righter me, writer me

Get back to it everyone screams at me. Write. Just write. Just write. So alright, I have spent the past several weeks trying to come up with some sort of inspiration, with mixed success... Some things are actually just too personal. You understand. So instead, I filled myself with writers block and writers grief and self doubt and procrastination and I tried to wallow in it, but its just not there; I guess I am just no good at it. Late last week I sat down to write a short story. I could feel it - the air around the story. I could see my characters, almost smell and touch them. I felt their fear and emotions. I dove right into the icy piercing waters of weeks of writing nothing. And I typed as quick as I could, still stumbling as my brain was working faster. And then, and then... bam, I had no more oxygen and the hypothermia started to creep in and freeze up my body, fingers first. Brain, still stumbling along, I realised the story was trite. The line was not unique, my characters were shallow. The whole story was rather cold and distant, lacking in any substance or thrills. Again, I tried to wallow in that misery, to absolutely no avail.

Last night I tossed and turned, it was like drowning in the warmth of my blankets and socks. I flit over millions of tiny thoughts, as if it was just a puzzle of information I had to put together. Truly, I have plenty to analyze, the past several weeks (months, years...) have all been something of a blur and some clarity is required, just to soothe my hypothermic soul...

This morning I woke up with strange memories. I woke up in the cold, with icy frost on my car and on the grass in the garden. I woke up thinking about the one cold I experienced in Australia hundreds of years ago... It was far west Victoria, maybe even in South Australia and only a matter of about 10 days before I travelled home. It was freezing cold outside and I had a warm, bittersweet soupy feeling in my heart, that was visible on my face. I must have looked like I was waking up, the glow surrounding me, radiating out from me. People commented on how well I looked and I loved the warm feeling that was growing inside, hiding the fear of leaving that still lurked deep inside. My coffee that morning tasted like my coffee this morning, warm and sugary and just about right. That coffee's sugar came in packets. One found its way slipped into a jacket pocket, and was retrieved only weeks later, back in NEOH at a time when the bittersweet was overwhelming, all encompassing... I spent the morning thinking about what I may have accidentally slipped into a pocket this morning.

Oh, but I am not looking back. I do not need a sugar packet or cigarette wrapper or a scrap piece of paper with a note scribbled on it. I have no fear, I am fearless. I am a world of warmth in the frosty morning light. I am not drowning in icy waters. I am a writer - go check my status...