I write even when I don’t write. Thoughts simmer in my head like a Crockpot stew, as extraneous distractions, potatoes and carrots, pop to the top of the meaty brew. But where’s the beef? Holding its breath at the bottom.
While thoughts simmer, the aroma wafts into my brain at work or in the car. To evict the thoughts, I must translate the chatter into decipherable words, which is a challenge, since I write like a chicken but don’t walk like a duck.
At the end of the day, I sift through the scent of words that linger in my notes, and the slaughter begins. The bland ideas get beheaded with a slash of the pen. The meaty ideas pass the smell test and move up the food chain to the taste-testing realm. If the flavors burst in cataclysmic waves in my mouth, I allow the ideas to simmer further. If the flavors die on my tongue, I wash them down with beer to clear the palate.
Writing and I have a love-hate thing. I love the sound of bubbling beefy ideas. They stimulate my brain buds and invigorate my day. Yet, I hate the obsession.
I crave ideas as a junkie craves junk. Every day, every minute, I relish the moment to savor another bite of my thought stew and add more stock to enhance the flavor. Whenever I have a moment, I sneak a taste of my salacious snack. I can never get enough.
If the weight of words were reflected in calories, I’d be next in line for “The Biggest Loser.” However, unlike a corpulent contestant on the show, I shed calories by typing. Strike that thought. Just my fingers lose their baby fat.
I’d be a sore sight for a peeping tom’s eyes. Skinny fingers poking out from lards of fat folded into a chair. A worthwhile inconvenience, as I’d be fat from the love of words and writing, glued to the seat of my seat by hours of writerly sweat. Oh, stinky me. I only hope my words smell sweet.
Do you write anything else beside your blog?