Starting Small

Ann Lammott advises writers to start small when they feel overwhelmed by the white page before them. Specifically, she suggests writing about childhood school lunches. I want to write about SO MANY THINGS, big and small and scary and hairy (actually just one thing hairy, my apartment floor, because we can’t afford a flipping vacuum cleaner), and bursting with passion, but I’m too overwhelmed.

So I’ll just write, for now, about the fact that I am HUNGRY. I have been running around since 5:30 this morning, and I PREPARED for the day. I packed myself a nutritious breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but FORGOT flatware. So my dinner is sitting under my chair in class (yes, I'm blogging from class) because I can’t figure out a graceful way to slurp or scoop garbanzo beans using nothing but… myself. Ugh.

I imagine having a dear friend or parent or spouse in prison, behind the glass wall thing would feel something like this. We’ve all seen the movies, where separated lovers, one unjustly condemned, place their hands against the screen, the comfort of seeing their beloved almost voided by the torture of not being able to touch.

Or perhaps the man who lost his leg in war, but still wakes to feel it itch. He reaches, only to touch the bedsheets where his leg would have formerly rested, unable to experience the satisfaction of a good, scratch.

My garbanzo beans are the condemned lover, the amputated limb. And I. Am. Hungry.

Back to school.