But my fingers freeze halfway through a word–livi–and I stop.
Delete.
It used to fizzle out in raindrop and waterfalls. Poetic and poignant, waves and waves of organic storytelling devoid of any self-doubt. But now I’m wondering if any of these film strips in my head will ever be loved by anyone other than their creator.
Highlighting those four words, I hover over the backspace.
Will this be that one thing that finally scoops up a good, solid audience? Will these words save its life? Stop it from being murdered, slaughtered, skinned alive by apathy?
The hard part about living.
Is.
The hard part about writing is acknowledgment.
The hard part.
I said to my mom, “It’s my favorite, it’s my best. The emotion is raw and I love it to death, but it’s dying.”
She said, “Mmhm.”
Is.
“No one cares about it.”
She said, “Do you want the garlic or regular tomato sauce?”
From the back of my head, a throbbing forms, thundering closer and closer to my eyes. The black clock in the corner stares me down; there’s no deadline, but it feels like I’m running out of time. To capture. To attain recognition that the combination of my words are acceptable. No. Beautiful. That each and every goddamn, wholehearted page and every character and every piece of dialogue that echoes from my hands to their mouths and into their fictional lives is stunning and fascinating. That it is loveable.
Because they say you put yourself into your writing. And I’m scared of letting it die.
