Here I am, back from the interior badlands just in time to see Clint Eastwood raving at an empty chair–odd behavior, even when you disregard the venue. The political scene frightens me these days. This is what the terrain looks like when truth no longer exists to mark the path, when facts are pecked up and swallowed like so many breadcrumbs on the road to Babel. I think it’s best to avoid the news until after the election; easy enough, when the news is so fucking hard to find.
Fear has been seeping in from other sources as well. My husband finished his truck driving school and he’s got a new job which will put him on the road for weeks at a time, so it’ll be just me and my son in a dark house most nights. What feels like a warm safe nest with my husband nearby will soon become a creaking house of horrors, and I’ll begin the nightly patrol of closets and other potential hiding places where the big misters could lurk, because as the lone adult in a house I am a chicken-shit scaredy-cat.
In other news, I am writing. If you can call it writing. I spent several days drafting and deleting emails to August, six in all, begging for his help in plotting this slippery little fucker. I’ve read every writing book I can lay my hands on. I’ve collected encouraging quotes, and immersed myself in Steinbeck and Joyce Carol Oates. A few days ago, a watery ray of light shone through and I scrapped my plot and replaced it with a story. Then I drafted and deleted an email to Tetman (calling all daddies) pleading for advice on how to write a book. What the fuck. I’ve written three.
This is fear, conspiring against me. Fear of writing, or of being unable to write. Fear of failure, or success, or unbearable triteness. Fear of my own indolent nature which would have me wandering around the park all day or farm-stand hopping across the countryside with a basket over my arm and two Heidi braids trailing down. Fear of having nothing to say, of saying too much. Fear of saying the right thing wrong.
Fear of the dark, which is what it all comes down to in the end.
You are alone in a dark house. What do you do?