Blink. Blink. Blink. The funny thing is I’ve wanted to write this all week. Blink. Blink. Blink. Stupid blinking cursor. Now that my brain cells have been depleted by endless online video lectures and book report preparation . . . Blink. Blink. Blink. I don’t like when not fun things take up my time so that I can’t get to my fun things. I just want to write cool essays and post them to my blog. I’d love to finish the ten knit projects I’ve had on needles for over a year. I am chomping at the bit to start reading the multitude of books I have neatly categorized in a small city I call Bookcropolis which resides on the dressers and bookshelves in my bedroom.
When you wake up in a hot sweat at 4am wondering: “What in the world is a Turabian and why do I have to use it?” What did I ever do to Turabian that she pesters me so? I was raised on MLA, so I use that when I have to. But I don’t like to “format” stuff. I write. I’m a writer. I am not, however, the type that gets all jolly when hit with a required bibliography or citation list. Those things leave me whimpering in a corner calling out for my mommy. Chicago Style, Turabian, ULA, MLA, UCLA, USC, BLT — can’t we all just get a long, long sledgehammer and pound these into the cement?
Wait a minute. I’m alone. Everyone’s gone to bed and I’m sitting in the dining room. The blinking cursor is begging for me to use it. So, I type away, not knowing exactly what I’m typing. That won’t work. My goodness, did I write that? Delete, delete, delete. I’m in a bit of a stupor — the kind that can only be caused by excessive amounts of homework, a child who started first grade this week, and parents who insisted on coming in from out of town just so they could see her off to school on the first day. At 8am. And, of course, it was imperative that they stay till she gets out of school so they could go with me to pick her up. Doesn’t my mom know I have 170 pages to read that day for school? Yes. Yes, she does. I guess it’s a sacrifice that had to be made. This happens once a year.
There is a lonely little lamp begging for me to let it rest for the night. My dogs don’t know whether it’s time to sleep or freak out. I’m their gauge for the stages of the day. If I’m up, surely it’s ok for them to run around the house like the hyper, drooling idiots that they are. I had a dream last night. I was making a collage. It was made up of pictures of flashy, nonfiction, braided hermit crabs. Oh, wow. I guess I need to start writing.
The effect of night on the house. Being the sole awake person. Outside seemed safe enough a few hours ago, especially with my three dogs huddled around me. But go inside and suddenly there’s a need to lock the doors and windows, close the curtains, and pray someone doesn’t break into our fortified dwelling. I’ve watched way too many Twilight Zone episodes in my years. This fear is irrational. We’ve lived here since 1996 and we’ve never been robbed.
Finally. The words are flowing. I’m not sure how good this is going to be, but at least my Turabian-induced stress has subsided and I can think about the awesomeness that is the lyric essay. This is my first attempt. I’m sure these will get better the more I write them. I love a challenge. I’ve finished my essay and I’m rereading a hermit crab essay called “Ordered Pair: (Devising a System of Equality)” by Raven Burnett. I’ve laughed out loud several times. I’m back in my warm fuzzy zone. I’m surrounded by good writing, I’ve finished my essay, and I have just enough time to do a little knitting and read a few pages of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. Oh, and I am safe in my fortified dwelling — and not because of the new deadbolt on the front door.