Can’t Write This

Some stories just can’t be told

It dawned on me slowly and then all at once. Velocity of a runaway train is how I hit the brick wall. I can’t write fiction to save my life. Don’t know how. I can write a wicked essay. Make you laugh. Make you cry.

Tell you about the time the lady in the flowered dress came back, mama shaking as her car pulled up because she come to take Shawnie away.

Little foster boy stayed long enough we thought he was our brother for real and true. Took his mother five years to want her boy. By then he thought my mama was his too. Called her mommy. Cried when the lady took him.

Car pulling away, face in the window, mouth open, tears running down his little cheeks. Reaching out, calling Mommy. Can’t forget that little face, small hand on the window. How mama fell on the floor sobbing.

That I can write. Flows like lava. Cream from a cracked pitcher. Blood from a gaping wound maybe. But fiction, that’s a different beast. Seems to me it should be easier. Less blood. Turns out no, it’s not that simple.

Like Vonnegut said. So it goes.

Here’s the thing eats me. How do you live inside books for half a century and not know how to cobble a story together?

Five years old maybe six, marched myself to the library two blocks from mama’s old house, stood on tippy toes asking the nice library lady how to borrow books cause I read the ones we got at home. Been reading since.

Crawling in and out of books like bees in a honeycomb, gorging themselves on sweet nectar. Words filled up my belly. Fed my hungry beast.

Mark Twain said the difference between the right word and almost right word is like lighting and a lightning bug so I swallowed lightning until I glowed like Frankenstein waking his monster. Used it to purge ghosts. Write the monsters been chasing me through time.

Left a trail of breadcrumbs. Just in case anyone wants come looking.

But fiction? Don’t even know how or where to start.

Never much cared, either.

Truth is, I never had any desire to write fiction until they showed up in my head. The two of them. Pouring coffee early one morning and there they were. In my head. I see the look on her face. Crawls my skin.

I knew what she was going to do. That’s the thing got me. Worse, she thought it was a good idea. You’d think people ought to know when they’re being crazy town. Tempting fate that way. Nope. Not that one. Skewed logic, that’s what she’s got. That and a stubborn streak five miles wide.

Here’s what Bradbury said. When the characters show up, not much you can do but give chase. Run as fast as you can. Follow them. Get it all down. Crazy thing is, I don’t have to chase them. They won’t let me alone.

Driving me half crazy. Won’t leave me in peace. Like my own memories ain’t enough already, got those two to contend with now too.

So now they live in my head. Silent companions to my every day. Washing dishes yelling at him don’t go. He goes. Watching her realize what she’s done. Thinking I told you. I told you. Don’t know what to do with them.

Ask them nicely to please go away. Let me alone. But they pay mind like small children or maybe cats. You want something to listen, get a dog.

Fool that I am, I tried bargaining. Look. I will write this if you help me out a little. First person or third? Second person is stupid. Past tense or present? Tell me what you need from me. They don’t need nothing from me.

Might as well ask why a raven is like a writing desk. Sit down have a tea party with mad people. Can’t help going among mad people, we’re all mad here. Crazy. Bats. But I’ll tell you what. All the best people are. Except me.

I’m lost in the woods. Don’t know which way is out. Please, someone write me a big bad wolf or a witch or something show me the way out of here.

Get me out of here, get them out my head cause I can’t take these two no more, not another day. Stupid story stuck in my head can’t get it out. Don’t need the heartbreak. Don’t want to be a struggling author. No interest.

You know what it does. Puts me off writing. Don’t want to play no more. Take my bat and ball and go home. Put down the pen. Burn all the notebooks. Got enough crazy in my head. Enough monsters.

Don’t need to add her to it. And him? Cute as a button. Want to scoop him up and kiss his little cheeks. He’s five. Name’s Chris. I’m sorry what’s going to happen to you, baby. But kid? It’s okay. She’ll fix what she done.

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