“You should write about writer’s block,” says Mr. 13 as he shoves more popcorn into his mouth.
“Nobody wants to read about that,” I reply.
“I don’t know,” he says, “I mean, you’ve been trying to write for a long time today. Aren’t you supposed to write about your life?”
In the not-at-all distant background, Mr. 10 is experimenting on the piano that hasn’t been tuned since before Covid. He has not yet found his way to a tune; I’m not convinced that’s his goal. The random notes are not helping me concentrate.
“You could just publish what you already wrote.” Mr. 13 is still trying to help.
I make a face. “It’s not good enough.”
“Mom,” he is exasperated, “you wouldn’t let me say that. Maybe you need to just publish it and be done.”
But I can’t. The funny story about how today I left the pan of oil on a warm element and set off the fire alarm just isn’t that funny. The Golden Shovel poem about being lonely isn’t that poem-y. The lines I’ve captured in my notebook have potential, but they seem intent on remaining kernels of ideas rather than full-fledged pieces.
The piano continues in the background, discordant, unpredictable, distracting.
Shall I write about being 13? Missing my family? Waiting and waiting for the Canada-US border to open? I could write a memory. I want to be funny, but I’m not feeling funny. I’m just feeling off and this house is full of noise.
Maybe today I can give myself grace. It’s summer. I am taking things in, noticing, walking, being. Maybe today I can accept that what I’m writing is what I’m writing which is this. This is what I’m writing. And it is enough.
“I think you were right,” I say to my son as he heads to bed. “I wrote about writer’s block. It was good enough.”
He smiles. “Good night. Love you, Mom.”