Not Writing
A Sad Confession by Vijaya Sundaram
January 13th (or the 14th), 2014
This is a confession to nobody.
So, I missed writing yesterday (the 12th), and today (the 13th of January). Actually, now it’s officially the 14th, since it’s past midnight, but since I’m not in bed yet, it’s still the 13th! So there, ye Gods of Time! Take that and that and that!
So, shall I swallow strychnine?
Rend my garments and wail aloud in despair?
Toss in my lot with the “lotos-eaters?” (Yes, yes, I know it’s lotus, but Tennyson didn’t!)
Take up good works?
Live under a bridge?
Say, “writing is an indulgence,” and work in a prison?
Stare guiltily at my Facebook page, wondering how to never, ever, ever be screen-sucked again?
Grade papers? (Naaaah!)
Go to bed?
Oh, yes, that.
Bed it shall be.
But I managed to write — sure, just this sad, lonely piece about being a bad person, who didn’t write on the 12th AND the 13th (but today’s still the13th until I actually retire to bed, remember?), but still, it’s writing (of a sort, anyway).
Besides, I’m tired.
I taught all day on my feet.
I led the Green Team in its spirited recycling efforts after school.
I read to my daughter.
Fixed dinner.
Practised (and that IS the right spelling of the verb form of the word) guitar.
Practised kathak.
Sang with husband and daughter, playing guitar again.
Surely, I can be forgiven for my lapses, ye Gods of Writing, and ye Gods Who Induce Unwanted Guilt-Feelings!
Well, that’s all for now. I shall retire and nurse my sorrows in private. Sleep will soon drown them out. Then, the new day will begin, and the clockwork of my days will keep on moving, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, year by year, until I say, along with J. Alfred Prufrock, “I can hear the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.”
Only in my dreams, tonight, I hope.
____________________________ The End ______________________________