Pretending I'm a Writer

The woman squatting beside the oranges leaped up hissing, slicing her hands like scissors blades at the two of us, scorching me with eyes so hot the angry chocolate irises seemed to be melting into the white. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."

The beanstalks twisted around the sapling teepees he'd built for them, and then they wavered higher and higher like ladies' voices in the choir, each one vying for the top. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."

Day 283. For a decent post, may I refer you to yesterday's revision? Something tells me the post for today won't be worth a crap.

Obviously, I am reading another Barbara Kingsolver novel. Have mercy. She astonishes me with her craft. The quotes for tonight were chosen strictly because of the beauty in her use of simile. I underline passages in the books I read. Sometimes I am highlighting meaningful context; mostly I illuminate phrases that seem brilliantly crafted. In books by Kingsolver, I may as well coat each page with the broad sweep of a wide rush. Each sentence is breathtaking. It takes me half an hour to turn a page.

I wish I could unfurl simile like Kingsolver. Tonight, I would depict myself as a character stymied by inertia like a trust fund teen listening to Pink Floyd. I would write descriptions such as: Her brain waves were flattened like the mid-term cadavers in Anatomy 101, lying slashed and cleaved in their formaldehyde scented drawers. She had isolated to a point where producing verbal language felt like swimming through ice water while being unable to shiver. She wanted to shriek with boredom and disdain at the very thought of waking up to another day. Her sense of obligation and morality strangled her like the stiffened collar of an acolyte's robes, choking her at the very moment she was expected to glorify God. The immensity of her prolonged goodness enveloped her in an impenetrable fortress of piety from which she wanted to flee, gnashing and fervent in her rebellion like a creature caged too long. Resigned, she returned to her place on the ground, collapsing on the cushion like a snap-release tripod angrily folded by a frustrated photographer unable to get her shot.

Alas, I am not a character in a novel. That would be fiction, and I am far too steeped in Reality to luxuriate in the realm of the imagined. A realistic depiction of me would be far less glamorous than a Kingsolver heroine. I am a tired Buddhist with a bad cold at the end of a long and taxing week. Headed for my cushion - sans the collapse.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc