The Writer's Metaphor

The Writers Metaphor
For any of my little writer buddies; you may identify. You remember the time you got that beautiful idea, that spark of inspiration that jumped out at you from the way the light was hitting the wall paper? It’s so much like looking down at that little pink plus mark, you know? Those feelings like you don’t know what to do with this… this thing you’ve been given. And then you’re so afraid because you look at yourself and all the things you’ve done and you think oh god I’m just going to pass on my shortcomings to yet another innocent victim in the cycle. But then this gift suddenly becomes a challenge to be taken in stride and cherish.
You begin to prepare any way you can think of although you really have no idea what to expect. You go out buy a new little book to record the life and achievements of your little baby and find a special place you know the two of you will be able to share. Finally you’ve done all the preparing you could have possibly done and then when it’s time at last you realize that you have prepared at all. You are overwhelmed but you look down at this stunning new person in your life and everything feels like it’s going to be all right; everything will fall into place.
You do your best to make every moment about your baby. You strive to create a well-rounded person with and a kind heart and no flaws. Every morning you do her hair, get her dressed, and feed her a nutritious breakfast. You read her stories. This little person you’ve created is the closest our earth will find to an angel. You don’t want give God any of the credit.
And then it happens. One morning you wake up and it’s like when you fell asleep your baby was just that: a baby. Now the gift you were entrusted with has somehow become every flaw within yourself. Your baby is now a teenager who ran away on your birthday and spit on your toast this morning. You do your best sustain the bonds; you take her out to get her hair done once a month. You drive her to her boyfriend’s.
You look back in baby book fondly to recall when you were excited about putting your wisdom into a person who would so much better than yourself.
And I’m writing more and more of her life in extended metaphors about things I wish I knew how to feel.

I’m approaching that dangerous state of mind in which magnificence is created and old affairs chew a hole in their cardboard box. It’s a place where you stop sleeping because someone seems to have replaced your eyelids with visions of potential.

No more proof reading my own life. No more attachment because fondness goes sour when you leave it out in the sun.
Coeur – Rachel
Ps: there are too many damn candles in this house
Pss: watch running with scissors. It’s a good movie.