Hammered

The cupboard is bare, a pack of ham, stupid fake cheese slices, fake cherry cranberry juice, a third of a loaf of bread, and a mostly empty jar of peanut butter. It looks laughably dumb in a 6 ft tall Frigidaire,  retired in working order and hauled to my writing office by a neighbor who bought of a new fridge that probably cost $2000. He and his wife are guardian angels, weekly delivery of water bottles, frozen Meals On Wheels, home cooking leftovers, and a thousand other blessings. Both they and Don gave me little bags of pot. Rocking and rolling on the laptop.

 

It is incredibly painful to write. I hate gambling, and yet there's nothing for it, has to be done whether I like it or not. If I do something right it's terrible. I mean it. Breaking down like a baby, nose running, loud tears of gratitude and wonder, a triumph of real drama that throws open a sunlit vista of opportunities, every character whole and uniquely alive to life.

 

Oh, god, a new blank page, another twist of the ratchet, something to top everything that came before, climbing straight up a featureless rock face through the clouds. Shit. No way down, because I would fall to my death as an author. Everything else I wrote years ago is rotted and weak, utterly irrelevant.

 

It's a familiar gulf between this hour and all the rest of my time on Earth, a rich history that does not matter. Thousands of grievous mistakes and blunders, high crimes and misdemeanors, a broad river of personal and professional shame that doesn't matter now.

 

I'm writing a blockbuster. I don't exist, except to face the blank page and climb higher. The dog gets walked and fed without stopping the work, every moment, every breath.

 

Nothing for it. Light 'em up. Roll 'em!

 

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