Angry, and it’s only Tuesday.
I can feel it coursing through my veins like a toxic drug. Feel the constriction across my ribs, the pinch in the back of my neck, the tension in my shoulders, the empty pit in my full stomach.
For what? I’m not even sure I could explain. For all the times I had to stop and start. For all the times someone said my name, demanded my attention. For the dark but not time for bed. For dirty dishes. It’s all of it and none of it and everything in between.
Hoping that writing will help, I turn to the screen, but each noise above the hum of the furnace–the barking dog, the question, the stomping feet, the clanking dish, the bouncing ball, the bounding catch–all the noise only makes it worse. Worse until the endorphins kick in, and the writing rush takes me from frustration to flow.
“I’m sorry, mama, for making so much noise.”
And it is, for I can stop and start a million times. I can give my attention to many things at once and still have time for one thing at a time. I can fill the darkness with light from the lamp in the corner, the bright glow of the screen, and the contrast of words on white. Oh, and the dishes? They can wait.
Writing will help…with all of it and none of it and everything in between. The writer’s rush. The writer’s release.
I am participating in the 1oth annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at the Two Writing Teachers. Everyday for the month of March, we find ourselves in our stories and find community in commenting on each other’s work. I would very much appreciate your comments on the craft you notice in my writing, not just the content.