I am taking a writing class and we had a conference call tonight that included time for a few writing prompts. The second writing prompt was 10 minutes long. It also happened to be bedtime for four kids, including one hungry baby. Not my best, most concise work, if anyone were ever going to describe my writing as concise, but I think it gets to the essence of me. I hope it does anyway.Here is my mostly unedited answer.
The prompt began, "I want to write about. . . "
I want to write about the lies we tell ourselves. The escape routes we plan to numb. to silence. to mute. to ignore. all the pain within and without. The stuff we got stuck on-this divorce in Hollywood, which car she owns, which preschool my 3-year-old got into. While Syria and Crimea and genocide and starvation and alcoholism and the depths of depression and abuse rage in my backyard and around the block and all over the world. I want to share the bounty of unfettered giggles of childhood with the distraught and downtrodden and rattle the cages of the people who can walk past a homeless person without even flinching. without feeling the degradation and hopelessness of that in their bones. In a way that connects. In a way that lends itself to hand-holding and conversations and mutual respect. I want to write to erase a little bit of the horrible in the world and add an extra dash of beauty. I want to acknowledge the messy. the danger. the fear. the ugly. the horrible. without falling prey to it. without being devoured by it. i want to move past it. no. move forward in spite of it. letting lives lived well, lives lived in love serve as a healing salve to those who hurt. I want to connect. I want my writing to be a bridge.