Laundry and Writing

Have I displaced my enthusiasm for writing? Years ago the written word shared my creative energy with photography, editing, and other arts. When I examine my life today as Socrates suggested, I ask myself, where is your passion? Why have I slowed and set aside the creativity I once valued? My ideas begin generously, then dry as fast as laundry on a hot day.

 Words that once tripped from brain to paper are slow in coming and like a routine have become boring. [Ah, a writing stimulus – a little Viagra, please, for the creative mind.] Sometimes I would ather do laundry than write. A tub of wash has an orderly sequence, and the drying rack shows off my effort. How to compare the reluctance of words to the display of undies – three pieces to a rod, three rods across. Nine clean panties in pastels, plus black and white, all neatly arranged. Words are never so perfectly set the first time or even the third. Socks are matched in pairs with heels facing the same direction for quick retrieval. Laundry requires creativity, at least mine does.

In summer’s heat, the wash dries in no time at all. I gather and fold pieces quickly. Stacked dry garments, a few towels, and a washcloth return to their places refreshed. If only words were orderly and stackable. I place words on lines to dry and criticize them for not being right.  My underware fits every time I step into the leg openings and pull the elastic to my waist. The fabric feels light and airy against my skin. Not so with words – I write sentences that scratch. I cross out words, draw the shiv, so to speak, and kill the idea. Until passion returns, I am best suited at and happy with doing laundry.

 While others write to share their lives, I don’t want to root around in the memory trunk of scoldings, scrapbooks, learning to drive, and losing my virginity. If I could write a mud-slapping comedy about the messy times, that might work. Until I figure out how to roll tears into laughter, let me share a favorite word with you – Tegucigalpa.

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