My thoughts on life, fly fishing, family, solitude, our future, books, and whatever comes through my brain as I search for truth and wisdom.

Tricia

6/16/2025

Eliminating the worm

A worm wiggles in my mind, quiet and annoying, offering sleepless nights and distracted days. I felt enormous relief when I determined why this worm was tormenting me. I have wanted to write for my entire life. Like many, I took a path based on circumstances rather than dreams. For those forced to exist in this average world, it feels like a small prick in our hearts as another day passes without creativity.

My justifications for not writing felt legitimate when I had three young children, three dogs, three cats, and a workaholic spouse. Those excuses reminded me why I should not write. Each of those alibis often woke the worm, who preferred to offer what felt like self-inflicted rationalizations of zero value.

I have named this worm Steve after a man who would not let me go long after I had left him. Years ago, Steve showed up late at night at work, scaring me enough to move out of state to undo his craving for something that no longer existed. He may have also had a worm, perhaps promoting a different cause yet causing him great distress.

My current justification for ignoring Steve arrived in the form of a house purchased “As is,” meaning nothing was as it should be. A home with neglected logs denied the protection required to remain healthy, a stove with two working burners, and bathrooms set in 1980s style with rotting fake oak vanities and sour tile. The heater didn’t work, and one needs heat at an elevation of nine thousand feet. The dishwasher was dead, the toilets leaked, and the wood-clad windows barely kept out bugs, much less the jarring cold that blew through. This has kept me busy for the past two years, providing the required excuses to neglect this invasive worm.

Now, as the repairs on the house slow and winter is upon us, I find Steve has planted himself firmly at the front of my to-do list. This guy is so pervasive that he has entered my dreams. Each dream feels like I am trapped, trying to escape somewhere or away from this worm. I tell myself to sit down and write, but first, I must touch up the scratches on the furniture, then shovel a path for who knows who to make it safely down the driveway, and I am sure I need to clean the litter box. Oh, and the list of exercises I’ll do each day. I need to work on that.

I argue with myself. What are you thinking ― writing? You don’t have the brains, the education, or the lifelong practice. Nothing in your life qualifies you for this art—a blank resume with nothing more than name and address. You are a fool―a damaged nitwit, but the worm continues to aggravate.

I mentally write terrific first paragraphs at night while attempting to sleep. On my walks with Abbey Dog, I theoretically create meaningful essays that never see a glimpse of paper. Hundreds of tiny notes with great words, quotes, ideas, and sentences stashed in books, pockets, the car, and my purse. I want to examine the road to true equality for women, the hypocrisy of religion, what I have learned having grown up with a narcissistic mother, the slow decline of democracy, the cost of cancer, the brain on grief, the mind on hoarding, philosophy, an entire coming of age novel is in there with the worm as well as a story of middle-aged love and flyfishing. It is all there, waiting to be purged. Steve pushes hard for me to put these words on paper or at least to the cloud, reminding me repeatedly that I will never eliminate his presence while cleaning the garage. I wonder if he realizes no one will read my work.

What gives me this self-righteous feeling that I have valuable thoughts and ideas worth reading? Thousands of other fools must believe they have the skill, knowledge, and discipline to write.

That is true, but do those other wannabe writers have Steve? Since retirement, he has visited several times daily while I’m preserving logs, painting behind a toilet, or gathering firewood. He distracts me so much that I worry about having early-onset dementia. Steve has become more brazen, such as when I step outside to walk Abbey without the leash, the dog, or the jacket.

What I lack in required discipline, I make up for in reading. I hold books close to my heart. I carried a copy of “To Kill a Mockingbird” daily during high school, convinced that this was the most outstanding story ever written. I now read fiction and non-fiction rapidly, making up for the days when one novel sat at my bedside for a year or more while I drove children to nonstop sporting events, school, and orthodontist appointments. There are countless great books, but so short a life. I feel the same about dogs. It’s too short a life to have all the dogs my heart craves.

I recently read a book titled The Monastic Heart by Joan Chittister. Joan is a Benedictine Sister residing in Erie, Pennsylvania, and has written over sixty books on life, empathy, spirituality, and the monastic life. She noted that the only writing teacher she ever had taught that five practices were required to be a writer:

Write in the same place every day.

Write at the same time every day.

Write the same amount of time each day.

If the words do not flow, sit and stare at the paper or screen until the designated time has passed. Then, return the next day and try again.

Never, ever let anybody read what you have written until it’s finished. Otherwise, the bubble will go off the champagne.

Perhaps by placing my thoughts on paper and sending them off to clouds of obscurity, Steve will cease to exist, giving me much-needed peace. So here I am, eight until noon each day beginning today in the same place. Under the guise of a writer, I hope to crush this worm.