Confessions Of a Flailing Writer

It’s 1:35 pm on a Tuesday. I wake up with a jolt, a drooling mouth, and frizzy hair hiding my tired face. The new day barely registers. A peculiar taste sits on my tongue, and I remember the second source meeting I missed this week. I curse myself passionately and crawl back into the unwashed blanket for another hour, until the phone rings. “Of course it’s you, maa,” I nag in a dull whisper, and hit snooze on her. November feels like a sickness that does not heal until you lend it a month’s time. Every breath falls short, and each step draws its own nemesis that gnaws at your bones.

I, for one, did not learn how to escape the gnawing. So, I leap forward, then fall back, and end up on the same square from which I started. As these bones grow weak and blue, my thoughts often play in a loop, reminding me of a past I dread, and a future I might lose.

Ever since I understood what a dream meant, I dreamt of becoming a writer. So, I moved out of my hometown at 18 and decided to carve my own path, treading it bravely, even if alone. I sauntered and erred, flew to New York, mastered journalism at an Ivy League, and now freelance for a dream publication.

But I wish I could take pride in this. A voice keeps barking at me that there is a long road to run, and frantically deletes the words I manage to jot down. She ridicules my mistakes, my regrets, and my unfinished ideas. She reminds me that it has been months since I wrote something. Not for the news, but for myself.

When I hear her sunken sigh, I immediately fold and reach for a lit-up screen to seek shelter in. It’s a crooked screen, though– it gropes me tight, and paralyzes me until I lose the strength to stand and walk away.

In Mel’s Hole, I keep falling deeper with each scroll, mourning a writer who once was.