Me, You and random light bulbs
Blowing one’s nose becomes unbelievably painful when one’s nose is pierced, which ultimately makes having a cold even more irritating. One goes around with this feeling of unfulfilledness- of having a stuffy nose which cannot be un-stuffied- of having a mission that cannot be accomplished. It’s an itch that can’t be scratched and it drives you up the wall. I know the brilliant conclusion that the men who read my blog will come up with (“why don’t you just take the nose pin off?” Yeah, aren’t you little Einstein’s) and the answer is even more brilliant- because taking a nose pin out is INFINITELY more painful than going around with a stuffy nose. Plus my nose will feel naked without it.
I haven’t written a story for a very long time. Maybe because I lack inspiration, or lack the ability to empathize with a make-believe situation, or maybe it’s simply because writing a story should have me coming up with lots of different character types, whereas the best I can do is create dozens of verbal clones of myself running around, making each other miserable. And I can never come up with a conclusion. Why should there be a conclusion? Or a climax? Since when did anything in my life have anything remotely resembling a “here you go, this is the end of this little adventure” wala moment? One whacked out experience is linked to another mini-crisis which leads to another full blown disaster and the merry-go-round goes round and round til everyone’s dizzy and the children are puking.
But somewhere in me is a story. I know there’s someone in the back of my mind who is just aching to be fleshed out with words, a person as real to me as Mitya Karamazov was to Dostoevsky. It’s not fair that a person who writes tolerably well (this is me trying very hard to be modest) should be this un-inspired. I don’t want to be one of those sad chick-lit writers whose first novel is an autobiographical rant against her parents (that’s what my blog is for). And I don’t want to die at 80 wishing I had actually written my book.
So here I am, inspiration. Waiting. Waiting with my ermine-lined catcher’s mitt for you to throw me a random light bulb.