The Process

Like little bells, she comes ringing in and lights upon my shoulder. Her fey voice small, but playful, "I know a story we could write."

At times, I stop what I'm doing, reach for pen and paper, for notes app, for word processor, and listen carefully, adding details and plots and new ideas like conversation with an old friend. Other times, I put her off and by the time I'm ready to listen, she's flown onward to destinations unknown and I'm left wondering what I've missed.

On rare unscheduled evenings, I cry out darkling lines of poems, new myths and old myths retold, and alliterative lyrics, and assonant allegories, trying to seduce her to my side, to edit lines, tweak rhythms and spin the yarns with me. "I know a story we could write, darling. Come sit with me and I'll tell it to you."

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You'd think that beauty would inspire.

Wheat fields and Mid-West summer nights. The soft curve of a lover's pelvis. Sliced lemons. Quick easy breaths of a sleeping baby. The wisp of her breath and cigarette smoke trailing away on a cold October night.

You'd think that beauty would inspire.

And you'd be right

But it's the crusty and weary critters and characters that snare me, tangle me up, and demand I unwind the thread.

Listen here! An ugly turn of phrase, a joke with weak wordplay. Be clever, goddammit!

See there! A fat, mangy street dog on the cracked sidewalks of Oaxaca. Who is his best friend if he's is mine?

It's dumb TV show plots that should never have been written. Dumb fanatics, and people who stand for nothing-- they're not really living.

It's heartbreak and heartbreak and heartbreak.