Woeful Writer

I look around my cluttered room: piles of clothes heaped on the solitary chair imploring me to put them away. The neatly folded laundry sits in tightly packed plastic bags—the handiwork of my industrious Korean drycleaners—keeping my room from looking like my closet threw up all over it. Normally, I would welcome the "cleaning" distraction; the most productive form of procrastination.

My tiny, fluffy, white pup looks up at me expectantly—bravely climbing the highest tower of clothes to nuzzle his wet, black nose against my naked knee. His encouragement melts my listlessness. I hear my Mother’s voice—high-pitched with the slightest British-influenced Indian accent—bragging to a room full of Aunties: “You should see some of my daughter’s writings. She has real talent. Most of it is completely over my head, she is that good. Do you want to see?” I can see them clearly: nodding patiently, awaiting their turn to brag about children who are doctors and lawyers, more importantly married to doctors and lawyers; armed with wedding photos and pictures of their grandchildren. All my mother has is a poem I wrote about her for Mother's Day.

I shake away the guilt and shame as I realize that most of my work lately has been penning porn for profit. My writing amounts to reams of pages detailing my most lewd fantasies, highlighting erotic dreams, and capturing my most indecent moments. I try to scrub clean the curb in my mind filled with months of carnal defecation—now what?

I’ve spent years trying to sound better than I am; struggling to be better than I can be. The feelings of ineptitude and anguish unite but don’t produce writer’s block. They lead to pages of drivel: words are my doodles with no exciting beginning or coherent end.

I can’t stop writing. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to surrender. I write to protect. I write out of frustration. I write out of regret. I write when it rains and I write when it snows. I write so I can feel the sunshine and the warmth within me grows. I write to stay sane. I write away my pain. I write to dull the ache of the blank page. I write about my secret life: the one with no boundaries or strife. I write with everything I’ve got. I write and write; I just can’t stop!