Or, The Writer’s Lament
by Ava Mylne
I have to go do the dishes.
How is it that every time I want to do something, there is always something more important to be done? For instance, I sat down at the computer, got down three sentences of mediocre dialogue and found myself thinking about the mountain of dishes in the sink. Dinner is in one hour and I haven’t the foggiest notion of what I am going to make. I call the dinner quandary the “Eternal Question” because it is never answered.
Someday I want a maid.
Better yet, someday I want to know that if I don’t cook, the only person going hungry will be me.
Someday I want a vacation. On a beach. A warm beach, without cold wind and blowing sand, and while I am dreaming, I want a beach chair with the comfort ratio of a Saturday afternoon nap and a blanket. Just in case there is a cool breeze.
Someday I want a cruise. An Alaskan cruise. For a whole two weeks. Someday I want to see the British Isles, and every castle in the world, And I want to dabble my toes in the waves of the Mediterranean Sea.
Someday I want to know that every frustration I stifled, every stinging word I swallowed, every unjust anger that I harbored will be blown away like a spent storm. Someday I want the best that is in me to shine through and the worst to become a nothing so distant that I don’t have to think about it anymore, that I don’t even have to pretend that it isn’t there.
Someday I want to be perfect.
Until then, I will settle for burned oatmeal and a week’s worth of folded laundry used to create a bird’s nest for my three year old on the living room floor. Someday all this will be over, and I will miss it.
Someday I want life to be paradise. But not today.