Sea Glass

I wake up slowly in the morning, the luxury of working afternoons. After a few months of this, I realize why I’ve always thought I hated waking up early. It’s not the hour that’s the problem—it’s the sharpness of alarm clocks, their automated disregard for the progress of my dreams. The night dreams and the waking.

Waking up slowly, I write scenes. I’d always thought they were fantasies, a luxury whose time-toll I could not afford. Or worse—by-products encasing empty calories, beer bottles tossed carelessly into the sea. But the images feel organic. With room to evolve, they writhe into the shape of drama—first people, then scenes. The scenes replay and I put words to them. Several times in one slow morning, I run the words, then whisper them, head still on the pillow, eyes still shut, until finally the scene comes to a natural end. Climax, dénouement. I open my eyes.

I write by hand. I like the feel of different pens, their sounds as they slide across the paper, the bleeding of the ink as it courses into the fibers. The words people love best are always written by hand.

Showers help when I can go no further. Water courses over the words, picks them up, tosses them, breaks them and rearranges, carries them along, smoothes them out. Running water has a presence and a rhythm that I can close my eyes and hear. And borrow. Later, I can read aloud.

Finally, I type. Tapping fingers have a different rhythm than running water, a different rhythm than coursing ink. The three meld. Always, I change things--words, details, actions. A guiding hand on the back inches closer to the hip. A shout becomes a whisper. Bitten fingernails, a bitten lip. The words I imagined saying, now to be murmured by someone else. But always, they’re mine. Still me. Still to be spoken. Still what would slip out if the phone rang too early, and I answered in my haze, and you asked.