Writer repartee

During the HalloThanksChristmaKkah season, I haven’t been blogging as much…

and…

Poetry escapes a mind consumed by my day job.  There are deadlines to keep, and the people I’m trying to help are too D@%*#d busy with holiday cheer to care about keeping their appointments.

You want poetry? Fine

The following is all I’m capable of creating at this moment in time:

Roses are dead,

Violets are blah.

If you miss one more meeting

I’m killing your maw.

What’s worse than walking through a creative desert in a day-job sandstorm?

There’s something inside me yelling, “You’re going to die soon.  Finish these books!”

There’s another part of me that says, “What, exactly do you mean by soon?”

Here’s a virtual taste of how these conversations expire transpire:

“You have to tear your last 3 books apart and cut half of them out!”

“Half of each?  All of one?  None of the other?”  I ask.  “Remember, I do NaNoWriMo.  I understand that when I write 50,000 words of a novel in a month, something has to die.”

“You’re going to die soon!”

“I’m not ready to buy that farm.  Does soon mean a month? Year? Decade?”

“I don’t know.”

“If it’s a month, I’d rather spend it playing scrabble with my SIL.”

“What’s a month?”

After rolling my eyes, I say, “What if I told you an asteroid is going to hit Earth soon.”

“One will.”

“In an eon, epoch, or after Homo Sapiens is replaced by Homo Whatever and has relocated to another planet?”

“There’s no time!  You have to get your first 6 books published.  NOW!”

“Give me a time frame so I know whether to curl into a fetal position and panic, or invest in a retirement fund.”

“You’re impossible!”

I wonder if this is how the pituitary gland feels when it’s trying to stimulate an underactive thyroid gland?

Doesn’t it know that I can’t not write?

No, not the thyroid!  The $#*%!^g voice in my head! 

Doesn’t it understand that the more it Chicken-Little’s at me, the more I’m likely to ignore it?

Well…sort of.  Another part of me, I’ll call it “curiosity,” asks. “In your freaking world, does soon mean before or after my 90th birthday?”

“Yes.”

“Are you the ghost of a vindictive Ouija board?”  I chuckle.

“Why would you ask a question that ridiculous?”

“I’m told it’s not good to play with Ouija boards.” 

“You have to finish your books!”

“I heard you the first 10,000 times.”

I’m wondering if this is the writer’s curse, to have that thing called “Determination” dragging us over the Finish this Book! line, kicking and screaming? 

Or is this closer to reality?

Whatever it is, it doesn’t have the good sense to die.