Mission District today was the need for me to do more writing.  Now, I write every day, so a distinction, it is now time for me to do more “creative” writing, for lack of a better word.

Not blogging, although that did come up and I am freshly committed to posting more often, but using my brain writing, not the stream of conscious writing I do every day.

Between that and the editing on my book, I realized that I haven’t had a fun creative outlet with the writing in a while.  Perhaps this is why I’m feeling stalled out on “Baby Girl”  I’m kind of sick of her.  I’m tired of looking at it and wondering if this comma should go there and if this sentence is evocative enough of crack smoking, that’s right, you read that correctly, I had “fun” times there for a bit.

And I’m tired of remembering it too.  I feel like it is time to move on from the nineteen year old girl and that crazy ass time.  Of course, I’m sure I’m feeling what every writer feels like once they’ve been working on a project long enough.  It’s time to move the party on folks.

But, she [Baby Girl] is not done yet.  Oh, I’m damn skippy close, but not quite.  So, I need to keep the trudge going and just as they say put one foot in front of the other, a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, walk through the fear, blah, blah, blah. One little action at a time.  Getter done, dammit!

And write some thing frilly and impertinent and saucy once in awhile.

Tonight I wrote a sonnet, something dreamy and girly and just for me. Like the pink roses I bought for myself last night at Whole Foods right before they closed for the night.  I didn’t feel like being the woman in the store at 9:55pm buying cat food and protein bars, which is pretty much what I was, so I also grabbed a bunch of gorgeous pink roses just because they were pink roses and I wanted them.

And I’ll look at the roses and shoo the cat out of the laundry and stop and smell the damn things once in a while and write myself a little poem now and again to break up the monotony of fear working on my memoir seems to produce in me.

And fold the laundry.  12:12 am and my bed hasn’t made itself yet.


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