Just wrote another essay. That’s two in this I-think-collection I’m gathering. Not sure how many I want to collect, but each piece is an essay, standing alone. Gave a wildly poetic and energized lecture on Plath and her poetic radiance, this morning. I keep thinking of the fig tree mentioned in Bell Jar, how the narrator cites starving to death in her inability to pick one. Then, while walking back here to the conference room I though of a singular title on a business card— my sister’s, “Winemaker”. What the fuck is mine?
What do I want it to be?
No punctuation. Just the word. I’ll keep writing, through this whole day, and inventory every effort as I did the other day. Thinking of an essay on Plath, that part of the novel and its universality. Everyone feels that way, at one point, having to choose one thing, or at least something, to be. That’s what they are, that’s what they do. And you live once! Which, of course, makes it even more stressful. “…choosing one meant losing all the rest…”, Plath wrote, but I wonder— Does it have to be that way? What if you limit yourself to a small number of figs? No, you have to choose one. You want to have to only choose and have one. You’ll be stronger that way. I can write, run a business, be a winemaker, be a marathoner, be a tutor, be a copywriter…. One thing, one ME, one story— WRITER
I don’t want any punctuation touching that word, or at least in this context. One author for my study concentration. Yes, her… my darling Ms. Plath. And she’s right, the figs do eventually wrinkle and blacken, so I have to move quick, and I have to choose and never look back. So, changing my mind, I’m a “WRITER.” Why the sudden punctuation, now?
‘Cause I’m a Writer. Period.