I really do. They lurk beneath the surface, teeming, turning. Sometimes they marinate. But I have them. However, I’ve just spent weeks with very little of them arriving to paper or the blank page. They still try to float down, but they always get lost somewhere in the ether. I can blame the back pain and the muscle relaxants. Illness can stifle a good creative flow. “Try not to sit up for a week,” the doctor says. My response? “Pardon me, but you do not know my life, sir.” There’s a cackling fellow MFA-er listening to this exchange in the waiting room. He has a pink eye. Conjunctivitis as karma.
These days, all days, there be deadlines afoot. Now is not the time for indecision or baby steps. The flame cannot sputter out. I’m waiting for things to start getting “real” but I suppose, I should be my own catalyst. My own wool and flint.
I have words.