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  • Writer's pictureFern

What to Write?

I could write about the book I’m forcing myself to read maybe I’m in over my head, but suffice to say, it’s not my area of interest, but I can’t reveal what it is or maybe I'll write about a wonderful book I started to read, that I love, but it is such a painful reminder of my personal health trauma of last year that I can’t continue to read it without falling apart from the flashbacks.

I could write about the marauding woodpecker that has taken a liking to the back corner of the house I hear the loud rat-a tat-tat as I walk into the kitchen, I run into the yard like a madwoman screaming up at a small bird with a brilliant red headdress, “Cut it out!” I could write about writing or… not writing the next cozy mystery that I have mostly in my brain but only half on paper “Ramona” gets under my skin and an early alpha reader tells me after reading the first chapter “More, more!” But I haven’t finished editing “What Happened to Harry” my focus seems besmirched lately or maybe it always was, when I get antsy at the computer I escape downstairs to my studio where all is play and color and distractions and paint and smells and possibility I could write about instances of humanity that anger me, upset me, confound me, about righteous people who judge, with arrogant disregard for feelings as though they are above judgment themselves, I could write about such bullies and big mouths, who seemingly glide smoothly thru life though we all know there is no such thing; we know how a beautiful shiny shell smells rank inside, like dead sea water.

Or should I write about the crisp autumn air, the gold and orange leaves that brighten the roads and mountains, form a backdrop to Mowers’ Saturday Flea Market in Woodstock, where beauty and bargains and friendly folks Browse and chat, they pick up and pick through, jewelry and small treasures, scintillating vinyl discs, brilliant crafts, lavender sachets, spirituality in stones, pottery, leather, air ferns, hot dogs, and hippie clothes, Or can I write about a chat with a local artist whose paintings I have admired for years, how years ago those of us in the Woodstock retail trade watched him as he walked down Tinker Street outfitted in pajamas and fuzzy slippers, a lovely girl beside him how my boss once stopped by his studio/house because he’d always told her, “Stop by anytime, Carla!” and there, in her rather uptight, executive director, pants suit, she found she had awakened him, late on a Saturday morning, but he made her tea, insisted she stay and she sat primly sipping tea, him in his pajamas, He asked me about her today all these years later I had to tell him that she passed a few years ago. he looked sad. But can I write about my chat with him and how we touched on so many things, including Emperor Constantine in A.D. 325, who may, or may not have, determined catholic priests be celibate, thereby keeping money in the church rather than leaving it to their families... But that aside, can I write about how all that chat resulted in my buying, at long last, one of that artist's fantastic paintings, Can I write about how an impulsive “I want that!” leaped out of my mouth, and I became the proud owner of a Justin Love painting. Can I write about how my day suddenly got brighter?

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