I just got back from my monthly free-writing class. I feel crappy because I didn’t share anything with the rest of the group, even though I eventually wanted to. I always tell myself that I don’t have to share if I don’t want to, because that loosens me up, allows me to write more freely. If I know I have to share ahead of time, I end up writing nothing at all. Or I write funny or goofy things that are purely for entertainment value. I don’t write “where my energy is”, I don’t write where my heart is that day.
Today I did manage to eek out a few interesting little blurbs. The first I wrote at the very last second, after wasting 10 minutes of a 15-minute free write session getting no where. It was swift and cryptic, so I didn’t share it.
The second blurb was in response to a free-writing prompt where we had to write about a memory. The teacher gave us several common experiences in life, like “A hangover”, “kissing”, “unexpected news”, “a costume”, etc. We had to write down memories we had around those events and then, after we made a list of memories, let one of those memories “pick us” and write about it. I immediately was drawn to a memory I had of kissing. We were supposed to make our lists of memories, then take a coffee break, then come back and write. I just wrote right through the break. That’s what it means to write where your energy is.
I wanted to share this one with the others, but the two women on either side of me read their blurbs, also about kissing, and mine seemed redundant. So I didn’t. And now I feel bad. So I’m putting this blurb in here.
It’s not my first kiss, and yet it is. In my first apartment with the garage sale furniture. You are sitting on the orange and brown plaid rocking arm chair. The head rest has lost its padding and it sags behind your head.
I crawl up your knees from the matted tan carpet and hover awkwardly in front of you, my hands on the arms of the chair. Do I sit on your lap? You’re not that much bigger than I am, so I lean in.
Your mouth is big. All tongue and breath devouring me. Your full lips wet on my skin. I know this isn’t right. But how do I explain to you how to kiss me? My mouth is small. You have to kiss me small.
But I don’t say anything. Not tonight. I’m just glad to be here in this moment with the wall heater clicking, the neighbor’s TV rumbling faintly through the floor. Me in my stocking feet, and you in my arm chair and my heart beating.