Can't Write This

I’m lost in the woods. Don’t know which way is out

Feb 18, 2025

Velocity of a runaway train is how I hit the brick wall. Dawned on me like fog moving in, slow and then all at once. 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. Car pulled up and mama already crying because she knew. Knew she come to take Shawnie away.

Little foster boy stayed long enough we all thought he was our brother for real, but no. Took his mother five years to want her boy and by then he thought my mama was his mama too. Called her mommy. Remember the way he cried when that lady pulled him right out mama’s arms, said I’m sorry, I’m sorry while he kicked and screamed.

She took him. Put him in the car, me standing on the step crying and he’s in the car crying mommy, mommy, can’t get that picture out my head, chubby baby hands splayed open, little face pressed against the glass as they drove away.

That I can write. Flows like lava or maybe cream from a cracked pitcher or blood seeping, seeping from a gaping wound. But fiction? That’s a different beast. Seems to me it should be easier. Less bleeding you’d think, but turns out, no.

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, march to the library two blocks from mama’s old house, stand on tippy toes, ask the nice librarian how to borrow books cause I read all the ones in mama’s bookshelf at home. Been reading since. Crawling books like bees in a honeycomb, gorging on sweet nectar. Words filling my belly. Feeding my hungry beast.

Been writing just about as long. Write the monsters been chasing me through time. Left a trail of breadcrumbs in case anyone wants come looking to find me.

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

Never much cared, either.

Never had a lick of desire to write fiction until they showed up in my head. The two of them. Minding my own business, pouring coffee one morning and there they were. In my head. I see the look on her face when she got the idea, crawls my skin.

I knew what she was planning. That’s what got me. Even worse, she thought it was a good idea. You’d think people ought know when they’re being crazy. Tempting fate that way. Not that one. Skewed logic and a stubborn streak a mile wide.

Bradbury said when characters show up, not much you can do but give chase. Run. As fast as you can. Follow them. Except I don’t have to chase them. They’re chasing me. Won’t let me alone. Won’t leave me in peace. Driving me half crazy. Like my own memories ain’t enough, I got those two to contend with now, too.

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

Ask them nicely, please go away. Let me alone. Go find some other writer to bother, I ain’t no fiction writer, can’t tell your story for you. But they pay mind like small children or maybe cats. You want something to listen, get a dog.

I tried bargaining. Tell them look, you want me to write your story you’re going to have to help me out a little here. 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.

So now 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, help me find my way out the woods. Get me out of here, get them out my head cause I can’t take these two, not another day. Don’t need the heartbreak. Don’t want to be a struggling author. No interest.

You know what it does, is puts me off writing.

Don’t want to play no more. Take my bat and ball and go home.

Put down the pen. Got enough monsters in my head. Don’t need two more.

Don’t need to add her nonsense to it. And him? Cute as a button. Want to scoop him up and kiss his fat 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.

Hey, I’m Linda. I write on Tuesdays and Fridays. Sometimes I open a vein, and I also share tips and tutorials for Substack and other writing platforms to help you build an audience and chase your own writing dreams. Come meet me, here.