When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
This post is about brick walls. Hitting them. Projects dying on the operating table. On the vine. That fail to thrive. Sixty pages falling off a cliff. A boulder rolled in front of a door. This is about a minute, an hour, a day, a lifetime. This is cuticle time, eyelashes and wine. This is the knowledge that when one door closes, it’s closed. How do you solve a problem like Maria? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down? Practice your chord changes. Write a poem. Study a new language. Do not let the engine rust. Do not overtax the metaphor. Do not give up the ship unless the mother’s life is at risk.
What’s more painful? Writing or not writing?
Filed under: Uncategorized |
Betsy Lerner 
“What’s more painful? Writing or not writing?”
Not writing.
Not writing and accepting the diagnosis. My documents file is full of misdirected hope.
It’s not that black & white for me. I won’t quit but I will take breaks to get my bearings. Sometimes I just need to breathe for a while, have some mindless fun and let the writerly dust settle.
Not writing. That baby that got tossed with the wash water wants to be reborn.
Not writing.
(Or does it just explode?)
There was a time when there was no writing. Years of other stuff, like working, reading, and only thinking about it. Who knows what stoked the fire, but now it’s lit, it’s like someone opened a door, and I’m in full backdraft mode. I’ve also become paranoid of hoses.
Both.
Fuck. Easy. Not Writing. Thanks.
Not writing.