Usually, I don’t do collaborations but when someone can get another thread pulled from what I’ve started I like that sort of thing. The Muse has been throwing gas on the fire also, so there’s three minds stoking a flame already hot. All I really need is the time that I have, the time I can squeeze out of a day, and what I really do not need is someone, anyone, devouring pieces of that time for no good reason at all. If there’s a reason, fine, but if there is no reason then why?
As an aside, before we get started here, let me say one thing to a certain subspecies of male humans; the hand holders. When I shake hands with a guy there’s maybe two or three seconds of contact, at most, and then I want my hand back. If I start pulling my hand away and you keep holding on, for whatever reasons you do this I cannot imagine, it’s creepy. Used car salesmen and preachers, which are basically the same animal, are the only two critters I know who do this and it’s very more creepy then.
Back to getting my time back now that we’ve discussed as much as we should have, more in fact, about getting my hand back. So I have sixty minutes for lunch. That’s a thousand words, edited, and even if it’s not exactly what I want it will be gracing the edge of what I need. What I don’t need is to have someone who has a problem stopping talking sitting in my office having a problem stopping talking. I’m not sure how it happens that someone can miss me getting up, moving to the other side of the office, going outside to look in my truck ( just to get a break in the conversation) and a couple of bathroom breaks trying to get him to move on.
This is what I want to say, really, and I’m not sure how it’s going to be received; I want to write. No, in point of fact, I need to write. There’s an itch that only writing can scratch. There’s a compulsion that only writing quells. There’s a desire stronger than the urge to feed, in fact, I won’t eat lunch because there’s something I want to get down in text before something terrible happens. Even if I don’t write about what I want to write about the fact that I am writing keeps it alive. It’s like pumping oxygen into a building with a lot of rooms in it; no matter which room I want it to go into, it’s going to go into all of them, so a lot of ideas stay alive, as long as I’m writing. If I do not write all of the rooms go dark and all the ideas die.
Every time someone speaks without reason, somewhere, a sentence dies.
If you want to know what this is like try this; put on some really nice music and then turn on the television to a Three Stooges marathon. That’s what not writing is like when I want to write. It has nothing to do with liking someone or not liking someone, or not liking people in general. Try walking around for most of the day holding your left eye shut; what do you mean you want to open your eye? You have the other one that works just fine, don’t you?
My vision is affected by not writing.
So lunch hour begins and I begin to write and everything you have read up to the beginning of this sentence was flowing out of my head, for nine minutes, then someone comes in, sits down in a chair with rollers on it, and wheels over to me and says, “What are you doing?” And suddenly I realize why it is I have never had children because this is something only a child would do, really. Or a dog that hasn’t been properly trained. Or perhaps, someone who has never written anything in a lifetime that would fill a page.
Don’t get me wrong here; some of the best writers I have ever known are child owners and as such, it’s even more wonderful that they’ve ever been able to write because as everyone knows, a child is a small animal in which your time is poured into until it has grandchildren, and so it goes. But I decided at about age ten never to have kids and it would seem to me that at my age that I shouldn’t have to put up with any at all, much less any of them that are over the legal drinking age.
Also, I don’t want to come across as someone who thinks writing is something magical and wonderful and more important than anything else anyone else does, but that I can’t help at all. I haven’t always kept what I’ve written, and I don’t think everything I write is worth keeping, and certainly I haven’t shared everything I’ve ever written, but everything I have written has been something akin to a sunset; it never existed before and it will never exist again. There is magic in that. There is something delightful and special about this act of creation. Even those files destined for deletion have taught me something about what I am trying to do or trying not to do.
I do not ask very much of the Universe. I wish only to have my dogs back from Death, so that I might be less sad, and I would like to have enough money to save even more dogs, and I would like to have my time to write. But perhaps I misunderstand how much I had before the dogs died, and perhaps I do not realize how much it is to have the time I do have to write, truncated as it might seem to me.
Yet in dogs, and in writing, and especially in Love, I would risk seeming to be ungrateful, for asking for more.