Writing is a fickle thing

I have yet to write about 9/11. Or maybe I don't. Fact of the matter is, that, as it's 10th anniversary rolls around, my creative juices have been absolutely, completely mumm on the subject. I remember friends, who poured their pain and heartache into devastating pieces of music and poetry, who wrote eloquently, succinctly and with great humanity about what that day meant to them. But I simply had nothing to say. I was voiceless. Still am, in fact.

Then again, it took me twenty years to write about my father's death and thirty to put my mother's heartbreak into words, and even then the lyrics came out in Spanish. Go figure. So, I guess, I am a bit of a slow cooker, when it comes to soul wrenching trauma. I'm OK with that. Can't change it anyway. Maybe, eventually, I will write about that day ten years ago. Maybe by 2030 I will be ready.

In the meantime life happens, love waxes and wanes, ideas float around, just outside the realm of the concrete, waiting to be acknowledged and realized. So yeah, I'm pretty busy, plus I've got about, oh, twenty more years, before my song/poem/story/one-act play about 9/11 decides to pour itself onto a piece of paper. Or maybe this will indeed be one of those life experiences that I will never write about at all. And if that is the case, then so be it.