Because Nothing Else Really Felt Write, I Mean, Right

            Several years ago, when I thought I was a good writer, I would stay up late at night, sometimes until sunrise, scribbling until something came.  I would even rewrite drafts of old, horrific poetry that I had hatched over the past years.  It was an exercise that always seemed to jar my brain.

Right before I went away to school, I thought I’d make a handwritten copy of everything I’d ever written.  I slaved for hours, usually after a long day of work at Camelot Music, or traversing Illinois and Missouri in my trusty ’82 Buick Skyhawk Fred.  Sometimes I’d take in a Cards game or meander through Forrest Park across the Mississippi.  But at the end of the day I’d hole up in my room, turn on some tunes—soft enough not to wake up Mom and Dad—and write and rewrite and write and rewrite some more.  My ragged schedule forced me to fall asleep writing.  More than a few times I fell asleep on my arm, and I’d wake up with no feeling from the shoulder down.

Those last few days as I said farewells and gathered supplies for my life as a college bachelor, I operated in pain.  No one else knew.  Not my parents, my friends, nobody.  After I headed out west I acquainted myself with muscle relaxant creams (non-prescription) to get some feeling back into it.  And after a couple of weeks, it was good as new.

Oh, I still wake up a little stiff and sore most mornings, and more often than not, my struggles to decide what to write (like tonight as I attempt to spill my brains onto paper) overwhelm the few creative juices that flow in my veins.  However, now I know when to shut down the computer (mostly) and when to push forward, forcing myself to produce words on the page.  Sometimes I just need a reminder when to shut up.