![]() You rip into tiny pieces the last thing you wrote. Your heart feels soft and mushy and you nearly pick up the phone to call him, you’re so enamored of those furry symbols of home-until you remember the old scathing arguments, books snapped shut in disgust, the bookcase empty when he packed and left. Conjure memories of late nights reading side-by-side in bed, comforted by the fur on his toes, his feet rocking back-and-forth like a metronome. He may/may not have the capacity to fully love you. You think of a man you loved who’s phoning again after years of silence. ![]() One day while brushing your teeth and staring at the bags under your eyes, it dawns on you: you’re writing about love. You decide to write of the familiar: how Great Grandma smoked cigars on the porch of the log home she’d built by herself how on the weekend when Mom got a kitten from Allen Ginsberg, Great Grandma made bear stew (the most savory meal Mom ever tasted) and how years after Mom died, you found her gnarled elbow of driftwood, nabbed the day she left Italy and said goodbye to the man she’d dated, a real, bonafide prince. Right then, you divorce your obsessions.Īt your desk, you yank out fresh paper. Seeing the branches stripped of fruit, you get goosebumps. You bolt awake! Stumble distressed into the morning, out into your yard, straight to the bushes. Whispers in your ear, “Utter ‘rainbow’ or ‘crystal’ again and I’ll come back to eat you.” But this bear, belly bursting, enters your dream. As symbols of wild power in pictures on your phone. While you dream, a black bear ambles onto your property, scarfs your bursting blueberry bushes. You whoop, pop a cork, slug fizzy drinks-until the exhaustion from birthing this work hits you like a prize fighter’s left hook. It’s a crystal representing a quantum equation. One night, popping twice the antacids your doctor recommended, you realize your piece isn’t about rainbow it’s about crystal. Fantasize about burning every damn page you wrote on rainbows. Worse, you note you’re slightly allergic to thinking of rainbows.ĭaily, you smear Calamine lotion over angry hives multiplying on your chest as you struggle to press on, rough it out, cough up even the bleakest jumbled words on rainbows. Keep on courting this rainbow obsession until one day, without warning, you find checking your dog’s poop for worms far more interesting than rainbows. You resort to eating boxes of cereal in mixing bowls. You long for a rainbow connection are depressed that none materialize. Between stints, you doodle rainbows on checks, bills, and grocery lists like NASA shooting recordings into outer space seeking alien connection. ![]() Soon you’re making non sequitur rainbow references and irritating loved ones by spying rainbows where there are none ( Grandma was especially cruel barking, “Enough, Dumbass! It’s impossible to see a rainbow in a drought!”).įeeling misunderstood, you hole up in your home and fall into your writing. You’re tickled noting rainbow synchronicities (“Oh wow! A car drove by with a rainbow sticker just as you said, ‘Fluffy crossed over the rainbow bridge!’”). Near the end of the first draft, you realize you’re writing about rainbow.Įxcited about this rainbow discovery, you begin anew, throwing yourself into the passion of writing about rainbow, the thrill of researching rainbow, of waking invigorated by rainbow dreams. ![]() You decide to write about a topic let’s call it orange. ![]()
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