Tight writing

Normally, tight writing is good. Something you strive for. Excess words eliminated, passive phrases turned active, cliches killed in action. When I write tight in this fashion, I'm happy.

But sometimes, tight writing is bad. This tight writing stems from the rigid stance--physical, mental and emotional--that overtakes me some days. The tautness in my shoulders works its way into my brain. Even my fingers struggle to hit the right keys as I type. Stiff words, stilted phrases and apathy fill the page.

On these days, I'm very serious, easily annoyed and just want to be left alone. I'm frustrated by my seeming inability to do it all. To do much of anything, really.

On these days, little voices demanding attention don't get the response they deserve. I snap at them, feeling guilty even as the irritated words leave my mouth, but unable to stop.

I try to reason myself into relaxation, but instead, my tension builds.

My shoulders practically touch my ears they're scrunched so tightly. My nerve endings shoot fire at the slightest touch. My temples pound harder with every beat of my heart. I want to run and run and run to release the negative energy back into the atmosphere so it can find another soul to inhabit.

But I can't.

So I wait it out. Try to ignore it. Pretend I feel fine, relaxed, calm, happy. I force a smile or choke out a laugh at the appropriate moments, but their falsehood is obvious even to me. The kids sense it. My husband senses it. Even the dog senses it.

And it comes out in my writing. Choked. Angry. Depressing. Frustrated.

Tight.

But not the good kind.