Welcome to 31 Days of Poetry & Writing Prompts–Day 11.

This one’s for my writer friends.

The rest of you might be all, Who cares? Get over it! 🙂

In any case, here goes…

On Being a Writer

by Clementine von Radics

Look at us,

smiling with all our teeth out.

Suffering so bravely in the spotlight,

spilling blood on the page.

Behind the curtain

someone is bleeding.

There is dust on the floor.

You can smell the mold.

///////////

You know what I really want writing to be like? I want it to be like the movies.

Not like me standing here in the kitchen, next to a sink full of soiled dishes, pounding away the keys and pausing for another round of jumping jacks when the words run away.

When they run, you have to chase after them. When they stop moving, you have to start.

When you’ve warmed the chair too long and your behind starts screaming, you have to clear the counter and transfer the pen and scratch pad and the iced tea and your reference books over. There you have to stand until your legs start screaming, and only then may you move back to the chair.

Basically, you have to create all kinds of rules to get the job done, and they’re not that much fun. Or maybe that’s just me, because I can’t stand all the “Butt In Chair” time. I don’t want to sit around all day! And work!

Where’s the glamour? Am I doing something wrong? It doesn’t look like this in the movies.

Speaking of movies, have you noticed how many films these days have a writer for the main character? They make it look so romantic, don’t they? Always walking through Central Park with that view paving sidewalks for the next chapter.

Their lives are made of dreams-come-true and perfect little coffee shops where everyone knows their names and somehow they still get the work done. Always, they get the deal by the end of the show, after a couple of obstacles and only a few rejections.

They’re all lying, but I keep on watching anyway. I’m not sure if it’s comfort, or torture. Definitely escape.

When I’m not trying to escape what I really want to do with my life, I think about growing up to be brave. Brave writing requires so much courage, and I have a little.

I was asked not too long ago, What are the fears you bring to the page?

And I thought, I don’t want to tell you those. Seriously. Why would I do that? I want to hold them close and pretend they don’t exist and hope they never happen.

You know?

Spelling out my fears feels a lot like spilling blood.

Maybe someday. Someday soon.