An epiphany slapped me across the face in the shower this morning. Bet you didn't even know epiphanies were waterproof.
I have come to the conclusion that I gotta do what I gotta do. Enough with my unnamed project languishing like a limp, vampire-drained maiden across a chaise lounge on the second-floor veranda in the morning humidity. I cannot change my spots. I need to write like there's nobody reading. Which is likely not so far-fetched.
I'm not talking about pieces I plan to submit to various and sundry call-outs. I can play by the rules as competently as the next writer when I so choose. However, when it comes to my seething cauldron of creative juices that will eventually be rendered into a tasty treat for a decidedly eclectic palate, I must let my freak flag fly. To do otherwise would be a gross disservice to my voice. I refuse to become a barkless dog. Or a mockingbird. One style does not fit all.
No, I will not be a stifled Edith Bunker. I will not try to type with one hand tied behind my back and the other encased in an insulated, waterproof mitten. Like Kramer, I'm out there, baby, and lovin' every minute of it. Only with the benefit of underwear. There was no groundbreaking incident that led to this decision. No forty-eight-hour marathon in my dark basement lair, chain-sipping Diet Coke. It just hit me this morning.
I blame the thyroid meds.