Some days...

Some days writing is easy.  Not flawless, but effortless.  The words tumble out, bouncing off the page, some falling right into place, some needing to be shaped and slotted into the sentences.  The end result still needs polishing and rearranging; furniture moving into a new configuration in a brand new house.  But it works.  Somehow, it works and the same words you've heard or said before, magically assemble on a page to form something unexpected and different.  It's so easy, it's practically cheating.  So easy, you ask yourself why you don't do it more often. And then you wonder whether this truly is your writing or whether, without meaning to, you've just recreated something you've seen.  It can't be this simple, can it?

Some days writing is painful.  The words hide under the cushions or in the cobwebbed crevices.  You persevere, dragging each one out; a resisting toddler, bent on doing the opposite of what you want.  They are slow, surly and moody and they shuffle along, muttering to themselves, mocking you and jeering at your efforts.  They don't cooperate with each other and they certainly don't cooperate with you.  And still you keep at it, coaxing and pleading, and finally offering bribes in the form of new writing prompts and journaling ideas, but it's all for naught.  The sentences come out crooked, the paragraphs in need of an axe not a soft cloth.

You find yourself glancing at the clock, refreshing the lukewarm cup of tea, staring at the candle that you lit with hopes of inspiration hours ago.  You look anywhere and everywhere, except onto the page where a silent mutiny is taking place.  You ask yourself why you bother.  Your ear catches the distant sound of a TV in another room and for a moment you imagine yourself stretched out on the couch, lost in a numbing bliss of someone else's life.  You look at the page again, weighing your options.  It's not too late to scrap the whole thing.  Two keystrokes and the page will once again return to pristine whiteness.  And who would know or care, anyway?  These are your words, you dragged them out, you can obliterate them.

Is it your imagination or has the grumbling ceased?  Is there a chance of recovery?  Your eyes scan the awkward sentences, lingering on the half-developed phrases, tripping over pretentious adjectives and tired adverbs littering the page like leftover confetti after the party is over.  There's no use pretending this is salvageable.

Some days writing just isn't.

Hate

Fiction alert...
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Nobody has ever hated me as much as I have hated him. 

The mere mention of his name would send an involuntary shudder through me, culminating in clenched teeth and tense shoulders, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.  The depth of my hatred frightened me and yet I stoked it.  I allowed my brain to play out endless scenarios with him as a participant, fanning the heat of the disgust and revulsion.  Uncontrollable and barely suppressed under the veneer of forced politeness, the hatred was forever bubbling under the surface, ready to spew forth as so much pus from a festering wound.  I couldn't stand to be in the same room with him.  I couldn't bear the sound of his voice.  Every time he opened his mouth, I wanted to scream at him to shut up; scream until I was hoarse just to drown the sound of his voice. 

Avoiding him became a grim game of wills, but for each success, there were numerous failures and the hatred ballooned inside me.  When I had to endure his presence, I tried removing myself mentally, pretending that he wasn't there, but his presence filled the rooms.  I would catch a glimpse of him and the bile would rise in my throat, poisonous fumes of loathing pulsing through my blood.  When he invaded my personal space, my skin would crawl.  The enormous effort I had to expend to not recoil, to not lash out and hit him, when he got too close made me resent and hate him even more. 

I wanted him gone.  Not just from my presence, but obliterated.  In my happiest fantasies, he was gone from my life; not just the present, but wiped from my memory.  I wanted my life washed clean from the residue of his existence.  What I wouldn't have given for our paths to never have crossed.  It's too late for that, but one can hope.  And hate.

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Disclaimer: This piece was written purely as a writing exercise.  It is not based on any specific person, past or present.