Help, my career stole my adjectives

I never thought this would happen. My ability to write has been pared down to bones. In the city of literature my writing is just one bedsit in a forest of high rise in young-professional-ville. It is infested with Ikea space saving furniture and the habit of using “when” instead of “once”. It needs a coat of paint. The view out the window is of the neighbour’s hot water system and the gutter. From where my writing lives you can always see the gutter. In short, my writing stinks to high heaven of functionality. Sure, it isn’t beautiful, but it does the job. My writing lives in a world that is all black on white stock.

While I love my career, deep down, in that secret place that I don’t discuss at the office, my writing wants to run free. It wants to contemplate skies of a colour flecked with clouds that look like something I saw once.
“To hell with the inverted pyramid,” it says without inflection.
“Newspapers are what the recycling bin was made for.”

My writing wants to climb a fictional tree, get scratched by conceptual rose thorns. It wants to get down and dirty in the hunt for the Lesser Seen Metaphorical Earthworm. Good for the garden they say, helps the soil breathe.

There used to be a time when I couldn’t go an hour without writing something. Never something that would start a war or a love of literature. Just something. Sometimes something is all you need. Now I have more than that. I have a deadline. My adjectives don’t like deadlines. They like peace and sunshine. They also like violent storms and long power cuts and deaths in the family and drinking binges. They like caffeine. They like the unpredictable and the all consuming. No matter how my cubicle tries to devour me, the only part it has killed is the adjective. I often wonder if what is left is worth the column centimetres.

If anyone sees my adjectives, tell them all is forgiven. I’m so horribly lonely without them.

Journal Comments