Did you know that there are volumes of writing inside of me? Pages and pages upon shelves within rooms within echoing libraries? I can feel them stack up, one disheveled row on top of the last. I feel the weight of them hold my feet to some nebulous title I sometimes refer to as “writer.” But I am not a writer because I do not write. It is sad to think of the stories that well up and die within me before they can ever reach the page. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why I do not write more. Probably more time than I’ve spent actually writing. Because it fucking hurts, I hear myself answer. Like digging a finger hard along my spine, exposing everything delicate and concealed. Because I’m never quite sure how to sew myself up afterwards and I’m tired of spilling all over the floor.
I called Estelle this morning, the first time since March. I love to imagine her in her Rossmoor apartment, spending slow days amongst the 90 some years of art she has both made and collected. She’s been writing every morning, after she checks her email and plays a few games of Freecell. Her self-published poetry is on the bookshelf next to Ron’s novel. I feel a strange shock of guilt each time I see them, as if their mere existence mocks my own lack of writing.
I tell her about my resignation, my percolating thoughts on what might be next in my career, what I might do in the mean time.
“I do hope you’ll write,” she says.
“Me too.” And I mean it. I really really do.