Sheree Greer

I’ve been feeling peculiar. Walking around my house and across campus feeling weird, awkward. Like maybe my legs are on backwards or my arms are too long and my elbows don’t work. I couldn’t put a finger on the feeling, wasn’t sure what was happening each day I woke up feeling particularly queer.

I thought perhaps it was a stage of exhaustion miles past tired, levels beyond stinging eyes and tear-inducing yawns, more severe than hearing things and forgetting mid-sentence what question you were answering. Maybe it was a new kind of exhaustion, an otherworldly spent where your body feels wrong, skin tighter than your muscles and bones pulsing like your veins.

But that wasn’t it. I got some rest to confirm it, slept in and took a few naps while cool rain pelted the windows and gusty wind scattered palm fronds in my front yard. I still woke up feeling off, my eyebrows missing and only one nostril.

My left eye has been twitching for weeks. Old wives tales decodes it as an omen; someone is going to make me mad. And I’ve caught myself walking without bending my knees. I guess I sorta feel like a zombie too, empty headed except for this insane hunger to devour something, someone. I won’t even to tell you about my fingers, how odd they feel, how…

What’s happening to me? What’s wrong?

Some type of crisis probably. My birthday’s coming up. My book of short stories has been out three months, and I’m nervous about keeping up the momentum. You know, once all my family and friends have a copy, it’s time to rely on the curiosity and generosity of strangers. Yet, we’re told early on that we shouldn’t talk to them; strangers, I mean. We shouldn’t help them find their dogs, shouldn’t accept rides, and should never, ever take candy from them. So, approaching strangers to buy my book becomes a risky endeavor. Sure, I look nice, but I’m a stranger. And she looks interested, but she’s a stranger, too. “Get your hand out my pocket!” I’ve got a finished novel that mocks me, sitting all smug and disappointed, clearing its throat and adjusting its binder clip. I reach out to hold it, lift it up and promise to finish these queries — for real this time. As I extend my hand to grab it, I notice my fingers are fused. I’ve got flippers and they’re trembling.

I scream.

See. I’ve gone mad. The old wives got it wrong; it isn’t somebody else that’s going to make me mad. It’s me.

The answer? The antidote? The way back to normal?

I hate to be corny or trite, but this is the answer. This is the cure. Writing my new blog on Tumblr, writing for Hypertext, lining up a few leads for submissions with the anticipation of writing something new — something that’s not my novel re-write or synopsis, something that’s not a project description or abstract — writing something that surprises even me as the words make their way to the page is the first time in a long time that I’ve felt okay, level even.

I’ve got to make time for more writing. More original, new writing. If not, I face the confounding doom of a body that doesn’t fit and a mind that betrays my good sense. Wigging out that crazy isn’t even in my nature.

We’re in the season of the Virgo. My birthday is in a couple days, and I’ve been trying to use my birthday energy for something else. The horoscope that I read every week tells of creativity, references MakeMake, the god of fertility, and continues to encourage me with signs that the stars are aligning, all the right planets are going retro with excitement fit for a disco queen. I say let’s go.

It’s magic time. I feel it in this post, and I’m ain’t typing with flippers.