How does anyone ever decide what to write about anything. I’ve been a writer for most of my life, and for some reason this blinking cursor is hypnotizing me, making me forget all the successes I’ve had in the past. Those pieces of fiction and poetry that I was so proud of, that essay that everyone thought was poignant and succinct, all of that never happened and I have never written anything worthwhile before this moment. Or at least that is what the cursor wants me to believe. I don’t know why the cursor is such a jerk, but I’ve been dealing with its mood swings for years and you would think I would be used to it by now. Nope. It’s still like a cranky uncle you don’t want to bother while he’s watching his sports teams. Instead you just go in the kitchen and quietly . . . Quietly . . . find a snack.
But the cursor can be used to your advantage. Think of it as like a speed bag and you’re an up-and-coming boxer and you have a rigorous training regiment that must be followed in order for you to be ready for the big fight to save the Rec Center. You see, your trainer, the scrappy old gym owner who’s wife runs the Rec Center, he placed a bet with his old high school rival that he could train someone to beat his prize fighting son in the ring, and if he does, the Rec Center doesn’t get torn down to make way for a strip mall. You, you are the new kid in town that needs some direction. You went down to the Rec Center to avoid your uncle and the scrappy old man saw you wailing on an old punching bag and decided to take you under his wing. So now you’re eating eggs and punching carcasses and your mp3 player only has one song, “Eye of the Tiger”, and it’s on a loop. And in the midst of this nonstop body building montage, you are slowly mastering the technique of the speed bag while trying to look cool doing it. It’s not working out too well. The problem with the speed bag, as with the cursor, is that every time you punch it, it comes back at you. And the harder you punch it, the faster it bounces back. Also if you get too close and careless with your speed bagging, you’ll get busted in the face and get your teeth knocked out.
So in this dangerous game, you should always remember what is at stake. The Rec center. And whatever it is that you call a Rec Center don’t let the evil dad of that famous boxer take the land from your scrappy coach’s wife to make a strip mall. Fight for what is right. Make the speed bag obey you. Also wear a mouth guard.
I think this analogy fell apart somewhere, but you get the idea probably. The point is the victory will be sweet no matter how bloody your face looks at the end of the fight. In fact, I can see it now. You’ll push your way through all the camera men and reporters and folks wanting your autograph and you’ll find your scrappy old coach and give him a hug and say, “Man, Coach, I thought we’d never come back from that one.” And he’ll look back at you with a puzzled squint and say, “What the heck are you talking about? That was just the press conference.”
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Use It or Lose It.”