Tomorrow: Repeat

Today, I will write something. It will be concise, but dense, a pill in prose. I don't know exactly what it will be, even after I'm finished writing it, because it won't be a story or a poem or a character sketch or a letter or an epistle or an anecdote. This is not by choice. I would much rather write something with an easy label, but easy labels have never been easy for me. I will spend about 30 minutes writing it and then I will spend hours, who knows how many, carving, grinding, scrapping, smoothing. When I am done, I will spend more time, who knows how long, reading it over and over, silent, aloud, pointing at each word, trying to decide if each is in its proper place, that nothing has escaped my attention, though usually something does. Then, when I am sufficiently sick of it, I will post it. One person will read it and find it repetitive - that some old thing she always writes. Another will read it and think, "I could do better." One will read it and not understand. Another will read it and think, "I feel exactly the same way!" Another will think, "How does she come up with this stuff?" And someone will conclude, "She certainly has a lot of time on her hands." Few will read it carefully. More will skim, looking for the twist, of which, there is none. Some will start to read it and not finish. One will read it and write a comment, but then delete it instead of posting it. One will even reread it, to make sure she properly understood. One will read it, searching for himself between the lines. If asked about it later, none who read it, including the author, will remember exactly what it said.  A great many will not read it at all. And tomorrow I will get up and do it all over again.