“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.”
Persistence and Pedagogy 
I remember in middle school I was beat in a short story contest by a boy who wrote about how he didn’t know what to write. Ever since then I’m convinced there is always something you can write about. Your 13 is wise.
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I love this! I know the feeling, and I love how you portrayed it – out of tune piano and all!
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Mr. 13 knows some stuff. Glad you listened to him. Sometimes our writing lives are a cacophony of noise like the random piano notes. Love this parallel.
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Yes it is good enough 😊
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Sometimes it’s good enough to be good enough. I’m glad you wrote. I’ve been on a writing vacation for a while. I hope to be back soon.
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I often feel like this Amanda. I love how you wrote this slice as a conversation with your son. I loved the piano in the background. I love that you say “this is enough” because it is.
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Sometimes ‘just good enough’ really is more than enough. This story will have significant meaning to you a year or two from now. 🙂
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We enjoyed the honesty in the post. I believe we all go through that. Writing is writing, you wrote. Thank you
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The way this piece of writing is really referring to itself and is the product of the process you’re describing is very cool. It reminds me of the Billy Collins poem, “Workshop.” Have you read it? If not, here’s a link. It will give you a snicker or a snort. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46704/workshop
I commend Mr 13 for his sage advice. I should take it to heart.
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Thanks for the link. You know, I’d read that poem before but completely forgotten it – and I do love Collins’s sense of humour. If my blog post approaches that, I’ll take it!
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