Reasons For Not Writing

So many winter days begin in rain and end in rain; and thoughts, you know, do have to be dried out quite thoroughly before they can be used again. It is too wet to make a scrap of sense. Instead you put your bike away and drip onto the floor, and wipe damp forehead with damp glove, and think: When summer comes.

The part of you that’s always done the actual labor of it—dragging sentence upon sentence into place, each heavier and more awkward than the last—has recently begun to take appointments, every hour in different buildings. The part of you that knows how this should work—it’s elsewhere. Getting up to god knows what all kind of brand new nonsense. Making bad sketches of the invertebrate olfactory processing system, some days. Or calculating correlation coefficients. Peering at a screen and typing “Phenodata$Bud_rank <- factor(Phenodata$Bud_rank, ordered=TRUE, levels=c(4, 3, 2, 1))” like a damn fool, as if a thing like that could ever actually mean something. I know you think you’re having fun, but you’ve really lost your head.

Or.

You’re nervous, tell the truth. You’ve never stood on this side of the door before—you know the door. It’s got a sign on it. The sign says “SCIENTISTS, COME ON IN AND DO SOME SCIENCE!” You just don’t know what your new voice sounds like on this side, so it feels much safer to be silent.

Well, it’s a new year. Maybe time to clear your throat. Stay tuned.

(The door in my head looks exactly like this.)

(The door in my head looks exactly like this.)

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