I shit myself today.
I was rummaging through my drawers when it happened, looking for the nonexistent paper version of a digital document and thinking about opening lines for books. They're important, you know. Hooking readers and pulling them unwittingly into the work is vital for its success. One must build the story from the very beginning. As a fish I enjoy many styles of bait. You can call me Ishmael and tell me it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, or that we were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. As a writer, I'm finding great joy lately in casting my line with a quick slap in the face. A wait, what?
Particularly when it's true.
Maybe you glossed over that second paragraph, but I'd bet hive you're still here waiting for me to divulge the story of my expulsion, which tells me I'm doing something right.
I wish I could offer you an exciting story. If only I'd been in public, mid-lunge in a yoga class, or out on the ice swathed in armor and feces surrounded by a bunch of hunky female hockey players muttering what's that smell? Alas, I was home in my pajamas, no one around but the dog and the cat.
The shit didn't even make it to the underwear.
Still, you might delight in reading that the slathering of my cheeks was only intended to be a blast of hot air. Perhaps it will bring you comfort knowing that you are not the only person on the planet who has done this past the age of 5 and before the age of 80. The fact that I yelled "get outta my way!!" as I leapt over the cat and sprinted the mere 10 feet to my toilet may also brighten your day. One can hope, anyway.
Incidents leading up to this event are also of little interest. No coming-of-old-age at 43, no comic relief in a noble battle with terminal illness, chronic disease or late stage pregnancy. Just a simple case of stomach flu and too many blueberries.
And an opportunity to practice my craft.
All pictures and words copyright Anna Horvitz (me) and cannot be used without my consent.
