I–THE WRITER?

It’s been several years since I began putting my pen to paper, followed by hands on my computer keys and I no longer know who I am, what I am, where I am. Yesterday I was on a ferry crossing the Hudson River when the boat lurched and hit a pier. A woman near me fell over the railing and disappeared in the wash of the floundering ferry. The brackish water was over my head. A whirlpool twisted me in circles. I gulped down too much water and drowned. The next day the New York Times page four told my story just as I had felt it happen to me.

Last Saturday the sun was shining gloriously until a strong wind came from the north. The sun went out. I watched it as its shine slowly turned to darkness. I was a raven fighting the weather, trying to reach my chicks. I cawed and cawed, heard their tiny peeps and flapped my wings faster and faster. They were safe. I was tired, covered them with my wings until the sun came back. Honest, honest, I was the bird in the story.

Chuck, Bill, Walter, Izzy, every man who exists because my pen gives him life, is my life. We live as one. I’m a lover, nag, designer. Sometimes I’m tall, sometimes fat, wear rags or designer clothes. I walk and the next sentence writes itself.

A dragon spits fire and I shrink behind a tree. The movement of the earth as it drags its tail closer and closer to me creates the lightning that slays the monster. Lady Guinevere is dressed in a green wool gown, golden threads weave thru the bodice, hurries to me and we lie down on the wet grass. The dress fits me perfectly. So did Lancelot. The melted dragon evaporated. Help me, somebody help me be a writer without becoming a caricature of my characters. I’m scared.

At a week-end Broadway opening, I arrive in a stretch limo. Spotlights blind me, seriously blind me. I do not fall. The sidewalk comes up to me. The crowd roars. The lookie loos want to find out what happened to me. The velvet ropes cannot contain the paparazzi. They snap pictures of my spread legs, my dazed look. Behind me stands James Cagney, his heavy old fashioned machine gun sprays the crazed crowd. They all turn into pulp. I hear their screams. I am there. I’m writing. I’m killing myself off.

Exhaustion comes at the end of each short story. The parts that come unbidden to my mind are wearing me into a frazzle. This is no joke. It is serious business. Sleep often eludes me as fear plays chopsticks on my spine.

While I am sure you can’t save me, know that I am doing my best to save myself, but if you make a single step to take away my pen, my computer, to throw me a life preserver, I may become the Beltway Killer and we will die together.