“Everything I write is stupid,” I told the girls the other night. “I need to just stop.”
Of course they gave the obligatory, “No, Mom. We like it.”
But I was all phooey-on-everything.
Laurel said, “What if you just didn’t write every day?”
Now there’s a novel idea.
Some things feel a little wrong to write about — like my father’s decline. As cathartic as it was to write about my mother, the catharsis isn’t there this time. It documents, I suppose, like this morning’s conversation —
Dad: I had the strangest phone call this morning. I answered the phone and nobody was there.
Me: What phone did you answer?
Dad: The phone in my bedroom. It rang at 7 AM.
Me: You don’t have a phone in your bedroom.
Dad: Well, nobody was on the other end.
It’s such a sad documentation.
A lot of other things fall into the does-anyone-really-care-about-this category.
Like the indigo bunting that flew into the window the other day. While it lay stunned on the deck, I took this picture, so I could look it up to identify it. When the cat came trotting up the ramp, I ran out the door to shoo her into the house so she wouldn’t bother the bird. Then I picked up the bird and moved him to a safer place. He perched on my finger after I scooped my hand beneath, and he weighed about as much as popped popcorn. I placed him where I could see him from inside. About an hour later, he flew away. A fascinating story — with no point at all.
Sometimes writing feels so bleh.
A hiatus is in order.
Or, at the least, a taper.