I have a movie theater in my brain that does not want to be tamed, and it is driving me insane.  It has visuals and audio and smell-o-vision 5000 from the year 3015, and it refuses to behave.  It wants the city to spring forth from my brain full-formed and whole, so that all anyone need do is walk in like a tourist and watch the world tick over, rather than me crawling along like an inchworm, pen in hand, trying desperately to keep up with the tidal wave of sensory input and failing every time.

The closest thing I can find is talking, because my mouth is faster than anything else and I can get enough fragments out fast enough to kind-of, sort-of keep up with the flow, and inflection is better than punctuation at getting the feel of the beat of the moment.  I can put the pounding of the runners’ boots on the rooftops into the staccato of the words, and I can slink-slide Rav’s hips into the grinding, rolling, lolling syllables of the dance.  In text it takes write and rewrite and rewrite to get that, but in voice it’s all about playing with it the first time, or rolling it around in your mouth until it tastes right.  So talking almost works, as long as the music that makes the movies in my head play is there.  The music makes it go, you see.  Without the music it’s an hours-long slog to make anything go.  The music is a shortcut drug to the liminal space where the city lives.

But what is a storyteller without an audience?  A homeless person yelling in the street, sans this year’s fashionable shopping cart.  And without an audience, even with the music, hearing the sound of my own voice trying to play the raconteur turns sour quickly, because what kind of crazy woman tells herself stories?  Imaginary listeners aren’t much better – imaginary friends are for children and the terminally, desperately, clinically lonely, or for those so unutterably vain as to imagine that there are thousands of people who are dying to hear their stories, if only they knew it.

And so I get stuck.  I trail off, or taper out, or just stop talking all together, wrapped up in the story inside my own head, afraid to ruin it by trying to give birth to it, afraid to realize that I am incapable, after all, of bringing it to completion in any real sense.  Writing is work that I have never really proven that I am any good at working at.  But I am getting better at being naked, and if I bare my fear, I force myself to face it.  So I make it public (heh) here, and record it, so that I can call myself to account for staring it in the face.

I will bring this birthing process to bay.  I will drag this wet, sticky, amorphous thing from my brain, and mold it into something beautiful, so that I can prove that writing is work that I am capable of working at.  Reader beware – no one is safe.  Especially not me.