Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Today I am grateful for archived writing.  I woke up feeling a little confused about what to write about today, so I started looking through old files just to see if there was anything useable.  This piece I wrote last year, long before I conquered blogging, seems to hit my capture my mood today perfectly.  I’m posting it exactly as I wrote it.

Profound Thought

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By Mary Mooney

© 2013

            With computer packed up and loaded in the car, along with cords and the mouse and chargers and work that needs editing and thoughts that might get typed out, I had two days off to sit with a writer friend and just write.


            My friend, who is deep into re-writing a musical, asks, “And what will you be working on?”


            In my brain I stammer something about not having anything in particular, but maybe I’ll take a look at an old play I never quite finished or knock around some old short stories or read the newspaper or take a damned nap!  The truth is I don’t have a clue.  I’m not here to actually, write, but rather to remember that I once had the time to do it.


            “Not much.  I have nothing to write because I’m not really a writer.”


            “How very Mary.  We’ve been here before,” he says, tucking his face into his keyboard and typing away, creating the next big Broadway hit.


            I gather the collection of papers I grabbed on the way out the door so that I would at least look like I was intent on getting something accomplished and choose a comfy seat in the sun.  I am reading my own work.    


When did I write this?  I wonder after each piece.   Most have been tucked away for way too long while I deal with work and insurance and exercise and the details of life.   They are like neglected friends.  I run through some poetry, making small red-pen changes.  There is a short story that captures my past travels, then pieces from a blog I started but couldn’t figure out how to update so I gave up on it.  I open the play, but on page eight I notice an interesting newspaper clipping which distracts me until I need to pee.


I play with the dog, check messages, type in the poetry edits, take a few pictures with my phone and start poking around in the bowels of my computer, all the while trying not to disturb my friend who is deep in thought, click-clicking away, creating a masterpiece.


A folder title intrigues me. “Mary’s Thoughts, beginning 9-4-2010 @ 2:11 p.m.”  I open it.  Nothing!!!  Not one thought!!  It’s as empty as the brain that made the folder.


I share the absurdity of it and we laugh and laugh and laugh.


“Now you have something to write about,” he says, going back in the zone, dragging me kicking and screaming along with him.