Member-only story
In Search Of A Safe Subject
Writing on eggshells
I sat in front of my pretend Remington typewriter (really just a dumb Dell).
My partner told me to stop dribbling (down my chin). Did I need a bib?
I’m stuck, I said in my defense.
Are you on Substack again? she asked with a hint of judgement in her voice.
No, the other one.
I thought I saw her eyes roll and then I heard what sounded like a sarcastic groan as she left the room, although it could’ve just been a car outside.
I tried to coax myself into writing something. I wanted to get paid for it so I had to be very, very careful.
What could I possibly write about that wasn’t too close to the bone?
I didn’t want to write about politics tonight. Or the poor brats I tutor. Or cats. Or my stupid childhood. And I wasn’t feeling blue enough to write about depression.
Should I write about indifference?
The stakes were too high to write about indifference. When you were rolling the dice for the potential of ten, twenty, or thirty cents, you were about as far from the feeling of indifference as a gambling addict at a horse race.
