Autobiography of the writer as a writer

1st Person
I used to be able to sit down and write for hours. I wonder what happened over the past years that has removed my ability to write so passionately. Or maybe it is not a loss of ability at all, perhaps it is purely opportunity. There is also the matter of having a subject. But that can't be it either, I have plenty of things occurring around me everyday. I know, it is the lack of teenage hormones coursing through my body. Before, every little event was life-changing. I could cry at the drop of a hat (and did), and love was a new astonishing concept that enveloped my every thought. Now, I have to wait a few years in between life-changing events, it takes a lot to get me to cry, and love is a constant. Although this love is ever-changing, I am not slipping in and out of it like when I was young. I'm in it for life. So there it is, I have uncovered the mystery. A little bit of my surroundings, a smidge of priority, and a TON of hormones.

2nd Person
Where has your passion gone? You used to sit and write three pages about what you had for lunch. Writing came naturally and you used it as an expression for every emotion. Now look at you. You can't even write a paragraph about anything unless it's prompted. What has happened to you over the years that has you stripped of creativity? Your life is beautiful and fulfilling, can't you write about that? Do you even have the time to sit down for five minutes? You are the same person, just missing a piece. It must be your age. Yes, you have matured your way out of leisure writing.

3rd Person

She seemed like a typical high school girl. Part of the social scene, dating, good grades. However, she possessed a skill like no other girl her age. She could write. She could write about anything, love, hate, her fantasies, or even just about walking her dog. And it was all beautiful. Her talent came from deep within herself. A sort of chemical balance that made all of her colors more vivid than ever before. But over the years, she lost that harmony and grew older, more mature. She became a wife and a mother. She had a wonderful life, but lost the ability to translate thoughts into words as she once could. The frenzy of emotions had passed and she was left without her talent. Though she missed it, she was not saddened by this fact. She embraced her new self and simply imagined what it would be like to have that mindset once again.

Journal 7

Fatigue has overtaken me and I have never anticipated nap time as much as I do right now. Last night was a battle between a three month old infant and myself. The infant won. I would be on the verge of sleep, caught between reality and the dream world, when BAM a prosecuting cry of hunger chose reality for me. A puppet version of myself would first tend to the needs of my pint-sized puppeteer, then attempt to sleep once more. Then the list from yesterday makes it's appearance. You know, the Everest-sized one. And suddenly the dishes are holding the strings.

Journal 6

Sitting at the table, surveying the disaster zone that once was my home, completely sucks the ambition out of me. That is why vacation is so fantastic, you don't have to trouble yourself with minute everyday tasks. Then you arrive at home and a week's worth of burden is staring you in the face. Separately, these chores would seem much more insignificant. Unfortunately, I cannot get the big picture out of my head. Everything piles on and soon I have a list the size of Everest. It looks like 'make coffee' is the next thing to add.

Journal 5

I watch my sister pull out of the driveway and speed off. She still drives too fast. I thought as you age and mature, so does your driving. Maybe it's due to her new Mini and the ridiculously fast speed limits on the Audubon. She says she 'still drives fast, but not as stupid' I think the two are the same. Maybe it is only me that has changed. I sometimes find myself (with my 'baby on board' sticker) going the speed limit on the interstate and thinking, past Felicia would be passing me and shouting obscenities right now.
She stayed for almost three weeks this visit, which is an improvement, but the visits are getting few and far in between. It had been a whole year since I saw her last. Too long. When she lived in the states, I saw her everyday. She was my best friend. It hurts to write the word 'was' and know it is not an error.

Journal 4

Of all places to read about a friend passing away, I find out on Facebook. My mind instantly converts to age 17. During that year I lost three of my close friends. I am assaulted by my own grief and feel as if again, I am that other person I once became. A Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde effect. It took an eternity to overcome the pain caused by their deaths and here it is again, punching me in the face. My body shuts down as I imagine the scene over and again. Interchanging flashes of car crashes, funerals and obituaries speed through my mind, which has now eclipsed all other functions, including the ability to hold back tears. My husband enters the room and speaks but I can't understand a word he is saying. I can't even look away from the computer screen. I frantically search for words to describe what has happened, but am at a loss. I silently scroll up on the screen to a headline, 'Orland Man Killed...' I can't make it passed these three words. Man? I can't imagine him as a man. Isn't he still that kid that was a grade below me? I file through my images of him and realize the last time I saw him was over two years ago. Now that I really wrap my head around it, I suppose he was a man, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. I tear my eyes away from the screen for a split second and see the look on my husbands face. He is really concerned now, but I still can't force anything out of my mouth. I point to the headline, he takes a moment to read it, then starts with the questions. I am almost offended. Doesn't he know that I am paralyzed with heartache? Can't he understand that I am not myself and the person I have become does not have time for his petty questions? I have become bigger than anything he could possibly bring to the table right now. So he sits down next to me, but I still can't even look at him. Then he hugs me. At first I am adverse to this gesture of comfort, but soon I accept it and melt into his arms. His embrace is like the antidote. It jump starts my body and I am no longer impaired. It baffles me that a mere touch can be as life-changing. It's as though he has lifted this monumental weight off of my chest and I can breathe again. My thoughts are still of this tragedy, but I can now make sense of it. I am back in reality and begin to answer his questions.

Journal

Standing at the counter to make my purchase, I can't help but wonder about the qualifications to work in a place like this. With each word from the employee's mouth, I find myself closer and closer to climbing over the counter and finishing the transaction myself. He keeps derailing mid-sentence and staring off into the distance as if there is a mythical creature taunting him to make the next move. Every sentence. It reminds me of the movie 'Up' when the dog suddenly shouts 'squirrel', then goes back to business as usual. If I wasn't in such a hurry it might be quite amusing. But today it's just annoying.

Week 1 Prompts

1) Alone in a quiet room. Listen. What do you hear?

The silence striking. I imagined when it came I would be surrounded by serenity. This is not the case. I wonder where the tapping of a toddler's feet went. The idea of an infant's cry is no longer distressing, but would be welcomed and calming. Instead of these familiar sounds, I hear the annoying hiss of the bath water. The light in this bathroom comes with a torturing fan that I would love to rip out of the ceiling. Every slight movement sloshes the water around as if I am some kind of sea monster. Not flattering.

2) Alone in a quiet room. How did you get here?

What circumstances have left me without my children? No matter how much I try and clear my mind of them to relax, I fail. Asking myself questions over and over to try and make sense of this is maddening. Where are they? Are they safe? Happy? I suppose this hypothetical bath I am taking in solidarity is no cause for alarm, but I am concerned even in my imagination.

3) Alone in a quiet room. But what's really happening.

In reality I have attempted a tranquil bath to compose myself. The truth is, it is not quiet. I may have been the only one in the bathroom, but I was not alone. I heard the murmur of the perpetual cartoons playing on the television. Occasionally a tiny knock on the door followed by a 'momma?' Yes, Grady, I am still in here. The baby is quiet so I assume he is sleeping. However, I am on edge and ready to pounce. I am just waiting to hear the tiniest peep so I can jump up and rescue him from whatever feeble annoyance overcomes him. I am realizing that tranquility can not be planned.