I’ve been drinking coffee and writing like crazy but I’ve reached that intersection between an empty mug, passing time, and a sore rear end when I will stop. I like, though, to reflect upon where I’m at in my writing and where I’m going. Into that reflection creep other thoughts and memories.
I walked here through cold and warm breezes along drying streets and paths. Vague white splattered gray clouds hid the snowy mountain ridges but then cleared away from the highest peak to display a sun spangled white field. Snow, my spirit rejoiced, a salve for drought and water shortage anxieties, but it’s too little. That’s the first thought. A dam I didn’t suspect was there breaks. Other thoughts tumble out.
I don’t want to go.
I should go.
It’ll be boring.
It’ll be different. It’ll open windows.
Not windows. Portholes.
Portholes is accepted. We will use portholes.
It’ll open portholes.
It’s all about a baby shower. Never been to one. Don’t want to go to this one. I’m prejudiced against them and against most social gatherings. I prefer solitude. Even with my beer group, I ratchet myself up to attend each week even though I enjoy beer and the time I spend with these people, my friends. Even when I go to writing conferences, I walk and sit alone, smiling, engaging in pleasantries, but remaining aloof. I search for the broken wire in me that causes my attitude and behavior.
My poor, poor wife. She knows I enjoy solitude. I won’t say she hates it but my anti-social nature perplexes her. I will attend the baby shower, for her and me. She thinks this is about logic but it’s about that unfound broken wire. I claim it’s because I’ll be bored but that’s an excuse to cover the broken wire.
She hangs onto logic. “Bob will be there. There will be food and drink there.” Oh, wow, food and drink? Why, I can’t get that anywhere at all, now we must go, my snark answers although my lips don’t move. “Hmmm, mmm,” I say. It’s a safely non-committal answer if you’re uninitiated with human ways, but my wife knows my mannerisms. She knows I’m riding a wave of ambivalence about going.
Now here is the thing. I know that I will go but I don’t want to speak the words. Does a different broken wire cause that or is it the same wire? I see the gulf, Grand Canyon wide in breadth, between my intelligence and emotions. How do others cross those gulfs? I think, what would I be minus my wife to pull me from my gulfs? Who would save me then? I glimpse a reclusive life and make dismaying reflexive vows, dismaying and reflexive because I’ve vowed before to be more social, friendlier, more outgoing. Those vows changed nothing. I need to hunt down that broken wire or that gulf will grow and grow.
I’m done writing like crazy for the moment although I dream of sitting down and writing more later. I’m feverish with urgency to write and edit this novel, to keep going with tired eyes and weary fingers.
Maybe, if I write enough, I’ll find the broken wire.