The Work of Writing

My friends, family, co-workers all know that I am writing a book.  Actually it's two.  Ping-ponging between them trying to keep both stories spinning.  A good general knows you can't win a war fought on two fronts, and yet I try.

Pushed sometimes by the threat that the Alzheimer's demon is just marking time with me, that he has tattooed his mark on me, called his dibs and soon I will fall to him.  Just as she is falling.  And so I write.  The idea of living with stories locked inside me that I can no longer tell and infuriating one.

My friends cannot understand why the book isn't done.  Haven't you been working on it forever?  I don't know why they care.  But yes, I have been working on it for years and will continue to work on it.  Their idea that I am transcriptionist to the muse, that the words are dictated and I type and type and type.  I won't lie.  Sometimes it's very much like this.  Or like closed captioning a fine movie.  Chided to move faster and faster.  Counter chiding to go slower.  Afraid to say that too emphatically or often for fear that the movie reel will sputter stop and the muse move on.

Mostly it's like wrestling a bear.  I'm pretty sure I will lose if I keep going and be bloodied in the process.  Or I can just lie down and let it be quick over.

But then she is there, knocking on the inside of my eyelids of a Sunday.  Demanding open.  Demanding pens and paper.  Mostly I concede.  I am not one for giving up.