Confession

A few days ago, I remembered the Desdmona contest. I do that often. Know that a writing contest is coming up, and not remember until the deadline is almost here.

This time I have learned that I have to stop doing that. So with a swiped steno pad from work and a lovely pencil--allowing myself to know that my ink to the page is not indelible--I have begun piecing together a story.

Everyone knows that I am a writer, everyone knows I write like I breathe, bleed--it is an excretion of mine. I was talking to someone last week, and he says to me that I should try to get published. I gave him such a look that he negated what he said to me. His was a kind of tough love gesture that everyone gives me because I write, but what do I do with it? I keep saying that I am--so it makes me--a writer. What have I got to show for it? What keeps me back from writing more? Is it fear, is it a lack of time? What has it been?

My entire body is warm from this confession. I never let anyone see the side of me that just goes cold at doing the thing that I love the most. I could not live if I was not a writer. It is how I process everything--thinking how to put it into words. This is the first time that I have put into words that I am not sure why I am not writing more and harder. I know other people beat themselves up about these things, but it really hurts to go inside and not know why there are so many blank screens and pages behind me.

Behind me. Although it is a pain in the ass to write it on the page and then type it--but I will. I have a little less than two weeks to finish this story I am working on for the contest. I am trying not to think about the deadline.

The above image is from Athens Art Association