I could write about my pecan thing. I keep them in a jar in the freezer. I lay them out, oh, maybe five or six pecans at a time, in the palm of my hand, three or four times a day. This has been going on for awhile.
Then there's Alyssa, the third grader. The girl with her hair pulled up in blue butterfly clips except for one yellow strand that hangs over her eye. We were all writing, the whole class, something about what we'd learned. Brian, the boy with round glasses read and then Alyssa stood up and read, "I learned I was afraid of things."
I think that's one of the bravest sentences I've ever heard.
I am afraid of things. I'm sure I could write one of those little books, 1001 Things to Be Afraid Of. It would help people focus on a whole slew of things to worry and be fearful of...sitting in a plane on the tarmac for six hours, being stuck in an elevator, Lou Gehrig's disease. How about having your body completely covered in bumps, not one smooth place for your lover to lay a hand. Losing the house. Losing your mind. Dying. The marriage going sour. Getting lost and never being found....the wheels of the car falling of...See? It's easy once you get started.
And then there's this; that none of this writing makes a damn bit of difference. That much of it will never see the light of day. That the idea of getting published is so far-fetched I should get rid of my computer, all notebooks and pens, and stop. Stop the ranting and all the dark, shadowy stuff too. Who wants to hear it anyway?
But I can't/stop. I gotta write. I gotta write until I come clean. I need to keep writing until I get washed clean, yea, washed clean like muddy feet under the hose on a summer day. Yea, like that.