- My novel is slightly concerned, not quite unhappy, but not satisfied. Not with you, oh never with you. My novel loves you, twists under your gaze. The bare essence of sensuality is you brushing your eyes over him. My novel is concerned about my effort, my commitment, and my creativity. He's tired of me scribbling on spare loose leaf, tired that I don't have a plan. "A plan, Steph, you need a plan. You need an idea of what is going to happen to me, an idea of what you want to say. I feel empty. You promised you wouldn't let that happen. You promised, you promised to let me grow." I did promise him that and I am ashamed of my cold fingers. My novel is my eldest son. Have I failed in what could be my biological destiny? Wasn't I born to be his mother? And here he is in mid-October, shivering because I forgot to buy him a sweater. At what point does he grow paper legs and move out of the house? My desire for my novel to be all-encompassing, to be universal, to save someone (me), has gotten away from me. In wanting him to be the tallest man on earth, I forgot that I am a short girl with short fingers. Perhaps I am shortsighted.
oct 6 2009 ∞
oct 6 2009 +