bread

Today, everything I start to write has the feel of bullshit. I am trying too hard. Figuring out where to start, how to sound articulate and profound… Then, it becomes all about the reader, not the writing, not the story. I don’t want to agonize over every word, trying to figure out how to paint moving descriptive verbal imagery, like the author of one of the books I have been reading lately. Her book is full of sentences I sometimes find myself rereading 2 or 3 times, not for clarity and comprehension, but to savor them. Her writing is delicious. I want to write deliciously… I want to do more than tell a story. I want the words to stimulate the senses, to inspire a sigh of pleasure, or even a groan of pain.

I was eating gluten free for about 8 months. It seemed to be the right thing to do for my body, at the time, but recently I changed my mind. The reasons are inconsequential, but for 8 months I had nothing with wheat or gluten. For 8 months, I fantasized about the spongy, softness of a loaf of bread. That first piece of buttery bread, after that much time away, was a rare uncomplicated moment of flavorful, textural bliss. That is how I want to write. I want reading the words I put together to feel like my mouth and taste buds felt eating that first piece of real bread, after eight months of nothing but dry and flaky gluten free alternatives. I want to write in a way that feels like a return to the way things used to be, when everything inside is relieved to be reminded of what it recognizes as good.

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