A Few Lines Back

Gave up on the laptop. Eyes angry from staring at the screen.

Writing in my notebook now. Trying to be productive.

Fooling myself.

Mostly.

Fits of creative inspiration fueled by bourbon and self-loathing. Fits of creative paralysis fueled… the same way.

But I scribble on. What if that next idea, that next sentence, turns out to be great?

I wrote a good line there, didn’t I? A few lines back?

Who knows where the ideas come from?

Thoughts that torment me. Never leave entirely. Come back with reinforcements.

Are there dark thoughts?

Define “dark.”

Have I held a .45 in my hand? Thought about that one flick of the trigger that would bring it all to a sudden stop? The power that gun in my hand gives me? The power I don’t otherwise have?

Nah. (chuckle) Never thought about it.

There’s always that chance, right? That line.

That was a pretty good line there, right? A few lines back?

Need a good game on television. Or some other distraction. A visit to the local pub. Cradling my notebook.

That woman at the bar looks lonely. Bored. We chat.

Not fooling myself.

She doesn’t like me.

I’m a recipe missing a few ingredients. Palatable but not desirable. Mildly entertaining but not marriage material.

Oh god, I wrote the "M" word.

It’s okay if you go. You’d be better off without me. I understand.

I’d be better off without me. How can I complain?

The mind of a writer, like a tilt-a-whirl at a shopping mall carnival. Emotional landmines with every revolution.

Oh, this is fun.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, this is fun.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, this is fun...

What can they do to me when it's over? I mean... when it's all over. What can anybody do?

Pry those dreams from my cold, dead hands.

"Let go," they’ll say. "Let go."

But I’ve seen it. When I'm sleeping. Thick blades of grass smothering my disregarded headstone. Do you really think the grandkids will visit? Or their kids?

Not fooling myself.

Not fooling anyone.

Making the case for irresponsible behavior. None of it matters. That’s what I’m saying. None of it matters. Nothing but now. And what I can get down on paper.

I scribble on. What if that next idea, that next sentence, turns out to be great?

That was a pretty good line there, right? A few lines back?

Having a hard time seeing. Having a hard time.

Maybe it’s not from staring at the screen. Maybe my eyes are just angry.