Writing in Bed
The bedroom door is closed. People are asleep in other rooms. I reach for the light and open the drawer of the nightstand, fumble for a pen and my journal, a spiral-bound sketchpad. I accomplish this without exposing much of myself to a cold November morning. Now I can lie on my left side, making room for the notebook and pulling the down comforter around my shoulders.
It is the writing pose of a teenager hiding the feelings she needs to express. "I hate them. They don't understand me. Guess what they did yesterday. I am so sad and lonely. When I'm dead and they find my writing, then they will know and it will serve them right."
It is the writing pose of a fugitive hiding behind the closed door, beneath the covers, writing in the quiet night. "I am in enemy territory, but there's news from the front. I have integrated into their world, watched closely, acted like I belonged. I don't know how long I will be here. Maybe forever. I need to keep a record, let someone know I was always a spy. I couldn't help it."
It is my writing stance when that's all I can do; when I want to capture the thoughts and images that float between my unconscious and conscious mind; when I don't have the discipline or the courage to sit at my desk, door open and during the best part of the day, and say to myself and those around me, "Don't bother me. I'm writing."
