Prized

I write on the tiniest sliver of a desk.  In the space of wall between the sliding wooden doors of my bedroom and the built-in shelves of movies.  For Field Guide, I wrote here for hours nearly every day for 2.5 months.  Staring at this monitor, this weird photo of my kid in a black cowboy hat, the serpentine wires of the computer hardware.  I played Nada Surf’s See These Bones (Live) on repeat.  For days.   Listened to The National’s Boxer.  It’s dark in this living room/dining room/office.  The box ceilings, the walnut woodwork, the looming maple trees blot out the sky.  I remember it as struggle.  Coming like a supplicant to this desk every day to write a martyr’s tale.  A quiet tragedy.

I remember the misery of my relationship.  The loneliness.  I remember pouring my claustrophobia and isolation into the book.  I remember the joy of writing a child.  His perception.  His goodness.  I remember the days when the dogs cocked their heads at me as I paced around acting out scenes.  Hollering dialogue.  Cackling like a fucking lunatic.  I remember the madness.  The seizure.  The way the characters take the story from you, and run ahead.

Alone in my head.  My planet-sized ego tender as a dumpling.  Always the difference between the clarity of my intention, and the letters on the page.

I remember the hardness.  The food.  I remember the delicacy of memory and heartache.  I remember Kelly telling me to write the joy.  I remember the snow falling.  The truck on the road.

Last night, Field Guide won the Lambda Literary Award, while G and I sat on the couch watching Spirited Away.  The disconnect of the writer’s life.  From mind cave to public act.  When they phoned to tell us, Gavin and I jumped around with our arms raised, hollering.  The dogs cocked their heads at us.  The scene painfully familiar to them.