Mys
Been reading about other writers lately,
searching for reasons to figure out what
I’ve been up to for some years making poems
and stories all the time, almost every night,
like an addiction… sometimes past four in the morning.
No two stories are ever the same but parts of ten stories can
be similar. All the writers say they were happiest and
wrote best when they were poor, hungry, and lonely,
and that their fondest memories come from these days when they had
nothing; when they became famous and rich, they weren’t
happy and found it hard to write good stuff anymore because of all
the distractions. Most had lived simple lives and were not used to
comfortable things and attention from others. The reasons that
drove them crazy and away from writing well sounded like this:
My Agent, My Editor, My Publisher, My Lawyer, My Accountant,
My Banker, My Stockbroker, My Housekeeper, My Manager, My Psychiatrist,
My Architect, My Nutritionist, My Plastic Surgeon, My Realtor, My Landscaper,
My Dog Groomer, Horse Trainer and Fly-fishing Guide, My Chef, My Mansion, My
Beach House, European Villa, My Ex-Husband, Ex-Wives, My Marriage, My Divorce,
My busy schedule, My Anxiety, My work-out schedule, My drinking and
Prescription drug problem, My Fans, My Picture in the Paper, My Critics
and My Lovers or My Lack of Lovers and My Cat, Dog, Goldfish, organic
vegetable garden, My Neighbors, My Doorman, My Headache, broken toe, leaky
window and My and My and My and…… My, no wonder why they couldn’t write a
single sentence worth a damn anymore.
So for many, once they got stuck in the quicksand of My’s they were finished.
The My’s had them trapped and kept sucking them deeper towards the bottom
of the My abyss. And those fortunate enough to get unstuck lock
themselves into a hole in their castle; windowless quarters that resemble
the rooming houses and cheap apartments and hotels where they stayed poor
and humble before they had any My’s—just a crummy TV set that has four
channels, a bed, and a table for everything else that
matters. Cars and trucks rumbling by, winos fighting in the park, and
hookers holding up building corners with high heels. The only choice each
night is to pour their souls out onto damp yellow pads using pens that
skip ink, or go down the street to the bar and eat the peanuts and talk to
the drunks until you become one or realize that even your low-class room
is better than this place and, at least, it doesn’t smell like stale beer
and filled ashtrays
But even the deepest hidden chamber cannot protect them from
being attacked by the My’s. They wait until the Castle My’s sleep and
creep past them, always keeping one beady, red eye open. And behind
bolted doors the writers pound their heads with fists commanding, “Write,
brain, write! Why can’t you write, you useless brain?” as the My’s creep
in slowly, slithering under the door and through tiny cracks in the wall
and up through the floor and vents and from everywhere, laughing and mocking
like bloodthirsty clowns.
searching for reasons to figure out what
I’ve been up to for some years making poems
and stories all the time, almost every night,
like an addiction… sometimes past four in the morning.
No two stories are ever the same but parts of ten stories can
be similar. All the writers say they were happiest and
wrote best when they were poor, hungry, and lonely,
and that their fondest memories come from these days when they had
nothing; when they became famous and rich, they weren’t
happy and found it hard to write good stuff anymore because of all
the distractions. Most had lived simple lives and were not used to
comfortable things and attention from others. The reasons that
drove them crazy and away from writing well sounded like this:
My Agent, My Editor, My Publisher, My Lawyer, My Accountant,
My Banker, My Stockbroker, My Housekeeper, My Manager, My Psychiatrist,
My Architect, My Nutritionist, My Plastic Surgeon, My Realtor, My Landscaper,
My Dog Groomer, Horse Trainer and Fly-fishing Guide, My Chef, My Mansion, My
Beach House, European Villa, My Ex-Husband, Ex-Wives, My Marriage, My Divorce,
My busy schedule, My Anxiety, My work-out schedule, My drinking and
Prescription drug problem, My Fans, My Picture in the Paper, My Critics
and My Lovers or My Lack of Lovers and My Cat, Dog, Goldfish, organic
vegetable garden, My Neighbors, My Doorman, My Headache, broken toe, leaky
window and My and My and My and…… My, no wonder why they couldn’t write a
single sentence worth a damn anymore.
So for many, once they got stuck in the quicksand of My’s they were finished.
The My’s had them trapped and kept sucking them deeper towards the bottom
of the My abyss. And those fortunate enough to get unstuck lock
themselves into a hole in their castle; windowless quarters that resemble
the rooming houses and cheap apartments and hotels where they stayed poor
and humble before they had any My’s—just a crummy TV set that has four
channels, a bed, and a table for everything else that
matters. Cars and trucks rumbling by, winos fighting in the park, and
hookers holding up building corners with high heels. The only choice each
night is to pour their souls out onto damp yellow pads using pens that
skip ink, or go down the street to the bar and eat the peanuts and talk to
the drunks until you become one or realize that even your low-class room
is better than this place and, at least, it doesn’t smell like stale beer
and filled ashtrays
But even the deepest hidden chamber cannot protect them from
being attacked by the My’s. They wait until the Castle My’s sleep and
creep past them, always keeping one beady, red eye open. And behind
bolted doors the writers pound their heads with fists commanding, “Write,
brain, write! Why can’t you write, you useless brain?” as the My’s creep
in slowly, slithering under the door and through tiny cracks in the wall
and up through the floor and vents and from everywhere, laughing and mocking
like bloodthirsty clowns.
© 2007 by Michael Domino
Michael Domino
September 5, 2007
September 5, 2007