This is something I wrote when I was 20 years old and at a loss for words (for once). To deal with my sudden disconcerting writer’s block, I came up with this:
I want to write about flowers. I want to write about how they are beautiful, about how they are symbolic, about how, no matter what, they are in some way appropriate for the mood, depending upon their type, depending upon their color, and depending on their season. I love flowers. I wish I was a flower. I am a weed.
I want to write about coffee mugs. I want to write about how, no matter what, you can always tell the comfort level of a household by what type of coffee mugs are in the house. You can see where people have been, if they are grandparents, if they are mothers or if they know people who have been to NYC or Las Vegas. I love how you can tell if they have or want a sense of humor, how old they are, how much they drink coffee, how much coffee they drink at a time, if they like tea, if they like personalized coffee mugs with photographs and names written on them, or if they like the standard school-system coffee mug that comes as a complimentary gift through active participation in PTO, SAC, or faculty.
I want to write about pasta. I want to write about how you can tell a person’s eating preferences and attitudes towards life through the types of pasta you find in their pantries. I love how you can predict raman noodles in a college dorm or apartment, I love how you can catch spaghetti or cavatapi in any ethnic house hold, how mac and cheese is found in the home of a child or a bachelor, and how women collect far too much of it during the rainy season.
I want to write about pancakes, about how it’s different to wake up when it’s raining versus when it is sunny, about how the dust in the air is only evident around light fixtures, and about how, for some reason, everybody at one point or another, searches in a card shop for generic “thank you” cards with amazing, meaningful sentiments.
I want to write about how, for some reason, it takes people moving away before they come together, and I want to write about what it feels like to realize that I’m a twenty year old who wants to be married and retired and content with somebody who is not only my love, but my companion above all. I want to write about what it is like to watch a father and son wrestle in a pool during summer, about what it is like to see a mother watch her child graduate, about what it is like to see two people who have been married for over twenty years sit down together by a fire and drink wine and laugh about day to day activities that don’t mean much, but make up their lives enough to be incredibly important and wonderful.
I want to write about what it is like to watch fireworks go off in a beach when you’ve just snuck out at around midnight with your friends…about the crackling, about the whistling, about the waves that crash evenly and passionately onto the shoreline as one of you skims by on a skimboard while everyone dances eccentrically around the bursts of color and noise and heat and night. I want to write of the struggles of relationships, of the amazing bond you find as soon as somebody is about to leave for a long time, about the happiness of a return, of the mystery of a kiss, and of the complex void of the heart. I want to write it all. I want to end my writer’s block.
~ Kara “Munchkin” Adamo~