Young Female Writer’s Lament
Why is everything I try to do coming out stilted and slow today? And yesterday, too?
I blame you. The general, faceless you. The you who keeps telling me (in my head or otherwise — but why would I put this on myself? so then it must be you) that I need to be smaller, wittier, brief. The you who keeps saying you like my stuff so much, you want less of it. The you who keeps asking me to hush so that you can lecture me on how important it is for voices like mine to be heard.
What I want is a field somewhere, where I can run for as long as I want, run until I am bone tired, until I am heart and lung tired, run until I am done with running — without running into an electric fence or a rock-bottomed ditch or some other artificial straight line that cuts me off at the wrists. A meadow where my laughter joins the buzzing of the bees who happily ignore me to our mutual ease and comfort and pleasure, each dancing our own sweet dance — where I may one moment be quietly entranced by a delicate blossom and in the next be bounding wide across the hills again with daisy petals trailing crazily in my wake. You love me, you love me not, you love me, you love me not — you — it’s time for you to go.
If one more person asks me to be brief, I’m going to be like, “No.”
Photo Credit: “meadow,” by Tobi Gaulke (CC) [source]