The other day I was feeling particularly enterprising so I did some reading for my Lit class and started writing a short story based around this feeling I had. Every once in a while you have these days where you just want to pack a suitcase and run away from your life, a vacation from the day to day minutiae–or maybe that’s just me.
I started thinking what my son, who is two, might think if he woke up one day and Mommy was gone. Then I added a few years to the character’s age in the story, more like my daughter’s, so his theories could be fanciful, but also comprehensible. I ended up getting fixated on the idea of Mommy going into space on an alien ship. Nothing scary, just fun thoughts like wondering if the spaceship has life jackets like a ship in the sea.
When I got to the part about the routine that Mommy is an integral part of, I unintentionally started rhyming and had to break out of it before I had a poem halfway through my story. Maybe because I was tired or maybe I was being lazy, I decided to write a separate poem later using what I had already written and expanding on it.
Which brings me to today. I set out with the intention of doing just that, but for whatever reason, I didn’t feel it. I know writers are supposed to push through and do it anyway, but I have the sense that I’m better off leaving things in their present form then separating and reworking them another day. At least the words are out there.