“I could write about depression.”
“Not again. You’ve done that one to death. Besides, you’re in a pretty good place today. You beat that sucker like a drum this morning. It didn’t have a chance.”
“Loss and abandonment then.”
“Not feeling it.”
“A love poem then. I am sure feeling that.”
“Come on. Don’t you think their all a bit tired of your smaltzy second chance at love story?” Give it a rest.”
“Something spiritual then. I’ve been doing deeper than normal bible study the last week or two.”
“Oh sure, feed ’em a truckload of theology. You’ll put them to sleep before they get to the second stanza.”
“Politics and lies. Always topical these days.”
“Yawn. They can get that in the news. What makes you think your one voice in the crowd makes a difference? Get real, Atkins.”
“You aren’t making this easy.”
“It’s my job. I’m good at it. Decades of practice.”
“It is pretty outside. A nature poem then.”
“Yeah, Right. Haven’t you noticed how even the die-hard Vermonters are sick of winter? “
“I have just the thing, then,”
“You’ve got my attention. An exposè of what?”
(I smile devilishly.) You.
About this poem, or whatever it is.
My inner conversation this morning. Pretty common actually. When you aren’t feeling writing, you write about not feeling writing.