::pause::

(part ii)

“So what’s going on with your writing?”

It’s a question that can be answered so many ways.

I stopped, obviously. That’s the answer. You know this, and I know that’s not what you’re asking. You’re asking why. “Why? What happened?”

You know I won’t tell you because it’ll lead to a conversation about finishing things, about giving up, and then we’ll fight and the silence between us will stretch out long and thin, across states and rivers and mountains — a different silence because we’ve both done this more times than we can count and we know we’re sorry, but begrudgingly, because we also both know you’re right, and that the question has already opened the door and the answer is sitting there waiting for me to bring it inside and figure out where it lives now.

But still, the silent “why” hisses and crackles over non-existent phone lines and bounces off invisible satellites and goddammit, with those two questions, one asked and one still silent, the answers have to be written.

Why?

Because connections hurt, and connections forged through creation hurt even more. The same thing happened to music — I gave it away because it started to hurt. Because it’s easier to abandon some things to those that are more deserving than I am.

Because it’s hard, in doing something that is, at its core, so honest, to know that there will still be misunderstandings, chasms that can never be crossed.

Because words are imprecise and clumsy, no matter how carefully you choose them. Because no matter how masterfully you weave rhythm and cadence, it is, ultimately, the interpretation that matters.

Because no one is capable of always choosing carefully or weaving masterfully all the time.

Because I can’t forgive myself for imperfection.

Because of all of this, and because of the things I still can’t say.

So I cut the silence short and give the answer that you know means please don’t ask and I know and I’m trying and I’m sorry and I simply say…

Nothing. Nothing is going on with my writing. But I can’t say that to you, because, no matter what, you believe in me, that there is value in these rants, somewhere, that if I can spill them out and wrangle them together, I might just be able to write The Thing That Changes the World, or at least Someone’s year/day/moment. That maybe I can write the thing that is True, or at least True Enough.

You’ve pulled your magic on me, and so now there are words again, somehow. They are coming against my will, but your will has always been intertwined with mine so I suppose I can’t complain. The thin thread that is your belief in me is spun unevenly but is ever present. Sometimes I just can’t see it.

The next time you ask, whether the question is voiced or silent, I will try to have a better answer.