The Frustrated Writer

Meandering and browsing through the trivia and minutia of my life – I can’t forget to buy dog food, remember to email Pat today, oh gosh I gotta get my hair cut soon – can this really be writing?  Tell the truth, Kim, isn’t it just listing? When I teach Writing as a Spiritual Practice, I boldly tell my students that it’s okay to list, as long as they keep their hands moving across the paper, they are still writing. It’s all compost, I say, someday you will find a tulip or a turnip growing there, I promise. But some days I don’t believe my own crap, you know? My listing compost won’t grow anything, it has no rich meaty red worms squirming with hunger, or slimy banana peels thick with mold. There are no invisible bacterial creatures brutally colonizing the muck like Vikings landing on the unprotected shores of England. No no, my listing compost is made of flattened dust balls and year-old barbecue ashes that deaden anything they cover. This is when I suspect my Muse of hiding out in her bathroom, sitting on the toilet and idly thumbing through a magazine, thinking her own thoughts and crapping her own crap, and withholding both from me. While here I am knee deep in dust bunnies and breathing the stale and stagnant air. Sometimes writing ain’t no fun, you know?