As a writer, we all have a bit of camaraderie with the Matchbox 20 song, “Unwell.” Or perhaps, as a night owl known for guarding hours of productiveness by the mere avoidance of being awake to help anyone, the only well-worn weapon in my quiver, I’m simply projecting. But I’ve certainly run through the gamut of shower arguments, mirror interviews, and unwritten fanfic/choose your own ending for the characters in my movies and books. I’ve lived in the heads within my head, but I do my best to try to keep my character conversations to a minimum–simply because if I say something good, I want to get it down on paper, and I have the memory of a goldfish at feeding time.
But talking to yourself, as a writer, is essential. It involves quite a bit of boredom, and somehow undoing the damage of one of my new favorite things–short videos–and talking to yourself. It’s an awful, horrible prospect. Remember that time you were cringe in third grade? Huh? Do you? Yeah, you do. And sifting through that time you let the door go too soon while someone was walking through or that time you were flirting with someone only to realize that you had your shirt on backwards, it’s sometimes what you have to go through if you’re going to get to talk to a badass vampire assassin with shitty people skills. Kind of like your brain couldn’t decide between the carrot or the stick method, so it just did both.
So, on occasion, for clarity, I’m forced to tell the world around me to “shh!” and then do the best I can to stick to my guns and make it stay quiet.
I’m still learning how to make the world bend to my will and stay there with a good amount of duct tape, but I think the lesson I take away from it is clear.
Sometimes the world just needs to be quiet, so you can talk to yourself for a bit.
All the love,
I’ve hunted in kombucha bottles, probiotic pills, and high potency vitamins that are bound to do something–I mean, surely I’m missing something on the element table that my body desperately needs to run.
I exercised, I’ve cut out the “bad” things that might be in my diet, and to be honest, if it touted a bacteria that could play with my brain, I ate that yogurt with a side of cottage cheese. My latest attempt at health? Laying in sunlight.
Much like Michelle Schad seeking the voice, strength, and laxatives to get Transcendent out into the world, I’ve done my own searching–generally, splatted to the couch like a too-wet spitball, staring up at the ceiling.
Spoiler alert: I saw a cobweb. It wiggled in some unseen wind, but it gave up no answers, and no energy zapped into my body like a super power. I waited on that couch as long as I could, but no dice.
My spoons refused to come back to me–mental and physical. Man, do I need a dishwasher.
Maybe I need a spiritual awakening. Some guidance. A vacation to a far off place where I can steal spoons from the land, and take mental well-being with me like explorers once carted off gold, only with a less tragic outcome.
So, this is my question–where are my spoons? Will they ever come back to me?
All the love,
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