be careful crossing the street

I have all these ideas.

They scratch at the inside of my head, and tickle the tips of my fingers. They swirl in my stomach, and leap in my heart. I have the words at my command. They bend and they flex at my will. Inside me, they come as easily as breathing. I barely have to think about it anymore. They’re just there when I want them.

Then I sit to type them, and they stop. My previously full fingers dance uncertainly over the keys, my eyebrows furrow as I try to recall the words.

They are gone.

Hidden.

I can feel them cowering in the crevices of my brain, crouched behind dusty shelves filled with war dates, and the molecular compound of iron. These shelves haven’t been touched in years. I have no use for them. I am a self-proclaimed writer.

The words know that this is the perfect place to hide from me. They know I won’t look in the closet that holds the winter of ‘08. They know I would not dare to even peek into the drawer that shakes and rattles with my regret over that one thing I said to that one person who is gone now. Oh I know they are there, but I’m far too afraid to go looking. I’m far too afraid of what might be there with them.

They’re smarter than we give them credit for, the words. I wonder why they hide. Perhaps they don’t want to be used up, or my mind is comfortable.

The first, rather than the latter, I would guess. My mind is not comfortable at all. I would know. I’ve been there.

It’s cramped, and messy. Filled to the brim with knowledge the school board deemed useful. And somewhere within the stacks, the words.

They were strung together, forming the perfect sentences.

Paragraphs.

Stories.

Then, they saw I was coming to collect them, and they scattered.

Is that the mark of a good writer?

A great one even?

One who can coax the words out from their sanctuaries, and herd them into the world?

Yes.

I think that is it. A good writer isn’t afraid of failure, and rejection if the words don’t cooperate.

A good writer merely puts them together differently, and tries again.

A good writer isn’t born, a good writer is made.

Perhaps I’m on my way to becoming a good writer.

Perhaps I can give these words my blessing, and send them off into the world with a brown paper sack and a peck on the cheek and a “be careful crossing the street”.

Yes.

Goodbye.

Fare thee well.

Be careful crossing the street.