Some days, sitting down to write is painful. Still, when you read other writers’ advice, it is always along the lines of the Nike ad: “Just do it.”
There’s another ad out there which just struck me today. I comes from Quicken Loans. Get this:
The American dream is terrifying…the scary thing being the exact thing we have to do: cross that ocean, walk on that moon, fly. None of this makes rational sense, it only makes American sense. Here, the hard things show us who we are: leaving your job to start your own thing… Scary, sure, but no match for our colossal self-belief. We’re supposed to do scary. Without scary, we don’t get to be brave.
Quicken Loans spot, “Buy In“
Today is Day 29 of NaPo. Tomorrow will be the last. Here’s today’s rough draft:
Maybe this is why all romances are written with “Happily for Now”
because when love dies, you’re disemboweled. The knife shoves in
and draws slowly up through the soft center of your body. You pray
for the heart to be pierced, for the quick death. But the next day
marches on and you still breath. So we tell ourselves the fairy tales
of love, avoiding the thirty-five or forty-year after. Happily, or not
is never the topic of that conversation. The first forty seconds though
contains what your stomach knows, and its bottom drops out – full
with your kiss, your scent, the taste of your breath. The stomach
knows what hunger is. It remembers. It knows that abundance
never lasts past tomorrow and it remembers the growl of want.
And yet we proceed against the very warnings of our belly. We move
forward each day closer to this disaster of desire, this want of you
and you’re gone – whether you’re dead, or found love with yet another.
Both are the same blade in the stomach and you will never, ever
be retrieved. I will never again be filled with you. And yet we proceed –
foolishly begging with each kiss, caress, each orgasm of joy to please,
please, please have all of our happiness killed before us. What is love
but giving someone the knife; holding their hand to place its point
between the esophagus and the spleen and hoping with all
your childhood dreams that they will push the blade all the way through.
You live to die before the death of your love. They call you brave on your bed,
but instead, you smile, wave a hand, kiss a cheek, and let your eyes go grey.