I'm only happy when its complicated

by Amy Turn Sharp



It taunts me.
It looms above me and shakes it's little fat finger at me.
My novel.
It is all up there
on 18 little pieces of paper and
half of it lives inside my computer and the other
half is drowning...

But, I ignore it more and more as I write for some money and build toys for some money and play with my kids and kiss my husband and try and see family and friends and will I ever write that book?

My friend Michelle sings to me each and every time
we hear the song Galileo from the Indigo Girls
She sings a tiny part from it
She has sang it to me since college

But then again it feels like some sort of inspiration
To let the next life off the hook

But she'll say look what I had to overcome from my last life

I think I'll write a book
and always until lately I looked her right in the eye at a concert or the living room of someone's home drunk on red wine and sang out the lyrics loudly and proudly with her...

but lately and I mean the last several years
I kinda look away or ignore that certain part of the song
I worry that I will be a big disappointment to not only myself
but to those who have always sang to me
sweetly

Writers...Are you there?
Did it take a long time to become you?
I am a little lost today.
Last year in in October I told everyone I was going to write a book in a year.
I have failed.

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