Overcoming Writers' Constipation

It isn't writers' block. It's literally constipation. And as I work through it, I'll probably get a call from Mother Nature herself. Just relax, honey. Relax and write it all out... at least some of it. Relax.

I don't have time for all the crazy demands of this life. I think the next thing I scratch off the list will be eating. There's no more time for it. I'll just drink diet shakes from now on, adding fish, nuts and salad enough to keep things moving. Besides, if I were to keep eating as normal, winter could bring back pounds that were hard to lose. And, boy, did I lose. 24 pounds. My mother said that I looked fat when I came back East in April but that now I look thin. I could, she said (and I agree) wear a bikini now. I can see where ten more could come off, though.

Oprah has this new diet guru who's 86 and really strong. He advocates eating mondo salads, like a pint and a half or something like that. I have found headache relief inside big bowls of lettuce. The stuff is magic. No, it's doubtless (some of)what the Lord intended for us to eat. Fruit, grains, loaves and fishes too, maybe. And doesn't the Bible say there's medicine in herbs? Anyway, I read this guru's diet in a Women's magazine, and it seems to me there is one thing missing in it besides calories. To wit, saturated fat. Isn't there an RDA or Daily Allowance or something of saturated fat that your diet can't work without? Reading this guy's diet made me think of cheese. Where was the cheese? Maybe Oprah and her new friend don't need sat fats? But I think I do. I think most people do, don't we? I think these nutrients just got a bad rap because 20th century folks ate too much of them, and also because some bad fats just happen to be saturated fats. But surely there are good sat fats that we need.

If I do diet shakes, salads and lean protein all winter ... wow, I'll have to find a way to exercise, won't I! In the winter, too. Now, that's a challenge.

Thinking to myself all day of what to write, I could have predicted that I'd be tongue tied when I sat down at the keyboard. Where did all the words go?

I called Nicola today. He's celebrating the High Holy Day(s)so he didn't really have time to talk. To be fair, I imagine that not all Jews celebrate [the holiday that I can't spell] in such a way as to preclude phone conversations with Gentiles; so I don't think it was silly of me to call. Anyway, he asked if I had something important to discuss and I said that, no, it was more like I wanted a second chance to hear about his travels in Israel. You see, when we spoke a little over a month ago, Nicola got characteristically quiet, so I filled in the void with speech, missing my chance to hear his story. Now some night, late, after work, I will be pleasantly surprised by a call from Washington and stories of true life adventure.

Anwar was in my thoughts today. I hope I will remember to put him in my prayers tonight. I would love to write to him more often, but I don't want to disrespect his marriage. He welcomes my writing but I don't see how it could be anything but a distraction from his new wife.

And of course I thought of Jake... He's got secret reasons why I suck, but he isn't ready to talk about them. (That in itself hurts because that's really irresponsible on his part.) I think I've taken the flack for whatever it is already. Now to find out what all that was really about... I talked to my father. It's rare to talk to my father beyond family business, family members' health and concerns, stuff I'm worried about and "catching up." But I got some time to talk to him about Jake, and Dad said that, when someone constantly tells you that you suck, what he really means is that he himself sucks -- that it's a projection. I told him about this argument we had, and this is what I've most wanted to write about today. Let me see how far I get...

It all started back in college... I was in this situation where I was accused of stuff by a peer (I'll call him Pink, after the Floyd character in the movie, "The Wall," which he liked so well. He's a big anglophile anyway. He'd like to be called Pink.) and I wasn't being allowed to speak to him so as to set the record straight. Jake contends that I should have abandoned the campaign to get an audience with Pink and make my case, because nobody in that situation ever owes it to me to hear me out. I contend that they do, just as soon as they complain, or slight me, or signal that they have a grievance. Now, Jake knows, and hopefully Pink knows (although he might not want to hear it if it means actually hearing from me) that there are plenty of things that I'm sorry for where Pink is concerned. Like, for example, I learned how to relate to the opposite sex from Charlotte Goodall in "Night of the Iguana." Some of the stuff I did makes me cringe, really. And now how can I say to Pink that I'm sorry for all these little things, but the thing that is said to have upset him the most -- the thing that drove our dynamic like a flywheel -- my campaigning for my day in court -- that is the thing I'm not sorry for? It's hard. I dare not say a word.

Jake and I could find common ground on that if he'd put in the time. We wouldn't agree on much, but we'd probably do OK.

The Charlotte Goodall thing was something I made my own. I figured that, as long as I didn't ask a boy for a date or for intimacy, that jumping around like a cheerleader and starting fan clubs would be nothing but fun for everyone ... and this is too long a story for me to do it justice in the time I have, so I won't try (maybe later) ...

I'm especially sorry to Pink for the times I expressed frustration. Frustration just doesn't belong expressed. It doesn't get you an audience or understanding or peace. It's a sign I'd allowed my mind to become fried by a long-standing situation that I felt I could not escape without his help, which I finally got. Yes, I finally got my audience and, like idiots, Pink and I decided to try being friends one more time. (What were we on???) So now Pink and what was left of me / I were trying to get along with no paradigm except a long history of not being able to get along. (He quickly aborted that plan.) But the backbone of our trouble had been broken. My mind was still fried, though. I still gasped a few more notes of frustration before I finally made my escape like a moth through a hole in a screen. And it was glorious on the other side of that screen. Colin was right there waiting for me to emerge. But before I flew out...

Pink lost his lease and had his furniture confiscated. He got kicked off campus. He became homeless and rumors swirled about that he was in some kind of trouble and was wanted by the police. Now how in the world was I going to just fly away? Our meeting, our truce was supposed to be my exit -- no more worry, no more frustration. Yet what was left of me couldn't handle the continuing saga very well.

Even so, in this final frame I was able to confer a few benefits to poor old Pink. I saw the assistant dean and convinced him to let Pink back on campus. I fetched a dinner and a well-wisher, Clara, out to the bus kiosk where homeless Pink was hanging out. And finally, with the help of one of his close friends, I placed the call that ultimately got him out of Maryland, because I did believe the rumors that he was in trouble, and I knew that trouble would not follow him over the state line. Pink and I were both emotionally exhausted. And I was on the wrong side of his boundary line. I should have talked his friend into making the call all by herself, except that she was too chicken to do it by herself with me knowing that she had done it! She needed the collateral of my partnership in crime, so that neither of us would tell. (Never mind that she started talking about it soon thereafter. I suppose she couldn't help it. Maybe her mind was fried too.)

This needs more. I can't leave it like this. There is more. But there is no more time.

Getting back to where I came in, though, I do think I had the right to speak up for myself. My father agrees. He says Jake and Pink are wrong and that I shouldn't even worry that they could be right. Well, after all the embarrassing stuff I've done I don't need one more thing to worry about. It still bugs me, though. I think if I had it to do over again I'd say to myself, "I have the right to do this, but it will probably do more harm than good, so I'm not going to do it." No, even better -- I'd take frustration out of my emotional vocabulary, perhaps through brain surgery. And when I was all calm and reasonable Pink would say, "Hey, what's up? I think we should talk." I don't know. I think I must be dreaming about it every night lately. And there's even more to be said. So I suppose this is my season to say it.