Ok, well. I can’t stand to look at you right now.
I don’t want to write. It isn’t that I don’t really feel like it today, the way that I don’t want to brush my teeth but I’ll do it anyway because there is some social demand that I do so or we can’t make out. I don’t want to write at all, much like I don’t ever want to run a marathon or have oral sex with a grandpa. This comment whore hasn’t checked comments in a week, that’s seven days for the newbies, seven days of ignorance in silence. As well you know, I don’t go seven minutes without seeing if one of you has stroked my ego or stroked some other part of yourself. One might argue that I’m avoiding this site like an ex. Did we break up when we were drunk?
I haven’t been writing offline, either, which isn’t a great loss for humanity, given that my diary is little more than pages of “Mrs. Seymour Hoffmann“ written over and over in fat crayon. I was on a roll for a while, penning something at least once a day. And I was keeping it. Hiding it from you, yes, like the existence of our love child, but it was there. It existed under the radar, as all good and steady basslines do, and the work, although limited, was improving. Line by line and bird by bird. On odd days I’d produce more than a few paragraphs, the few paragraphs that are on occasion painful to write for these pages, and it was glorious. I was the belle of the writing ball, and I created like the real writers do, proper hyphenation and melancholy and vodka and all, and with every saved page I’d raise a clenched fist in defiance of the cursed block capping my soul. More, more, more, I’d think. Tomorrow I will change out of these overalls, and tomorrow there will be more. There hasn’t been any more.
In the past week, I have done atrocious things to avoid writing, things that won’t look pretty in a memoir. This weekend I cleaned the hardwoods and alphabetized my jewelry. Last night, I watched the Women Tell All episode of the Bachelor, followed by some horrific model person show on which they chose a winner with supposedly beautiful insides and outsides, kind of like sausage. I have the Biggest Loser on in the background now and Bug is snoring next to my head. My every instinct is to abandon ship, to stop after these few paragraphs so I can stick something in his ears while he is sleeping, but I’m trying to be good. I’m trying very hard to do what I think I’m supposed to do. Force yourself to do that which you find unpleasant, and the words will come.
A friend thinks I’m sitting on a pea. He may or may not have described it as sitting on an egg, which we all know pretty girls don’t do, so I’m calling it a pea. He thinks there’s something brewing inside that I’m ignoring, letting fester, until it’s full and hard and we can lance it while we’re covered in Saran wrap. Admittedly, he may have meant something more akin to letting it grow, of waking up refreshed and effortlessly princess-y to see where the nurtured thought takes me, but that’s neither here nor there in this able-bodied rant, so I’m going to go with fester.
31 Comments
“kind of like sausage” – snort.
xoxo
I’m in the same place. And yet you write this wonderful non-post so how bad can YOU suck? Not as much as I do.
Oh, and it’s EXACTLY like sausage. You think it might be good, but it’s much better when you don’t really know what’s in it.
You are hilarious!
ps don’t be a hater…we love you
It’s my first visit here, and you’re already abandoning me?
A quick read through your posts of the last two months makes it clear that you are indeed an excellent writer. Write here, write for yourself, grab a can of spray paint and emblazon your thoughts on the walls of abandoned buildings, but regardless of how you do so, write. And live, of course. That too. Gives you more stuff to write about.
I’m taking what I can get from you – and this is a good post! Fester away!
Looking a gift horse in the mouth is proscribed because you’re not supposed to inspect something that’s delivered in grace with too critical of an eye.
That pea you’re sitting on might be a magic seed or it might be a hairy wart (or an egg, dammit #broodhen). You can assume it’s a pain in the ass all you want, but it’s still down there. Is there any harm in letting half your mind think it might be something lovely rising to the surface?
If this sounds like too much of an admonishment and not enough of a pep talk, it’s only because I think you’ve got something extraordinary going on and that sometimes you don’t give yourself enough credit for it.
That said, go easy on yourself. Read some beautiful words, make notes or not as you will. Something wicked this way comes, kid. I can feel it.
PS Got the E-vite to your episiotomy party – I’m a “Maybe.”
I think you should write about alphabetizing your jewelry. LOL!
Can you tell your hubby Seymour that the beanie is not considered proper formal attire?
Just thought I’d pass that along.
I’m sensing a fade-away here. Please, no. If you leave me, I’ll just die.
Hey, wanna come over to mine next week for THE MOST EXCITING BACHELOR CEREMONY EVER?!?!? I’ll get you drunk and hold you.
Ok, on alphabetizing jewelry: by stone/metal (Diamonds, Garnets, Gold, Jade, Opal. . .)? By type (bracelet, earrings, necklace, private piercings, rings. . .)?
I’m fascinated.
tell us about your date the other week!
perhaps the winter of discontent has decended upon you
You alphabetized your jewelry? I don’t even know where all of my jewelry is……Wow. I’m impressed.
Oh, gaddammit. I just got here. Do I smell?
Please keep writing. Please? I want to cover myself in saran wrap and help you lance your egg. Metaphorically. But if ever possible, literally as well. (I love to lance.)
Even if you aren’t writing everyday, or posting everyday, I think you should remember that you are a fantastic writer. That skill…your talent, it won’t go away because you need some off time. =-) In fact, I tend to think that times like this produce stronger words when they do finally (inevitably) re-appear. Which means, btw, that you should be laying in a good supply of Pinot and cracking your fingers together deviously because soon…you probably won’t be able to stop writing. ;-)
Don’t make me make you scream “I’m a tiger I TAKE WHAT’S MINE” because I will do that. Also we can go to the shooting rang and shoot pictures of old boyfriends. That always helps me.
Stop yer bitching and come help me f*ck shit up. Or else I will continue to relentlessly make fun of your bad avatar choices. Thank the Universe you changed it back to the old one. Every time I saw Speidi I just about puked. And that’s just not lady like.
Call me. Mean it.
This weekend I cleaned the hardwoods and alphabetized my jewelry.
From Bling to Zing!
I don’t have enough jewelry to alphabetize. That feat, in and of itself, is quite impressive.
I’m sure I’d go more than a week without writing sometimes if I weren’t obligated (BlogHer) to do so. Sometimes we just need to step away from it all…nothing wrong with that. :)
Does the cubic zirconia go at the beginning or the end of the set? I’ve always puzzled over that myself when I’ve had a lot of jewels to sort.
Short bus leaves in 10, kids. Buddy system.
oh fuck you, monkey king. jokes about short busses aren’t funny, you know, vis a vis some of us taking them when we were younger, etc.
great post, kris. ((hugs))
You force yourself through blogstipation better than anyone I know, though I don’t think the term “blogstipation” applies to pretty girls either. Or at least it shouldn’t.
Ms. Murphy, you are a foul-mouthed slattern, but a vixen nonetheless. LMAO!
Yeah, dude. Take solace in the fact that your frustration is far funnier than most.
We are watching the same TV and not writing in the same way! Wait! Are you this very moment on your couch watching The Real Housewives of NYC?
I have this feeling on a regular basis. Way to get through it!
I’m watching Comic Relief.
You speak for us all. Can I just cut and paste or would that be plagiarism?
Um…is it wrong to say that I focused all my reading and commenting these days on those who read or comment on my blog? And then I came by anyway.
When I read, “We always said we’d be honest with one another, didn’t we?” I expect something cruel to follow. Experience, they call it.
If you have something festering and you want an opinion on “does this look infected?”, let me know, I’m more than willing to give free advice.
As for not being able to look at me right now, I’m used to hearing that.