Killing Time, Making Time, Wasting Time

I don’t know what it’s “about.” That’s what people want to know when you say you’ve written something, that’s the first question. Is it published, what’s it about?

I don’t make time for a pipeline, for blog posts. I spin a prism and hope to catch something. If I’m doubtful (like now) I start the night before. I’m picking around the corners for a secret trap door that opens somewhere else.

In an hour, we leave for the school musical. Between now and then, we need to eat and I need to suck down a beer. The other animals have been fed. I’m saving time now, for tomorrow, so I don’t have to worry about a cold engine when I sit down to write, before work.

It used to be life or death for me when I was younger, but then I got scared, gave up. It’s life or death again. It always is.

 

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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2 Responses to Killing Time, Making Time, Wasting Time

  1. Writing, to me, is like anything else, starting is the hardest part. Eventually some sense of direction or “about” reveals itself. They say showing up is half the battle, but I don’t find that to be true. Showing up IS the battle.

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