My phone rings. I’m brushing my teeth. As I’m reading the text, I feel the acid in my stomach. I cough. Bile comes up.
Brushing again. More stomach acid. Vomit in the sink. I remember what I plan to do today: stay as busy as possible, and put this blog post off till I’m inspired, moved, angered.
It’s 9:27 a.m.
The bouquet of coffee is in the air. There is the popping sound of ice melting in my coffee. My television blares. Is that Kelly Ripa? What am I watching?
I hear the cheers of the boys upstairs laughing as Amir is setting up the games. Ben is carefully bringing in their Starbucks drinks. The timer on the coffee maker beeps, my nose starts running; a steady trickle. I still I have no idea what I am writing about.
It occurs to me–I have nothing to write about. I don’t want to be emotional. I have no desire to write from my point of view because, the last three times, it eviscerated me. I am depleted, unable to even work out or go for a run (#failure). Is it worth it for me to write another word?
I am at a standstill, like the gun fights of the old west. My brain, my writing; my emotions are at a good, old-fashioned standoff. I have a thousand concepts, a million things to say yet a real fear to explore. I’m thinking about my jewelry, my hair, and my coffee. I really need to do my hair, a million things are unraveling. Where is my coffee? Wait a minute. Why write about that? I don’t want to fail. Am I failing by not writing, or am I failing because I don’t try? Whatever. I smirk at my MacBook.
I want to be that deep. Do I always have to be that deep? Do I have to be deep at all? Can I write without being too deep? What’s my niche? My voice?
You want examples of every error you can make in writing, grammar and mechanics, take a read at my run on sentence. I nail it (#NailedIt).
This is taking much longer than 20 minutes. Coffee sounds good, the ice is melting…. Wicked Witch of the West …it’s melting. I don’t think I have enough coffee for this.
She’s brewing thirty bucks worth of Starbucks, but didn’t she just throw up? What is her deal? She can write, but she has specifically avoided it. What more does she possibly need?
The ice in her coffee is melting. Why an iced coffee when it’s freezing out? She’s pissed. The kids are laughing upstairs. There’s a million things going, and what the hell is she watching? She doesn’t want to write. Yup! Chicken shit.
It’s obvious she doesn’t want to write anything unless it’s a masterpiece. She wants to be relatable. What’s unrelatable about being scared to fail or anxiety? And does it matter if she’s sensational now? What if she’s sensational in forty years?
Her coffee is melting and she’s got a shit-eating grin on her face. Probably just figured out what she’s doing and has some asinine inside joke working its way around in there. Her phone is ringing. She thinks she’s cute–it’s the House of Cards intro. So dramatic. She feels dramatic. Writers block, my ass. Chicken shit. She doesn’t want to write, yet 20 more minutes gone by.
Final 20 minutes. What I am suppose to do is lie here and say what should have happened, but it did happen. Really, it did. I downloaded the House of Cards intro song because it makes me laugh. What’s not funny about that? Fine, I am scared. I have had way too much coffee, and will do my hair. I don’t think my blog is going to be any good. It’s okay. I will work it out. Ben has invested all he can, in supporting me, let alone taking care of me last week.
I don’t have to pick one niche. This blog is about my writing. I don’t have to be Hemingway. If I want to write a review, I will. If I feel like sharing a recipe, I should. I feel anxious, I just want to get my nape pierced and go for a run. I shaved. A little lotion wouldn’t hurt, but my hair is fabulous. I’m sorry for being sick, but I’m sick. Ben’s not holding it against me.
This doesn’t have to be deep.
I’m a lot of things, and scared isn’t going to be one of them.
It’s 10:27 a.m.