There’s Real and Make Believe
I’m in one of those moments. If you’ve ever tried to write, you know what I mean. It’s avoidance. It’s block. It’s thinking of what it might have been like to write with a quill when you have a brilliant, powerful laptop on the table in front of you. It’s procrastination.
Everything’s coming to an end, which makes my stomach feel like I’m on a downward run of a rollercoaster, heart in throat. Even next door, the construction is coming to an end. Endings. I am so filled with trepidation I feel like my bones are going to shake out of my body. Attending this writer’s retreat is one of the biggest steps I’ve ever taken because I had to leave my little comfortable niche and go out on my own. So, in that respect it’s all been good. I have shown myself that I can be independent. I can do things without someone holding my hand, and considering I’m 31, it’s damn well about time.
I glance over and see Steve and Clayton finishing up putting up faux storm shutters. He doesn’t know I’m sitting out here and I don’t want him to look, but as he adjusts his ladder, he takes a moment and glances up at me as if my eyes were burning a hole into him. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but a soft smile appears and he presses his fingertips to his lips and raises them. My heart thuds. What he does to me with just the simplest gestures. He climbs the ladder and then they put another ladder on a wooden slatted roof covering a walkway. That looks very unstable, but that’s me. Me and my fears would never let me climb up the second ladder the way he does.
They chat and work and I eavesdrop and don’t write, my eyes moving to the ocean beyond, where the waves rhythmically collide with the beach, redistributing sand. Someone else will sit in this chair next week and hope to write a bestselling novel or a heart-filled book of poetry.
“Princess, aren’t you supposed to be working?” Steve’s soft accent slides over me.
I grin and then glance over at him. “You do your work and I’ll do mine.”
“I am, hon. But unless you’re typing with your mind, I don’t see much action your way.”
“I’m composing in my head.”
“All the time.”
He grins. “That’s good then. I suppose.”
He gives measurements to Clayton who uses a circular saw to cut the pieces.
“You going to let me read what you wrote.”
“The elusive someday. I’ll look forward to it.”
I grin. Maybe there’s a future?
I slip my headphones on, letting music sink into my mind and hoping it will spur some creative writing rather than meandering thoughts. And then the 3 Doors Down song punches me as if it’s more real than any of this: just let me go.