A free-writing rant …
Trifles. Minor details.
My description, not the dictionary’s.
As cumbersome to pronounce from its spelling as the impact it has on life.
Why bother with a trifle?
Why write about something so trivial?
Because minutiae is not trivial. At least in my life it isn’t.
It gets in the way.
It gets in the way of my life as a writer.
Perhaps, you offer, I’m looking at it all wrong? Perhaps it’s what helps to feed the Muse? You know, the details?
Sure! Except it’s the minutiae of which I speak that gets in the way of my ability to write a complete sentence without interruption.
It is the Muse interrupted.
The dog barks.
The soup boils over.
The laundry needs to be switched from washer to dryer.
(Have I folded last week’s laundry yet?)
The Muse, not amused, stews.
Oh … now the dog is sick.
Clean it up.
The cat, confined to the screened-in porch for his daily outdoor activity, is in deep uproarious discussion with the neighbour’s free-wandering feline perched tauntingly on the other side of the screen.
“Look at me … I’m outside. Nya nya na nya na …” in a cacophonic wail.
Understandably indoor kitty roars his disapproval.
“Quiet, already!” I growl.
The door bell rings. Do I want a subscription to a newspaper to which I already subscribe?
“No thanks … don’t you guys talk to each other?”
Now, where was I in my thought process in this particular paragraph of my over-edited novel? A novel I can never get to writing because of all the interrupting minutiae.
God, I can’t remember. What was the turn of phrase I was looking for again?
Now the phone. A long distance ring. I ignore it, but still it’s interrupted my disjointed thought meanderings.
And now, I remember, the bills need to be paid.
And I still need to write thank you notes, which I’m happy to do when I can find an extra moment.
And extra moment! What is that?
And the floor doesn’t look like it’s been swept in a week (which it hasn’t.) I like a tidy house, but I’m no neat freak.
I need to write.
Something else crosses my mind … I need to bag up my horse’s supplements.
Tomorrow before I go to the barn.
And tonight’s supper? It’s Monday night. Homemade chicken soup night. A big pot made to last three nights so I don’t have to cook again til Thursday, except to make fresh salad.
I like to cook. But I don’t want to cook.
I want to write.
Did I make the bed this morning? Does it matter?
Oh, now the dog’s barking again. It’s her “I think daddy’s home!” bark. The whining; squealing, excited noise she makes when he’s five minutes away and she just knows it.
“Mom! Mom! He’s almost hear! I know it! I know it!”
“That’s lovely, sweetie, now … Quiet!”
Now she’s pacing. Pacing. Pacing.
My mind is racing. Racing. Racing.
A wet nose brushes against my bare knee.
“I know he’s almost home, mom. I just know it.”
That’s lovely. Really.
Now let me write.
Frustration mounts. The story line has shifted. New murderer. New methodology.
But what is it? What did I want who to do and with what? And how?
The soup bubbles. I need to look at it.
The dog was right. Her daddy walks through the door.
I wander into the hallway to give, and receive, a big hug.
Finally some substance; sustenance.
I unload. God bless him, he listens.
The air clears. The dog rests. The soup simmers.
Finally, I breathe writing.
The Muse now uninterrupted.
Thanks for visiting …
©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2013