Beans

Life is about throwing beans at the wall and seeing what sticks. 

I’ve been struggling with writing. Well, it’s not quite the writing. Or the ideas. I got plenty of those. It’s the finishing. 

(That happened fast: I’m a struggling writer writing about writing. Shet up.)

I have a piece about how having teenagers during a pandemic is like having toddlers again. I call them Pandemic Teenage Toddlers. They’re terrible. So is the piece.

I have a piece about Kamala Harris. How black women are Queens and white women are Cream Cheese. It’s mildly offensive. To all races. And Gen-Xers.

I have a piece about how I cried on the way to my final appointment with Dr. Boob Genius while listening to Dear Evan Hansen. There’s audio clips in it. It’s deeply personal and hard to string together.

And I’ve even started a piece about how Dolly Parton actually led me to the Divine. Yes, it happened. But. Ugh. 

I have a million one-liners just waiting to be joined together.

And that’s just the problem. Maybe they don’t have to be strung together. 

I’ve been trying to bake bread with my stories. Folding words into each other like an elaborate dough. Letting it rest. Beating it down to shape it again. 

I need to think of my writing like beans. Open a can. Throw in some garlic and onion powder. Cook it for 20 minutes. Serve.

Yoga is teaching me about process. It’s practice, not perfection. This doesn’t have to be complicated. So I’ll write everyday. Like it’s my job. 

Welcome to my first can of beans. You’re in it. 

I’m going to make beans every day. Lock myself away, and throw the beans at the wall to see what sticks. 

That’s not how beans work? Oh. Whatever. I don’t like beans anyway.

Maybe some days I'll make bread instead.