Page 78 of Sad Girl Hours
“You and Vivvie, you’re both so poetic about these things. Also, yes. Little bit.”
“Well, who knows what’ll happen over the holidays? All the excitement, the late-night parties, all that time together under the mistletoe…” She resumes waggling.
“Uh-huh,” I say tensely. “Who knows?”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Nell
The following day I’m all packed and ready to go. Saffron had a wobble last night and messaged me three times to askare you sure this is OK??, to which I replied withyes, you muppet/YES, you titand, finally,Saffron do I need to come over there and poke you with a very large stick? It’s still fine. MORE than fine.Followed by, more earnestly,I’m so excited. Are you excited?
Oh yes. I’m definitely that xxx, which, embarrassingly, made me go all goofy and press my face into my pillow.
I feel as though I’m moving in circles.
I’ve seen that tree before
And that one And that.
I would swear to it.
But I don’ t feel as though I’ve seen anything else.
Even the flowers that circle around the trunks
of each mighty oak
seem to change to a different colour every time I look.
The urge to rip each crocus from the earth
to prove that things are shifting
is almost irrepressible
My fingers itching, throbbing
against my ordinarily fickle restraint.
But I cannot, will not.
I will not disturb something so small and beautiful,
so persistently hopeful, that poked its way up from the dark
without knowing it would be greeted by the light.
Not even to prove I am lost.
Not even to prove I am found.
I put my pen down, both satisfied and not, and then tuck it and my notebook into the tote bag that’s hanging over the handle of my suitcase. Ever since the Ferris wheel, I’ve been cranking out poems like there’s no tomorrow. Not because my block’s been ‘cured’ by the fact that I’m now feeling sexual as well as romantic attraction towards Saffron, or anything ridiculous like that. Jenna’s an amazing playwright and she’sneverexperienced that kind of attraction, and I’m not producing better poetry just because I am experiencing it. I’m producing better work because I feel as though I’ve got to know myself a little better now.
Which is all very helpful – given that my deadline is looming – but also frustrating as all hell because I still don’t have an ending. I can futz around with the order of the poems all I like, but I know I’ve not built up to the elusive end point.
I still have more to write, whenever I finally work out what it is I’ve been trying to say. I can tell there’s something. I can feel the hints of it threading through everything I’ve written so far, but it’s not announced itself to me yet. And I could really do with it doing that, given I only have a few weeks to finish and submit it all before the deadline in the new year.
Ugh.It’s so hard wanting to be great when your brain won’t let you.
