Projects in mind, but adherence to deadlines not your forte, you wonder, should I, dare I, join a writer’s group, where they, too, can scorn me for my generally procrastinative ways?
Rough drafts scattered to and fro, but you know what this leads to, if you really know me. I’m going to start a fire, most likely. I’m going to sift through all the gems, place them gingerly, like great-grandmother Correa’s doilies, on a special shelf full of special books by John Steinbeck and Robert Walton, Cushing & Coffman, Robbins & Miller. Then, I toss the heap of discarded words into a fire pit and do a little phoenix dance.
Docs in the cloud, mostly incident reports, some more recent than others. You want to writhe them into humorous fiction, then wonder if nonfiction horror has a place in comedy.
First, you imitated Richard Pryor. Thankfully, there were no video recorders in your grandparents’ house in 1980, or little Amber (with little language of her own) would have sounded very racist! How was it he got so many laughs with that word, but you nearly got a spanking? Connotation eluded you, back then.
Dare I eat a peach? You may as well ask yourself every time hesitation kills the muse. Morrison wrote with two boys underfoot. Why can’t you write with dirty dishes in the sink? Dirty dishes don’t cry!
In the midst of chaos, a poor man’s Weinstein preached discipline and trust in your ear. Reverberations of You’re no feminist! scream at you from old journal pages. Now, you’re wise enough to include incident reports.
The contradiction, today’s narcissist seeks authority to berate, questions years of experience & insight, foists deference from his vocabulary with practiced artifice. Wails, How dare you eat that peach, Dad!
“Everything that happens, when it has significance, is in the nature of a contradiction.” –Henry Miller