The Epic of the Most Extraordinary Writer Who Never Wrote

     If you would have had the most auspicious opportunity to read The Epic of the Most Extraordinary Writer Who Never Wrote then you would know, it defies review, critique, and any attempts at analysis. It's the piece that erases the line betwixt poetry and prose. Fool that I am, given to composing written word about as articulate as Chicago winters are cozy, I'm in no danger of becoming fool enough to offer my two cents on it. However, I just have to venture a tribute. Cue the back story.
   I met a muse with the most beautiful afro the south side has ever seen, she had one of those names that make the chorus of songs, or at least it should: Martine. She blogged, and I blogged, well I tried to blog, tried to try to blog? Don't judge me. We decided to build, I'll encourage you, you reciprocate, and what a pair of writers we'll make. Some time later and we made great friends, not so much great bloggers, but I'm still trying to try and she's still encouraging, she even makes me edit and shows no signs of irritation when I curse her for it. Being the sort of friend who values nurturing some sort of delusion she possesses about me having some talent, more than my comfort, she decided I needed a shot in the arm. Scene: Our two-woulda-coulda-shoulda-bloggers in an art gallery after a riveting panel discussion, one of the panel experts greets Martine.

M: Have you met my friend Amika? She's great!

(Panelist & Amika exchange pleasantries)

M: Something you have in common she's also a great writer!

(Quizzical expression washes over Amika's face)

A: thinks [Now why would she say that when she knows I do not write; I try to try, Panelist please don't ask me what I write]

M: Another interesting thing, this increeeedibly wonderful writer, doesn't write!

A: thinks [ Am I being Punk'd? I thought that show was over? She doesn't even like Ashton Kutcher! I did tell her I never get embarrassed is this some kind of social experiment? What is this strange sensation I feel ?]

P: Why don't you write?

A: I don't know, Martine why don't you rap?

M: laughs I have no talent for rapping, but you are a talented  writer, who relegates profound work to highly unedited infrequent Facebook notes, where only friends, not even friends of friends, can read them.

A: thinks [someone isn't going to have to worry about, as they are about to be unfriended, grrr]

P: So why don't you write?

A: thinks [ I've never minded personal questions, but daaaamn don't you want to know my cup size or how many people I've slept with? ok fine! I'll just lie!] I don't know I guess I'm a mother, of a lot of kids, I'm trying to organize communities, & come up with snarky, hood political analyses, the kids generate way too much laundry & never finish the dishes, I'm trying to make more loot, crack too many jokes, and fantasize about guys, and sitting down to write make me feel like I'm going to be sick. [that wasn't a lie stupid!]

P: Why don't you write about that?

A: Ok. Food smells good; who's hungry?! [Touche Martine! Tou-mutha-freakin-che!]
 End Scene

    The high point is I'm pretty sure I've now experienced embarrassment, and I deeply value friends who dish out such swift kicks to the rear, when needed. The low point is I have no idea what the panelist's name is due to said sensory discovery. So I march home like Miss Sophia goin' to tell off Miss Celie, to write. Leave me lone kids, Mama's got get her honor back! Thirty minutes later I'm queasy, staring at a blank screen, utterly flabbergasted at how hard it is to write the dopest piece ever. I don't even understand why I feel so sick?!  Embarrassment is not nearly as fun as I'd thought it'd be and who knows what tricks Martine will pull next. I have to write! I wonder if I get to the root of this sick feel, can I maybe pluck it out? Here goes, close your eyes: Cue the back, back story.

    Second grade, St. Patrick's Day, we have to write a two paragraph short story under what appears to be a coloring book image of a leprechaun. Everyone else's stories would've fit in a Care Bear movie and I wrote two pages about a leprechaun going all Scarface over his missing gold titled: Why the Chicago River Ran Red Not Green last St. Paddy's Day. At recess my teacher pulled me to the side, and with a perfect smile told me to lay off late night television, but I was a natural born writer! When I handed the evidence of my newfound literary genius to my mom, beaming with pride, she said I was disturbed and to knock it off. In the years to follow I'd be told by several teachers that I was profound, inspiration herself, and would soon rock the literary world. I was once referred to as the next Maya Angelou, by a classmate no less, but Moms never tired of telling me my writing made no sense and how morbid it was, and the necessity I maintained for mental healthcare. She wasn't impressed by my perfect grades either. Sophomore year I got a C on a creative writing assignment. Certain something was amiss, I checked my classmates work; A's as far as I could see. I confronted my teacher about her mistake, and she had the nerve to tell me they delivered their A game, I was a better writer & she was sure that was my C game. She kept the assignment to show to my mom, who decided this one was at least better than the others, and she didn't even care that I got a C, when I never got C's. Okay. Screw you writing, screw you grades, I am now all about being cool and class clowning. That is how I discovered I was also a natural born leader of the pack. I had a few best friends, at different intervals, who found themselves inspired by me enough to rock my style, my catchphrases, my jokes, and my music. Inevitably some hater would hiss in their ear that they were only a number two, and my flunkie. So my friends flew from me, with harsh criticisms.

    As it turns out, quitting writing has nothing to do with quitting being a hypersensitive ass artist, so the creative writing center of my brain became hardwired to senses of penetrating loss, frustration, wasted potential, and maternal disappointment. In addition to discovering my capacity for embarrassment, It appears I found the root of my blank page nausea, my aversion to being called an inspiration and likely why my first email address and the name of this blog coincide. So now I'm sure you've guessed gentle reader, you've no hope of ever reading The Epic of the Most Extraordinary Writer Who Never Wrote because it's stuck in the head of a woulda-coulda-shoulda-blogger, stuck staring at a blank page trying to try to write. Now if you're saddened or pissed off, well you should've believed my mother about my penchant for dark, twisted tales, but take heart gentle reader, remember Martine is clever, persistent, she don't play, I'm pretty sure she can kick my Mom's ass, and if you'll keep reading and commenting I'll keep trying.