“Well, I don’t know where to begin. A lot has happened to me.”
She was standing at the sink. She had stopped her washing and was staring into the bubbles. She left her hands in the water. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to raise them. Maybe she just liked the feel of the hot water on her skin.
She nodded over her left shoulder, throwing a fatigued glance towards the man sitting at the table behind her and to her left. Her audience.
“What do you feel when you get a good idea?” She drew her eyes back in front of her and studied her hands.
“Like really good.”
So good that you have to satisfy the urge to write. So good that you are ready to sprint forward after it like a destination you search for that appears suddenly over the horizon. Like there’s a basin in your mind and it will overflow with a precious liquid. It will overflow before you find pen and paper and you can’t let a drop of it be wasted. All this she thought. Her eyes were lost in the soap.
You frantically search. For something, anything to record the thought before it escapes. She stopped searching the bubbles. She began massaging the thumb of her left hand with the right. It hurt now and then after a busy day.
Out-of-the-blue she continued talking, not accounting for her long pause to her guest. “When you have an idea…I mean for writing…Instead of getting excited, do you start to feel scared?”
She couldn’t hide her the emotion creeping into her voice. “When I have an idea, I do… I-I can’t, can’t do anything.”
Almost inaudibly, she added a sentence. Her voice retreating into her throat and a twinge of pain creeping up her chest to her mouth, she talk-whispered, “I haven’t been able to write in years.”
Back to washing. Can I tell you how I got to be afraid to think? she thought.
She wished she knew how to ask and how to tell.