Wednesday, February 04, 2009

No. 3

RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

I want to write but sometimes I really fucking hate to.

This is one of those times.
The initial idea for this post was my desire to remain childless.
But I just cannot write it out.
I imagine how different writers might approach this.

Some would begin with an anecdote. An American writer, of a certain vintage, would describe the old lady who lived next to their childhood home. In one version she wouldn't have had children but took care of the author as a sprog like a mother. Another version would have had the woman next door overflowing with children, producing an endless line of kids.
The author would cleverly describe her with hazy nostalgia as a mother sow with eight breasts.

An Irish writer may open with his childhood in a bog or a rain sodded city. He would punctuate each sentence with the memory of his drunken father's fists. His mother would never let him see her cry, such a proud woman, and he would conclude the anecdote with the image of him running away from home after her funeral. The destination was England and he swore on the boat to never punish his son with his fathers fury.

But I am young. I have no stories.

More pragmatic writers may begin with clearly drawn details of egg fertilisation as if copied from a textbook. They may let the story become somewhat gory and include a portion on child birth. The entire piece would favour facts and statistics.
“There are twice as many humans alive now than when JFK was inaugurated.”

Another more modern writer would imagine a tale of two lost children, unknown to one another, separated by some great geographical distance, leading lives that mirror one another. They meet with fame and brush with death. Neither fulfils their heart's desire but they sully it with rejection.
They drown together as their makeshift rafts collide with one another mid-Pacific during a storm whose description could have been lifted directly out of the back of the bible.

I hate all of the above and remain, for tonight at least, unable to find honest expression. It defies me and, from it's burrow, watches me cry.

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