Drowning Ants
I have decided that I am a writer, but now...
I think this is about how to be a writer, except that I don't know the how yet. I don't think I ever will. It's curiosity and fearlessness that you grab by the mane and ride into a sunset you paint yourself. When I was little, drowning ants and eating paper, I wasn't a Writer. I was just Me - and Me liked to write.
Now that I have deemed myself a Writer, I feel suffocated by the need to be a Good Writer. It's crippling. So, as I sit here, I am transported back to the simple curiosity of a little girl playing with ants in her dog's water bowl. The girl who fantasized about her own world, Cat Land, and never thought twice about proudly publishing her own book of construction paper, scribbles, and stables.
If we are all just ants drowning in a doggy bowl, we might as well stop wasting time getting in our own way before we take that final dive.
I have decided that I am a writer.
But write now, writing feels wrong and–
write now,
I cannot write.
—
Started writing stories when I first learned to hold a pen–not a pen, a crayon.
Always liked that Cerulean color–that Red Orange one, too.
Picked those two crayons out of the cardboard box and wrote–
adventures in Cat Land,
scribbles with big pointy ears, cat eyes, long whiskers,
scrap paper stapled together,
declared it my book,
standing proud on the coffee table in my living room.
First published work, no commission,
childish mind written into life on construction paper,
No. 1 Best Seller in the Fry Family Household.
Hang my medal on the wall.
Ice cream for dessert to celebrate.
—
I have decided that I have something to say.
But now I scream, I don’t know what to say.
Or how to say it.
What story to tell.
Choking on every word.
—
Words so small,
like ants on a page
I used to drown ants in my dog’s water bowl.
Pluck them off the pavers,
disrupt their marching in row after row,
drop them into the dish,
watch their little legs kick about until the engines ran out.
My own fingers choosing a life and watching it drown.
Now I am drowning in words like ants in a water bowl.
What fingers stole the voice from inside my throat?
—
Ripped the corner of my homework,
placed it on my tongue,
chewed it between my baby teeth.
Fibrous like overcooked chicken,
swallowed it in a single gulp,
just to see how it would taste–eating paper.
Eating words.
Words devouring me now.
Am I the ant?
Where did I fall out of line?
—
I have decided I am not good at this.
I will not pick up the pen–especially not the crayon–
even Cerulean or Red Orange.
No more scribbles with pointy ears,
I would rather eat the paper than write on it.
No publishing, no commission.
No best seller.
No medal on the wall.
No ice cream for dessert. It upsets my stomach.
Write now, for now, I will just sit here in the water bowl, eating ants and drowning in paper.