The AA battery charger.
My clip-on sunglasses.
The weed-whacker’s extra power supply.
Call me crazy, but I’m beginning to think it’s a trend.
My once inexhaustible drive to write is also MIA.
Not missing, the desire is there, but the energy that usually sits in my pilot’s seat is sporadic at best.
What’s up with that?
“Deborah,” you say, “Kiddo, sweetheart, you’ve been going at a supersonic pace for three solid years, bubbeleh!”
You reach for that cigarette, which I slap out of your hand.
“Dollink, doboshtorte, you’re a woman, not a machine! Even on a movie set, they turn off the cameras now and then to give them a rest!”
“I have no guarantees, I already lost a sister who was 53 and my mom died a good 20 years younger than her own sisters!”
“And this pertains to you, why? Kichlet, try the kuchen, I didn’t do so bad.”
“I’m not allowed to be tired. I have six hundred and seventy-three ideas* I haven’t even explored yet, nine plays in rewrites, thirty-two somewhere in the process, and then there are the submissions, ten plays and each opp has different requirements, different formatting! Plus poetry workshop, I’m writing poetry in forms I don’t even understand!”
“Sonnets are hard, maidl.”
“Sonnets are easy! They have a prescribed structure! This modern stuff, God help me, and then coming up with completely other ideas because it would take too long to go through my six hundred and seventy-three prompts! My prompts! Then there’s my blog!”
“Remind me, which job, whenever you left it, which job did they not hire at least four people to just tread water in everything you handled completely? Which job?”
“I’m tired. I’m weepy. I’m God-forbid lonesome for someone to talk shop with.”
“I’m chopped liver?”
“If you were talking baking, would you want someone who didn’t know a cup from a pound?”
“You sleeping, bubbeh?”
“I’m not getting any thinner.”
“At least have a rugelach, since my kuchen isn’t good enough.”
“Your kuchen is fine.”
“Your kuchen is the very definition of ‘fine.’ Excellent, fashionable, select, top-notch, supreme.”
“You’re not eating.”
“I’m also not writing.”
Sometimes all it takes for a recharge is a conversation with someone who loves you and knows you well (and still loves you).
Brief confession: the woman with whom I conversed, above, is my very own figment. Like I’d know anyone who still smoked?
*the actual contents of my “Fodder” file as of this writing
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