Writing

I want to fuss with them, I want to dawdle and linger and arrange. I want to try this set of ideas on for size and apply this base coat of adjectives. I want to tickle and whip up and contrast and linger. To savor and dally and finesse.

I want to explode with words and juggle and carouse, debauched and unrepentant. I want phrases that caper, sing, shriek or wail. I want to squeeze each of them one by one until the juice runs down my wrists and I know what each smells like as it expires.

I want to play.

I want to spend copious, lackadaisical, unobstructed, remorseless, unaccounted-for time on this great endeavor, mining my own peculiar ore of verbal chaos.

Must I sell it all? Do I get to keep any of them? Must they all be tallied and inventoried? Adulterated, neutered, and packaged?

Aren’t there any production over runs? Over stock? Factory seconds? Factory recalls?

What do I do with the words that don’t go into any great works? No magnum opi for this lot. Just words. Rack ‘em, stack ‘em; log ‘em, slog ‘em.

When the subject of aspiring authors came up, I asked my friend what she aspired to?

She said, “To hear, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant! … Come and share your master’s happiness!’” (Matthew 25:21)

Staring off into space. Navel gazing. Thinking.

Some call it wool-gathering, like it was a complete waste of time.

Well, I’ve been carrying my pocket notepad around, trying to gather every worthwhile bit of fluff that accumulates instead of letting it float away on the breeze.

Now my task is to card, spin, and weave the bits into warm garments.