the writer's life

These photographs were taken two weeks ago. Fourteen days. Two whole weeks. Why must the sun and moon trade places this many times before I begin writing to you? I want to tell you it is because I've been wild-eyed, building bonfires and living beside rabbit trails, but the truth is I've been striking banjo strings in my nightgown, playing video games until the early hours and singing songs in between the notes and sword fights. There is plenty of time to write but I've regretfully chose to do other things. Even my journal is empty and wordless like a friend I've loved but left behind me.

I always feel terrible when I think about writing when I am not writing. Even worse than when I burn my tongue on an appetizer before reaching the entree. When I am not writing, it is as if I have abandoned a child in a trove of green pines, when in reality, I have only abandoned the child within me, the child who uses written word as a fruit and freedom bearer. Sometimes writing feels less like collecting emotions and stringing them into pearls and more like pulling teeth. There is no recipe when you're gathered at the desk with pen and paper. There is only you, your thoughts, and a desire to express yourself in words.

 As a writer, you dream of sentences flowing free as the honeybees and wildflowers but you know you need compost, rain and sunlight. Sometimes, if you're anything like me, you may even need a hammer. Sentences are like self portraits, if you are unhappy with how one appears, you discard it and hope to put together a more flattering image. This can take hours of a writer's life. On days where writing is the pond and not the river, I'll wish I was born a baker. This is not to say a baker's life is without its share of trials, but a writer lives in the brain more than the feet or the hands. Success for the writer ends with a period and never with a warm loaf of bread.

I dream of having my own little room for writing. It could be tinier than a toadstool as long as it was mine. I dream of trees, moss, yellow birds, open windows beside a wooden desk, a glass of apple juice for every finished sentence, and a record player quietly humming old country songs. If only there was a little room with this kind of stillness and hours ahead of me, words like cherry blossoms could fall and scatter until the pages were no longer empty.

 The snow has left the hills and goose beds. I drink my coffee in the morning while the sun drifts through my window. I think about the future view of blossomy flowers and fruit on the vine, a bite of garden carrots and a cucumber patch will come to me in time. It will be garden growing season again. I'll collect my freckles and every grassy hill will be a poet's desk.

 

 "Enjoy now, Amy. The snow will fall again." I repeat to myself.

The Outfit

Poncho – Thrifted from Value Village

  Dress – Eshakti

Heels – Blowfish Shoes

Instagram | Blog Lovin | Facebook