Trying to write

Kate is writing a book. She doesn’t know why anymore. Words spin out of her insides. She knows they may not be the right words but maybe there aren’t any right words. Maybe there’s nothing at all. Maybe that’s the point.

She tells herself her book is going to be a remarkable book, a book to rival all other books, but when she sits and picks up a pen her fingers ache. Bones tingle underneath her skin. She stares out the window instead, at the blue-grey sky, at the leaves shaking in the wind. It is summer and it is hot and the sunflowers outside need watering. The book can wait, can’t it? The book has to wait, doesn’t it?

The truth is, Kate doesn’t even have an idea. She doesn’t know what will happen in the story. Oh, she knows that plenty should happen, that she needs action and conflict, tension and movement, but her mind is dry. Sometimes she wonders if her mind has always been dry. If only she could think of something.

Of anything.

Kate opens the front door. The heat of the day slams into her, presses itself against her body. She breathes out, a deep breath. She feels the heat stick to her skin. It is almost like another layer of skin, and she reaches out and strokes her bare arm.

She walks into the garden but instead of grabbing the hose, the blue watering can, she sits down on the grass instead. The grass is prickly underneath her. In a way she likes the prickle. It reminds her of something and although she’s not sure what, she feels certain it is important. She reaches out a finger and strokes the stubby blades of grass.

Books take a long time to figure out, she says to herself. They do not just happen overnight. There is no hurry.

Some days Kate doesn’t even know why she wants to write a book. Something to do with connecting, with coming back to herself, with understanding who she is.

The heat drips down. Kate plucks a blade of grass up from the ground and threads it through her fingers.

She just needs a little more time to think. To write. To not write.