Writing for Your Life

I am working like a madwoman.  My day job has become a night-and-day job, and though I love it, I’m exhausted.  I told myself this would be temporary, this crazy schedule — that it was necessary to build my business and cast my net wide to connect with innovative people, but I am running out of juice.

My biggest problem isn’t the fatigue, though.  The biggest problem is that I’m not writing.  The effects of this lifestyle are varied and painful.  I need to get back into therapy soon, if I don’t start integrating regular writing practice into my day.  No time to process, no time to transcribe the voices and conversations in my head.  I’m losing observed moments to time and yesterday.  The cat places her paw gently on my wrist and I feel the pressure of her concern.  Thankfully, that’s recorded now.  Countless other moments have slipped away. 

It’s a bit of a fib to say I’m not writing, though.  I’m writing lots of emails, wiki entries, project management guides, and curriculum materials. I’m also writing loads of cryptic little notes to myself which remind me of the notes I wrote on cocktail napkins back when I was drinking.  Notes that say things like “multiple measures” instead of “raven’s wing” and mean as much the next day.

Speaking of sobriety, my productivity is through the roof right now — I only wish it was peaking in terms of a different kind of creativity.  I have a story that’s on my brain though, which is promising, especially as I do not typically write fiction.  I need to read a little Calvino, perhaps.  Maybe visit Kundera again, as the Velvet Revolution is also on my brain since Havel’s recent death.  I can’t seem to shake it.

This could be a start, this ten minutes here.  Reminiscent of Natalie Goldberg’s advice about taking “X” topic/subject/image and then “ten minutes — GO.”  This could be a good way to end the work day, even if the work day ends after one a.m. and begins again only a few hours from now.  I’ll let myself think about tomorrow’s topic during a snack or shower tomorrow.  If I can manage to squeeze in a shower.

Upon Hearing Footsteps

The neighbors said he was crazy.

When I moved into this house, I knew that the previous owner lived out of state, and bought it for his father. He was selling it because the old man had gone into an assisted living facility.  That’s what the realtor said, anyway.  I also knew that he struggled to take care of the house, leaving it grimy and in certain disrepair.

And then I found the pillow.  It was in the basement, in a cement corner, tucked behind the furnace.  At first, I worried about squatters, wondering if my new home was vulnerable to intruders.  Upon closer inspection, I noticed a curtain around the area, and multiple extension cords leading into the tiny space.  It was like a child’s hideout. 

The next weekend, as I raked leaves in the front yard, Jeff from across the street ambled over and asked, “You find any loose dirt in the basement yet?” He told me that Gunnar, the previous resident, had two lodgers … but only one was seen moving out.

“The guy, he didn’t stay long,” Jeff shook his head, “but the lady, she just disappeared.”  He smirked, “When Gunnar said she skipped out on the rent, but left all her stuff behind, we wondered.” I did too, and took a closer look around.

The couple next door told me how relieved they were that I had moved in.  Apparently, the old guy had called the cops because their front light was too bright.  On the other side of the house, they said he complained about their dog barking, even when the old spaniel was inside.

 Each time I talk with the neighbors, any of them, I hear a new story.  Shots fired into the air in the backyard, his crazy attempt to lay a path using firewood, and that he crashed into the fence, stumbling from the car steaming drunk.

The more I heard, the sadder I became.  More than one person had mentioned that he was a vet, and they speculated that he might be in the protective care of the Veteran’s hospital nearby.  I wondered what combat he’d faced, what terror he’d seen.  The strangeness of the house transformed from creepy to heartbreaking.  I imagined him in the basement, behind the curtain, perhaps with a radio, feeling safe.  I imagined him scared in the nighttime, the blinding porch light peeking through closed curtains.