Spiff on Writing

White face glares at me.

Across a lake of keys, the Cyclopetic eye blinks.

Dot.  Dot.  Dot.

I am hungry.  Feed me Sigmore.

‘No, wait.  I’ve heard that line before.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Perhaps….

Ashen face stares at me.  Begging, ‘Fill me, lover.’

My fingers hover,

wrist bent.  I caress…

‘No, stop.  Too sappy.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Maybe….

Ugly and pale, the ogre dares me.

I strike him, bruising his square face.

Take that.  And that.

‘No, quit.  I want fancy, not fantasy.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Thus….

Blank and pure, the box waited

for me to sully it.

One day, they would say,

here is where the words

were fated to be….

‘Nix that.  Too egotistical.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Ergo….

My words lash across the canvass,

criticizing, analyzing, harmonizing.

Bleeding the truth from their sterilizing…

‘No.  That’s awful.  Too ING.

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

I must skip to the middle,

or even the end.

Obviously, my beginning is too thin.

My weapons are spent.

My hook is bent.

‘Ugh.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Is this what they call a dry spell?  So like me to be dry, when outside the rain won’t stop.

I turn away from my computer.  Perhaps, today would be a good day to buy some wood and build a bookcase.  My books are stacked high, and they have begun to call me eccentric.  Dictionaries, thesaurus, writing on this, and writing on that.  A yellow bound, four-foot stack of titles that all end in ‘…for Dummies.’

I know that somewhere between the sawing, sanding, and screwing that the demon will possess me again.  The bookcase will languish in my garage, half finished.

For writing is like being possessed or suffering a grand mal seizure.  I must be open and ready.  I try to keep a small pad and utensil in my pocket, but soon the notebook is filled with mad ramblings.  For what is the initial strike, but the rantings of a lunatic?  Then I must come back, sane and cured, to remold the nonsense into sentences.

Or, maybe, instead of the bookcase, I will draw first blood on my writing pals.  Would that it were, I had a magic pen to bleed them.  Now that would be cool.

Ah, but if I did, they would run me off, gun me down, and quarter my heart.

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