Until my fingers hit the keyboard, I’m not writing; I’m doing what’s referred to as thinking about writing. It’s an inevitable trap to which many a writer falls victim. Its forsaken oubliette is filled with nothing more than angst, despair, and hopelessness.
But in actual writing? There is a promise, a light in the darkness, and a path to freedom and clarity of mind.
It’s August 2012, and I’m bee-bopping my way down a residential street in a brown sundress with my hand clutching the strap of my turquoise and yellow cross-body purse. I’m on the way to a pre-season Green Bay Packers football game. I don’t have a ticket – yet. But I don’t care; the sights, sounds, and smells of all things related to tailgating are all that I’m needing for now.
But I’m frustrated. With myself.
Because I can’t quite seem to write this part in my book how I like, so, today my writing partner encouraged me to write about writing it.
So, I will. Begrudgingly.
Anyway, the scene feels like I’m drawing a one-dimensional stick figure of myself and having it walk its lower-case “l” legs down the street. I don’t know if it’s possible to make the part I haggle with a scalper for a $30 ticket exciting or how to make it make sense how little I cared about the game and how much more it meant to me be in that place at that time.
I could write about the dairy cows and how the scent of manure reminded me of home. Or how I’d pulled the wheel left for Green Bay last minute, not even knowing there was a game, and how the traffic and the news spilled the beans shortly after that.
I’d likely touch on the aimless feeling, the one I struggle with still, and how even though I felt very much alive, vibrant, and up for anything, I also felt dissatisfied and hopeless in my experiences.
But is that something people want to read? An untethered leaf without any idea of what the hell they’re doing?
I guess I have something to think about. Thanks for being here. Love, Jaclynn