I can't describe to you the insatiable desire I've had to write. To pull out the brown leather notebook sitting in the closet, the one with notes upon notes and prose and poetry in it, all dedicated to Ezra Pound and Hilda Doolittle, and just write the damn story. The story I've been meaning to write for six years now. I write here and there, but I've had this desire to hunker down and turn out page after page of whatever, nonsense maybe, as long as something gets written.
Because this story, the one about Ezra and Hilda, is becoming a thorn on the blooming rose of my heart. I don't know why it's so important - I knew many years ago - but things have changed and yet...the story remains important to me.
I hear Ezra in the thunder, imagine him standing outside my door just waiting. Hilda is a ghost of a woman sitting beside me, whispering, write it now, write it now, write it now. And it's scary!
And so why don't I write it now? Because I have social obligations or blog posts to write or business ideas to think about or networking to do. Sure, I can believe all that, but what if it's because I'm afraid to show up at the page, wait for the story, but the story never comes.
All I know is I've had an ache in my bones this week. I can't think when I'm reading or writing other things. All I see is that leather notebook sitting in the closet, just waiting.
