I always feel like either I am going to explode with ninety million things I want to write about or freeze up and tell myself I have nothing to say. I should read Running Through the Museum every day because I always need permission. I wish I could own my own stuff and be who I am. I wish I could be a poet like Tori Amos, Fiona Apple or Poe (the musician).
I would write about mermaids and oceans, cold nights with Christmas lights, blue collar New Jersey, drinking games at picnic tables and in garages every night in summer. Cases and cases of Coors Light, double vision and endless laughing. I would write about wine bottles and laundry rooms and new, clean diaper smell; about Steve's copper-colored restored Camaro and Jamie's yellow Jeep Wrangler; about BMX bike racer kids and Rush, REM, Joe Satriani, The Moody Blues and the Beatles.
I would write about only cleaning my bathroom sink and not his. About silver feathers and owls and snowfall and leaf fall and mimic Geraldine Brooks and Edward P. Jones. About fear and getting to the other side, about obsessions and airplanes. About beating yourself up every night about time wasted and cookies eaten. About unexpected explosions of love for the little dog the color of 70% dark chocolate.