Writers Write


RechargeablesThe light on the battery that runs Bacon’s weed eater still flashes red after charging all night. I’m always afraid to mess with this kind of stuff. If I unplug it, will I have to start over? Doesn’t a red light since 7:00 p.m. yesterday mean something’s wrong?

I slide the battery out of the charger. The light goes out. I push it back in. Hard. The light flashes green—the color it should’ve been twelve hours ago. The clock starts over. The red light means, “Dummy, I’m not connected. Give me some juice.”

I sit down at my desk. My fountain pen is empty. Absentmindedly, I unscrew the converter and dip it in the ink well. Then I remember. I’m supposed to stick the whole nib into the bottle and draw the ink up through it. No harm done. I empty the converter, reseat it in the pen, and draw the ink ritualistically. The pen works so much better that I wonder. Was it ever seated properly?

I’m a writer. Navel gazing gives me a chronic sore neck. Witticisms about my condition abound. Is it grief? Laziness? Menopause?

Have I ever been seated properly?

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