On Writing: Words in a Drawer

Lately, I’ve not wanted to talk about writing or read my writing to other people or listen to other people read their writing or have anyone ask me how my writing is going.

I don’t want to talk about what I’m working on because I’m not sure I’m working on it. I might just be thinking about working on it, which, often, for me at least, represents a significant commitment. I can’t seem to hold an ambition for more than thirty minutes.

It often feels that talking about one’s writing seems precious, like telling the other moms at the playground that your child just lost his third tooth and then detailing what the tooth fairy left and how your child was disappointed and insisted on better remuneration. The conversation becomes intense and meaningful when it’s really just about a kid losing a tooth. It is important only to the moms at the playground but not to them either since all they care about is their own children losing teeth. If you get my drift.

I like the part about writing that is words on a page, the black letters on the white background, and the phrases arranged just so, like embroidery. Up north, a pillowcase that my mother embroidered a lifetime ago developed a rip through its threadbare self. I folded it so I couldn’t see the rip but only the embroidery, deciding to decide later what to do with all those perfect stitches.

That’s how I feel about writing right now. Folded in a small square, words arranged just so, laying on top of a stack of envelopes in my desk drawer.