Waking the dead

I’m in quite a mood. One has to be to blog, to write, to allow herself to wake up at four o’clock in the morning, and say, Yes, today’s the day, I’ll go back with my tale between my legs and write it and post it, and if people read it, they read it, and if they don’t, I just might cry long hours in the latest hours of night with nothing but my rum to comfort me.

I have a story to tell you. Story after story. I always do. I’m good at keeping track; remembering, then recalling.

Or I keep telling myself that because God knows I need the confidence boost.

I need to know in my own mind, that I can remember not only what to write, but HOW to write it. That my writing isn’t bad. Though I don’t think it good. And what, really, does writing have to do with it, anyway? I was talking about the stories: what it’s all about. The details. The beginning, middle, and ends. Not how it’s written. How well or how poor it’s written. Sometimes it’s just IF it gets written. And you can always shape it up later.

I need to write something. I haven’t written in weeks. Except poetry, but poetry isn’t fulfilling to me. It’s foreplay. It just gets me going...I need the sex. The big time. The consummation of real life and words, and put ‘em together, and what do ya got?

Stories. Blog entries. Something of coherence.

And preferably doesn't rhyme.

Though I’m not trying to downplay or badmouth poetry, mind you. Tis my roots. My fallback. It has its place in the grand scheme of creativity.

Poetry, fiction, and song lyrics: they group together off to one side; the dimly-lit room in the house of writing. The artistic side, where sad people can find other sad people, and be inspired by the sadness, and who can cry loudest, or maybe softest. Prettiest. It’s all very nice. [Talent required]

The other side, you'll find the nonfiction writers, the general blog writers ("Today I did this..."), the journalists, the wannabes.

And finally, somewhere inbetween, you'll find me. Self-loathing member of the McCourtin’ Memoiric crowd. The "I lived it, and made a gigantic mental note of it, but instead of writing it, I spent all summer sleepwalking through life, just being quiet, sometimes talking too much, jumping from one project to another without ever finishing. Falling in love with men who don’t love me. Or can’t love me. Or won't. Getting drunk, and reading blogs, and not writing the emails I wanted to write. Having no time for the people who deserve the time, and plenty of time for a few that did, and quite a few who probably didn’t. And all the while, remembering the stories. The days I lived. The mornings I awoke after all. And thought, Yes, today’s the day. I’ll get out of bed. I have reason to. I have a child to love and stories to write. Though I didn’t write the stories...I made the mental notes: giant post-it’s all stuck about my brain. And it’s time. Time to shut my eyes, and let the notes and the blank page consummate, and at the end of the day, I’ll say, I'm not sure I want to be alive, but I'm tired of trying to die."

So much for not rhyming...

I have a lot to live for, and relearn.