Ignoring

Still can't write. Sentences still come out sounding broken. They clunk-clunk-clunk across the page, all those serifs dragging their feet and refusing to come together, to make something pretty and smart and true.

When I can't write, I'm no fun to be around. I sulk and skulk. I sigh. I lie on the couch and watch marathons of America's Next Top Model. I watch shows titled The World's Best Beaches or The World's Best Hotels or The World's Best Vacation Spots. I watch a lot of M*A*S*H. I cry.

I waste a lot of time. I putter. I eat. I eat until I'm past full, until I'm sick, until I'm stuffed and groaning. I tap my fingers and toes. I get up, sit down, get up, sit down. I watch the clock and count the wasted minutes.

I bake cookies. I bake bread. I make a pork roast. I get down cookbooks and read them until I am starving. I map an entire week's worth of recipes. I wonder who will eat all the food I turn out.

I play with Abbey. I crawl on my hands and knees, toss mice. I toss ribbons and Q-Tips. I toss shredded paper, let it fall on our heads. I play hide-and-go-seek. I peek my head around the corner. I let her peek hers around another. I wait. I wait until she gives, until she comes tearing around the corner to hit my shoulder, tell me you're it! I do it again.

I look at myself in the mirror. I picture myself with black hair. With short hair. I purse my lips and wonder what people who aren't writers think about in all their empty minutes. I wonder if they feel like someone has one hand around their throats too.