Keats had his quirks. Emily Dickinson is- well- a lunatic. F Scott and Zelda should of chilled. Bukowski could have benefitted from some etiquette training. Writers may well be the voices of reason and insight, guiding us to a place of near-enlightenment in their work- but golly gee damn- what happens off the clock?
7:00 am. I wake up at the squeal of the side door letting in my parents from yet another “really cookin’ 12 miler.” I push the cats off my legs and saunter into the kitchen to see if the ‘rents bothered to make enough coffee for everyone in the house. By the time I overcome the grueling predicament about whether or not ‘Almond Joy’ creamer will hit my gag reflex, everyone is off to work and I’m alone.
I sit on the porch surfing online shopping sights irritated that nobody seems to sell quality bath robes anymore. Then I remember, damnit- I’m a writer now. I find a pen. It’s dry. I get my computer to type. First I check my email and see that another batch of classmates are in LA and have jobs. Before I fly into a fit of self-loathing I force myself to remember that writers are a different breed of folk. We are quirky, and our job is a trying one.
I return to my Tintern Abbey and swan dive into the depths of my negative capabilities. I read an old email from my mentor which tells me to do exactly that in moments like these. When I remember that I love writing and that it does poses its own kind of power to reach people, I don’t feel so far away from the industry. I remember that I recollect my emotions best when in tranquility.
I write, and the storm is calmed.
For all you writers out there, remember that you are the ones extracting the inspiration from the universe. You are the ones translating the silence of a blank page into meaningful text that moves people. Its ok to be where you need to be to create. After lots of thought, I’ve realized too that at $74.99, the pink cashmere robe at Bluefly.com might just be well worth the splurge.