Little me

 In college I read a story in my creative writing course called, "Big me". Right now I'm feeling little. This afternoon reading from this book I found at a library once, I was inspired to consider writing fiction, which I hardly ever do. I suppose I would be a real creative if I could only stomach other people's writing. I, myself, don't want to offend anyone. And I hate novels. Only short stories for me. 

I am laying on my bed now and I am kind of putting together little inspired phrases after reading. Driving home the day after my book arrived, by mail, I threw the library copy away, I was peering into the darkness of tree covering, saying something about how close the darkness is to the open road. It seemed to me some "other person's" brilliant inspiration, so that I am poking fun at fiction writers for days now. Phrases are popping up like pimples on a freshman's cheek. These people take themselves too seriously, I say. Right now I am too cool for fiction. We are all freshman. We are in the same game. All the voices sound like one big echo chamber, and no one has anything really to say. But I read four different stories this morning. One story that I liked used my least favorite word, "titties". The word is so awful I don't even want to write it here. But the rest of it was okay.

I am lying on my back, grabbing my feet and rolling them up toward the bar of my headboard. I start to realize this behavior is childlike, and want to warn my younger self about how I cannot get this kind of thing out of my system. Look I say, this is me, I'm 45 and I'm doing bed yoga, and I'm stuck in fiction voice! Do you like who you've become? I ask this, knowing I always like myself. I always will. 

I know this because I'm a good Catholic girl who fears mother superior and finds tree breezes sensational! I busy myself with duties and find chocolate a temptation. All of the good ones do, and the other girls talk about their sins. Everyone, even the good girls, seem to have some bitterness and every other story has a bit of sun through the leaves. All of us are Catholic girls.

I feel good about myself because I'm uptight and fearful. And I know MYSELF better now because six of 15 girls feel this way! We are all women now, a few are naughty. This book feels like home, or church, or school.

 I'm still lying on my bed thinking this way. Something tells me to write it down, and that is what I'm doing. The sun surges from behind clouds outside the window. I feel God agrees.