Talking To Myself

You’re not taking it seriously.
I know. But isn’t it better to do something rather than nothing?
Could be.
Building strong muscles takes endurance, doesn’t it?
I suppose.
I might get more serious when spring rolls around but it might be that the warmer weather will interfere as much as the cold.
Well, you know what so and so says, ‘Whether you think you can or you think you can’t you’re right’ — Ford wasn’t it?
It’s not a matter of whether I can or whether I can’t — I already am. It seems to be more of a question of what others think ‘being a writer’ is. Should someone who writes think at all about what others think?
Maybe if they’re trying to make money at it?
Cold weather makes me want to cuddle and knit and warm weather makes me want to go out and mingle with the ants and birds.
Is that procrastinating or avoidance or just plain preference interfering?
Maybe it’s a matter of not wanting it enough or not wanting enough to be great? How much weight needs to be lifted to become a great weightlifter? Or a good one for that matter — not that it matters — or does it?

Do you think you do — want it?
Want what?
To be a writer?
Yes, but I’m not sure I want to be a ‘great writer’ — whatever that means. Can someone only be a ‘writer’ if they have unwieldy expectations of grandeur to become a real and great writer?
What do you mean by ‘unwieldy’?
Oh, possibly top heavy or awkward or overly stacked one way more than another such that everything else in life is balanced more toward writing. Something like that. Maybe that’s a poor choice of words but it came to mind when I was thinking about how writing every.single.day. seems to weigh so heavily on my mind and how if I don’t do it I feel a sense of guilt —  but I also know that not every day something good is written because it’s actually only done for exercise and building writing muscle so that eventually words will flow out and into a real kind of structure that might have a little more meaning and value — even to myself.
Are you talking to yourself again?
Yes, I’m talking to myself again.
Someone in the grocery store said the other day that they talk to themselves because they were only good at listening when they were listening to themselves. I said I wasn’t even good at listening to myself because I lie to me and can’t be trusted to tell myself the truth so why bother listening if I’m lying — and, I think most everybody else lies as well so why listen to them either.
Actually, I’m not that bad at listening to liars if the liar isn’t me — b
ut, I’m bored with listening now — so, can we go out and play with the ants?
I suppose except that the ants are hibernating now so we can just go out and wait for spring when they’ll all come out to play again.
That sounds good to me. Or maybe we should read?

“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that. ~ Stephen King

image credit: Katherine Streeter

Talking To Myself

The little boy was crying as he walked in front of his mother out of the food joint. She shoved him in his back with her knee. Highly overweight and loaded with a high pile of more food in her arms she shouted, “Move!!!” He kept crying while stumbling forward. She shoved him again with her knee so she could keep balancing the food and her phone. The grandmother yanked him up and struck him on his shoulder with her fist, “Shut up, she murmured.” Did she notice that I was watching, disgusted?
Didn’t they have any empathy for a little soldier crying? Was he tired? Had he eaten bad food or was he being bad? Maybe he was hungry. What can possibly be so bad when someone so little is less than two? Did any of it merit a shove and a punch from a so-called loved one?
I hate people more often than not and it’s why I stay so isolated because there is nothing I can do but watch in horror — and I don’t want to watch it and it’s everywhere I go, so I stay home, for the most part, so that I can live in a little bubble where everything is precious.
The one time I stopped to explain that the black asphalt was blistering her puppy’s feet while she was flirting, I got blasted for being nosy.
Why have a puppy or a child if there is no time for trouble? Stuff your face. Bury your head in your dysfunction – your plate filled with dead animals you didn’t think of either. Some good looking guy to notice how good looking you are strutting across the car park with your thin self and your little hybrid puppy and then stop to let him compliment you for awhile while your little hybrid puppy’s feet burn.
Yes, I’m judgmental – but I will keep it to myself except for here where I am talking to myself.
Dogs as props, babies too. What a shame.