I am strolling around Wal-Mart when I see it. A chicken nugget in a training bra. I am scanning the wall pegs for childrens’ socks when it catches my eye. Greasy. Golden. Tucked precariously into the left cup.
A chicken nugget in a bra – it means something. I decide it does. I seek poetry in the absurd as a means for entertaining myself. I look for literary devices and symbolism in the bizarre, and I look for it in this chicken nugget. I decide it is either a clever play on the word “chick” or a commentary on the training bra itself, unequipped as it is to hold a full breast. (I ignore the real meaning, which is that some people have manners that match their diets.)
I think I have reached the “training bra” stage in terms of my writing efforts. I am not particularly developed, but there is suddenly a little something there where, before, there was nothing.
I am contributing regularly to Calhoun Magazine, a glossy every-other-month community publication. I write a piece for Dysphagia Café every so often, and this month (and forgive me for being a total braggart, but this is my personal blog) I have an article in the upcoming July edition of The ASHA Leader.
These projects don’t bounce around too significantly, but I need to support them all the same. I am coming to terms with the fact that my writing is changing. Like everything changes. Maybe it will develop to the point that my back aches. Maybe it will shrink or sag. I don’t know in what way it will change, only that it will. That it has. Like everything does.
I guess this is my way of explaining a decrease in blog posts. I am trying to put more time and energy into freelance articles. I am playing around with some short fiction pieces, if merely for the exercise. I have come across a great group of local writers, and they have graciously made a place for me at their table. I am also making more of an effort to spend time reading well-written fiction.
So there you have it. My writing career has a training bra. I feel awkward and uncomfortable every time I slip it on. I am anxious that I will never outgrow it. That you’ll say I didn’t need it in the first place. That you’ll call me mediocre. I may be just that. Mediocre. There is one thing I am not, however; I am not chicken.