I haven’t written for a week till now. Nothing came to mind worth writing: no story to tell or coerce. I spent two days hiding out in a borrowed copy of the computer game, Dragon Age (not an entirely terrible place to hide). I mowed the lawn (usually, a satisfying task–we have terrain and, in the spring, daffodils that I carefully cut round but not down). At work I wrote confusing e-mail and gave directions I’d rather forget. I scowled–I have a magnificent scowl–if scowls were charming, my scowl would be Cary Grant or William Powell. It was a depressing week–except for the daffodils (and perhaps the animated slaying). I was edgy, hard on people, chalking it up to allergies and minor intestinal crud.
I woke around 4 this morning and thought, that’s it, I’m done before I’ve done it. Might as well die right now, posterity’s already putting double quotes around, “He mowed a nice lawn.” I don’t pray, but in my head I started reaching out for advice. And in the unreal clarity of pre-dawn, a pragmatic voice answered right back: You can write. It didn’t shrug and it didn’t rub my nose in anything. It just said, between the lines, You couldn’t for a bit, and now you can. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Just write. You want permission, call it permission. Just don’t call it late for dinner.
This isn’t about mojo* (which is more of a filterless cigarette or a chic manly body spray than a creative groove). It’s simpler, more like a light switch flicking on. Or a circuit breaker reset. Or a great ZOT! followed by bell chimes. Or a simple gift I’ll finish unwrapping later tonight.
* Also the simian nemesis of Bubbles, Blossom, and Buttercup, the Powerpuff Girls