Tongue Tied and Bound

All week long, I've had a brain filled with big stuff, bad stuff, school stuff, legal stuff, and I couldn't say a word. 

It is never a good thing to tell a lover of words she cannot speak: it muffles her completely, shuts her down entirely. Even when she knows she can talk and write about other stuff, all her inane stuff, all her bullshit and gripes, it's that ONE thing that she cannot talk about that is like an anvil at the door she wishes to go through. 

John Updike died. He lived in my 'hood. He wrote three pages everyday like clockwork. He woke up and I don't know if he had coffee or tea but I know that he wrote everyday, like a factory worker, like a slave to it, like a workaday man. He was a whore of a dude, but he had children and if there were not days when his wife upset him enough, I assume there were days when his kids shook him out of his tree. Or just bad news. I am hoping he didn't write on those days. 

But maybe he did? And maybe that's the point. Maybe that's when Rabbit was born.

I need to get all Updikian. I need to be a writer after all.