"Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking."

- Jessamyn West:

WRITING IN THE DARK

Michelle Ryan

It's June, and I am wearing a sweatshirt—weather is so confusing to me now.  My mind always reaching for a tangible home between the East and San Francisco, the word home so used and meaningless.  I write by the beam of someone else's flashlight, old friends, people I don't even have to see to feel.  Where has she gone?  I wonder that about someone other, but of course, it is me I really wonder about—all connected and loose, tied but free.  As long as it's my choice.  So I see Lisa writing a few feet away.  In the dark, I thought I saw a bird feeder.  But then a light moved up and revealed a hand moving across paper and a head bent over, and then I saw it was her.  I saw where she was.

Do I always have a smile on my face? 
When other people are around?  In my eyes,
if not on my face?  I don't mind if I do,
but do I look happy to them? 
Amenable? 
I think I look too amenable. 
I feel it coming on—
a desire to make another person,
everyone in my presence,
feel better.
As if my smile could do that—
my amenableness makes others feel
more amenable?  If only
for a second.  I've seen it happen,
have smiled every so slightly,
threw quick warmth in my eye,
at someone stern.
I'll see a flicker of friendliness
ripple over a face
despite itself,
provoked response.
I am trapped in it.