Don't Be Discouraged Little Writer

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Don't Be Discouraged Little Writer

By Mechele Cassells
Feb. 4, 2005

And so I say I like to write... yet leave the pages as empty as the jar that I have just sipped from.. all the water that now sits inside me.. resting from the journey it has taken. It is very hard for me to try to write something structured and formal. In attempt to write down feelings and reasonable ideas. I throw words around the room without any remote purpose, and even before I fully understand my thought pattern, this comes out and the hole I have made in the wall… me thinking I'm a baseball player in a field as pretty as strawberry. I will try now to write something entertaining for the both of us. I can venture slowly.. I'm not as scared as I seem ..into this mass supply of empty pages, only to know that I am doing you a favor. Filling out the pages with words, a recollection of the things that I had thought I lost somewhere. sometime. long before now. jotting down the substance of my life, so you will not be discouraged by the awkward white silence or the pale blue lines that have so often discouraged me.

My love and ink.

(Monday)

Sometimes I feel like going somewhere, just like those times when I feel like wearing red lipstick, or ordering pizza, or renting a movie. But you and I both know that my car wouldn’t make it to any of those places I think about going. My car will barely get me to work let alone Seattle, the lake, San Francisco, or the nearest Denny’s. Your car although it looks like it’s in better shape than mine wouldn’t do either. Not that I am at all complaining, I’ve been blessed with long dark eyelashes, good decision making abilities, and an eight-hundred and fifty dollar Volvo. But my thoughts of being content often have so little to do with my thoughts of the Eiffle Tower, Hugh Grant, or the look of surprise on your face when I send a postcard from some island.

(Tuesday)

A lot more used to cross my mind. more conventional ways of doing things. Analyzation after analyzation….. And then a whole screenplay… with the characters, music, and wardrobe, all ready to go. I had the perfect plan, a complimentary line, and a whole night lost of sleep. It was perfect.

(Wednesday)

Shut up! I tell myself as I look in the mirror, and try to figure out what’s lovely about my face.

(Thursday)

A poem like an important phone call that you have to take because you won’t be home later on that day to receive another. Is to me just about as wonderful as a night with our backs down against the top of my car, feet dangling into the sunroof, the stars looking down at our faces all bright by the moon. My sentence not as long as the look you stole from me across the room, in my purest form, no perfume, no dangling earrings, apron all tied in a knot, which could just as easily have been my stomach, full of wonder, or extreme anticipation, for conversation with a mystery. If this is the reason I’m a spinning record at three-thirty, I’m not against staying home to receive the phone call, or working late nights to watch you sit down and read from across the room with your coffee in hand, and my heart on my sleeve.

(Friday)

At least you gave me something to write about. I feel like a reel to reel. Cut and splice. Cut and splice. Edit this. Let me see you try.

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About the author: Mechele Cassells is 22. One day she will own her own radio station, write a couple books and get married. In the meantime she'll just play guitar, drink coffee, and eat dictionaries. That's the life!

http://profiles.myspace.com/users/16940497

Email: mecheolight@aol.com

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