The Birthing

I failed at food blogging, it’s true.

And I don’t want a blog like the one before the food blog, one of poems and nothing else. That’s too pretentious. Or like high school. Actually, the blog I had in high school and the 1st year of college managed to get 700+ hits in one day–the day after my boyfriend was murdered. Thanks Google–I needed that many strangers reading my confusion that week.

So why “Writing the Water?” I don’t even live near water. I live in Atlanta, in the middle of a concrete jigsaw puzzle of mismatched streets and too much sprawl. I can’t even swim that well, so I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t live near water–although I’ve always wanted to go to a beach in January, preferably a gray, rocky, harsh beach with only two gulls sticking out the winter.

Water.

Water is everything, everywhere–anything living is made, to some degree, of water. Water is life, but water can also be death. Water is warm and cold and frozen and gaseous. Water is jumping off a cliff in a Pisgah Forest stream and the Amazon sunsets and not the cemetery in Wyoming.

Water must be read, must be written, must be used and saved and loved.

Yes, I love water.

So now, at the end of October, I’m starting this blog to make myself write. To write about the unimportant and the sublime and the harrowing, to write about life and death and the annoyances of school work. I’m a writer who has been in perpetual writer’s block…no, writer’s fear, for the past two years. It’s time for that to end.

If you stick around, I may write something that tickles your fancy. At the very least, it will tickle mine.

And I leave with this excerpt from The Sea by John Banville:

Night, and everything is so quiet, as if there were no one, not even myself. I cannot hear the sea, which on other nights rumbles and growls, now near and grating, now far and faint. I do not want to be alone like this. Why have you not come back to haunt me? It is the least I would have expected of you. Why this silence day after day, night after indeterminable night? It is like a fog, this silence of yours. First it was a blur on the horizon, the next minute we were in the midst of it, purblind and stumbling, clinging to each other…Send back your ghost. Torment me, if you like. Rattle your chains, drag your cerements across the floor, keen like a banshee, anything. I would have a ghost.

Where is my bottle. I need my big baby’s bottle. My soother.

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Comments
One Response to “The Birthing”
  1. David says:

    Your new blog looks great. Keep it up.

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