There’s something almost cruel about being a writer and still reaching for the word interesting. It’s the beige throw pillow of language. A placeholder. A shrug in vocabulary form. A thousand sharper words are waiting backstage — unruly, electric, sprawling, magnetic — and somehow “interesting” still walks out under the spotlight.
As I write, I edit in real time. Every sentence gets combed through and reworked until the words start losing their shape. I reread paragraphs so many times they stop sounding like language altogether and start sounding like static. The longer I linger there, the more every sentence begins to feel slightly off. Too stiff. Too obvious. Trying too hard.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the front patio in a damp swimsuit, mourning a thunderstorm that interrupted my afternoon swim.
At first, I waited it out hopefully. Twenty minutes. Then an hour. Then two. Every distant rumble felt negotiable somehow, like maybe nature would reconsider if I looked patient enough.
I must look silly to Mother Nature: refusing to fully accept the obvious no. Like I’m quietly bargaining with the sky.
But are you sure?
Love, Jaclynn