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lost and found
Jun. 19th, 2006 03:19 ami lost my pens the same night i lost all faith in my writing.
i lost the silver ballpoint from my mother that i use to write poems, observations, and thoughts. i lost the yellow capped black roller ball, which Ali gave me long ago, that i use for writing exercises and brainstorming. i lost the 'antique red' gel roller that i bought myself on my birthday and use to mark all my revisions and edits. i even lost my favorite twist erase mechanical pencil, the one that the prince of wands has the twin of, which i've used to mark down some of my favorite characters. all of them vanished without a trace from my bag, the rest of the contents untouched. then i had another bad night discussing revisions. another very bad night, full of hurtful things and frustration.
when i got home i didn't think i'd be able to recover this time. it was all i could do to not throw my manuscripts into the garbage as i entered the house. i settled for throwing them in a dark corner and piling clothes on top of them so they were unseen. laying in the dark i decided to quit. to shelf my novel indefinitely. to give up on being a writer. it was just too painful. i curled in a ball, pulled my blankets tight around me, and tried to sleep through the waves of nausea, grief, and hurt. i don't think i would have gotten up tomorrow. i think i would have stayed in bed and given the world the finger. but the emperor came home.
the emperor is notorious for never doing what i so desperately require. it has led to countless disappointments and even a few resentments. but tonight he seemed to know exactly what to say and what to do. he pulled me up out of bed and led me from the house by the hand. he let me talk, and cry, until i was empty. he held me close on the darkened sidewalk as a dog barked in the distance. i told him i wanted to quit and never write again. then he took my face into his hands very tenderly, made me look at him, and told me he believed in me. then he told me again. and again. and again. until i stopped shaking my head every time he said it. then he told me he would read my book and help me with it, if i wanted. he said he'd start Tuesday after his exam. and he meant it. i told him i didn't want anyone to see it, that it was awful and worthless, but he was unperturbed and told me to consider it. he was the most comforting he has ever been.
we walked home and on our way in he stopped by my car and peered into the dark. he reached in and pulled out my silver ballpoint. "Is this the pen you lost?" he kept rummaging. he found the roller ball, the pencil, and even a ballpoint i hadn't realized was missing. he found the antiqued red one last and pressed it into my tear stained hand, curling my fingers around it. i told him i had taken it as an omen that my pens had gone missing. he told me he thought it was an omen that he had found them. sitting here, holding onto them, it's hard to disagree.
which brings me to now. i'm wounded. badly wounded, it's true. i thought i was crippled, that i'd never run again. but i've been given some reassurance that it will pass. been coaxed into clawing myself back up onto my wobbly feet. i'm sore and bruised, but not entirely broken. and maybe, just maybe, i'll put those pens to use again. maybe i'll even trust him to help me. and maybe i'll get up tomorrow and keep being a writer.
i lost the silver ballpoint from my mother that i use to write poems, observations, and thoughts. i lost the yellow capped black roller ball, which Ali gave me long ago, that i use for writing exercises and brainstorming. i lost the 'antique red' gel roller that i bought myself on my birthday and use to mark all my revisions and edits. i even lost my favorite twist erase mechanical pencil, the one that the prince of wands has the twin of, which i've used to mark down some of my favorite characters. all of them vanished without a trace from my bag, the rest of the contents untouched. then i had another bad night discussing revisions. another very bad night, full of hurtful things and frustration.
when i got home i didn't think i'd be able to recover this time. it was all i could do to not throw my manuscripts into the garbage as i entered the house. i settled for throwing them in a dark corner and piling clothes on top of them so they were unseen. laying in the dark i decided to quit. to shelf my novel indefinitely. to give up on being a writer. it was just too painful. i curled in a ball, pulled my blankets tight around me, and tried to sleep through the waves of nausea, grief, and hurt. i don't think i would have gotten up tomorrow. i think i would have stayed in bed and given the world the finger. but the emperor came home.
the emperor is notorious for never doing what i so desperately require. it has led to countless disappointments and even a few resentments. but tonight he seemed to know exactly what to say and what to do. he pulled me up out of bed and led me from the house by the hand. he let me talk, and cry, until i was empty. he held me close on the darkened sidewalk as a dog barked in the distance. i told him i wanted to quit and never write again. then he took my face into his hands very tenderly, made me look at him, and told me he believed in me. then he told me again. and again. and again. until i stopped shaking my head every time he said it. then he told me he would read my book and help me with it, if i wanted. he said he'd start Tuesday after his exam. and he meant it. i told him i didn't want anyone to see it, that it was awful and worthless, but he was unperturbed and told me to consider it. he was the most comforting he has ever been.
we walked home and on our way in he stopped by my car and peered into the dark. he reached in and pulled out my silver ballpoint. "Is this the pen you lost?" he kept rummaging. he found the roller ball, the pencil, and even a ballpoint i hadn't realized was missing. he found the antiqued red one last and pressed it into my tear stained hand, curling my fingers around it. i told him i had taken it as an omen that my pens had gone missing. he told me he thought it was an omen that he had found them. sitting here, holding onto them, it's hard to disagree.
which brings me to now. i'm wounded. badly wounded, it's true. i thought i was crippled, that i'd never run again. but i've been given some reassurance that it will pass. been coaxed into clawing myself back up onto my wobbly feet. i'm sore and bruised, but not entirely broken. and maybe, just maybe, i'll put those pens to use again. maybe i'll even trust him to help me. and maybe i'll get up tomorrow and keep being a writer.
