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January 06, 2005
Second Thoughts
Ahh, how powerful the urge to self-censor! I spent a total of 30 minutes writing the previous post (Creative Writing Effort #1) and another 15 minutes tranferring it from my notebook to the computer. Since it was the middle of the night, I drifted off to bed soon after, waking up in the middle of the night with the overwhelming urge to go back and delete the entry. I'm not sure why, I guess I thought it was of poor quality, not that interesting, and a little too self-revealing. Mostly, I thought that people wouldn't like it.
It turns out that the warmth of two cats purring on my bed is a powerful antidote to self-censorship. Perhaps it was that Natasha and Madchen--not the daintiest of cats--had my legs pinned down, but I ultimately decided to go back to sleep and deal with it in the morning. Luckily, I had several delightful responses to the post the next morning, which made me more comfortable with the idea of keeping it up there. In fact, now that I know people won't write in nasty things about my writing quality (oh the blessing of having friends and family the main readers!), I think I shall try and do more creative writing in the future. I already wrote a short one this morning.
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Ends in “he was gone”. (150 words or less)
If she thinks of him occasionally—this man she briefly believed was "the one"—it doesn't bother her now. When she comes home at night, removing her coat and greeting the cat, she doesn't dwell on the nights spent discussing their future, sitting on the couch with her feet propped against him. She no longer waits to hear his voice on the answering machine, fearing and hoping he will call again. She cooks with abandon, not needing to avoid the onions he disliked. But if she remembers with startling clarity the lazy Sunday they spent in the park, wandering the gravel paths and lying under a tree with her head resting gently on his stomach, she doesn't blame herself. These flashbacks are all part of the aftermath, just like the bruises that lingered on her body for days after he was gone.
