rlbourges

Oh, the dread morning-after

In Irish Mist, Revision on November 11, 2014 at 8:47 am

As usual, I move on to the morning-after. Morning after? After affixing the dread words The End to the latest attempt at… at what? Ha. At writing something so right, so one-hundred percent close to… to what? Well, to what I’ve aspired to say all my life, what I’ve aspired to…

Forget it. I’ve done my early morning crying (also part of the morning-after syndrome). No, I haven’t even touched the hem of the shimmering dream yet. The shimmering dream lives somewhere beyond the horizon. It loves to watch me try every combination of words, styles, and whatever sundry notions drift in and out of my head. If there is a god, his name is Trickster.

All this, and I haven’t even touched the dread search for a title, followed by the horrid plunge into Synopsis. Don’t even mention the word Query or I may resort to suicide after all. (Noticed that in Steinbeck’s East of Eden: the business of a handy six grains of morphine when the writer needs to dispose of a character. I liked East of Eden, but I didn’t find the female characters as convincing as the male ones.)

Which is neither here nor there. I’m not one of the Greats, and I’d rather not think of what others might say about my male or female characters. It’s cold in here. I wish I could say I’m getting used to it, but I’m not. I don’t consider solitude in an unheated garrett a pre-requisite for anything except coughing, sneezing and shivering. I don’t know how the Greats managed. I’m finding writing harder every day.

My writing. I feel like a graceless widow with several grown children still  hanging about the house. Must farm them out, woman. Must send them off to earn their keep. Walking down the hill to a meeting yesterday, I recalled a brief, brief time when I had bounce in my step and the utter conviction odds were nothing, nothing at all.  The glorious It would all come together, some day soon. Sooner than soon. I walked, talked and bathed in glorious It. I think it’s called being in love. Pheromones, oh pheromones, wherefore art thou, now that you’re needed?

End of The Dread Morning-After Dirge (at least, I hope so because it doesn’t do much for the morale.)

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