I don’t sit down at my black Target discount desk and write. I throw up on paper with a pen in my hand.
Ward is the writer. He acts symbiotically with me. He takes all of that word vomit and finds what worth writing about. It’s his pen that sits poised in my hand, and it’s his hand that makes it write.
I put words on a page to prove something, to prove I can write, but it might as well be to prove I’m literate with the content hanging on the value of the words. Of course I want to be great, but I really write to prove that I can do what I set out to do. Prove that I can finish something, and that it will meet my standard.
Ward takes my words I place all over the page and presents them with style and creates an art. He works with my structure-less clay and molds it to meet my standard.
He writes to feel good, to be reflective, cynical, fun.
I just make the motions.
I write to look good. I write to make the “Kelly” at the top of the page shine. To make people see my name and think, Oh my! Kelly is sooo interesting. Maybe I should sleep with him? That’s a joke, but I wouldn’t fight them. I write to keep my name out there, to create a recognizable identity, to be noticed. I want to accomplish something. I don’t want to be a face in the crowd. I want to be published, and would love to be famous. To have people read the vomit I spew forth onto my page.
Ward doesn’t care about these things. He writes to vent and because it makes him happy. He doesn’t care if anyone notices him in public, or if anyone reads the art he paints with my pen. He writes with the sole understanding that I may be the only one to read his work and tell him my thoughts.
Ward could care less.
Ward is sarcastic, strange, and funny. I try to be deep and write provocatively, but I just end up getting in Ward’s way. He tends to toss out my ideas to build a stronger, better piece of art.
I just try to live a little. Find a niche and go out into the world. Ward sits at the dark black Target desk I bought him. He just sits and waits there for me to come home and bring him something new to work with.
Ward is a part of me. He’ll stay with me and with any luck, I can get all I want from him and he’ll always get what he wants from me. I’ll always have words that attract themselves to a blank page like magnet poetry. I’m happy to have Ward there to take the time to – with more talent – rearrange my words into an art that I can appreciate. Maybe one day, if I get my way, I won’t be the only one appreciating it.
