Lit Bit: The Ring on My Finger

It was partly a joke. And, as my roommate said as I mused on it worriedly, it doesn’t have to mean anything. After all, meanings are slippery things. But the fact remains: I put a silver wedding-style band on my ring finger, and I tell everyone who asks that I’m married to my writing.

In many ways, I am. I’ve passed up dates to be a hermit and write. I’ve cancelled plans to find better writing nooks. I’ve brought my notebook, my computer, my note taking apps on my phone, with me when I go out to bars to simply sit and drink and write. I’m never without a means of recording my thoughts.

In this, it’s an apt symbol. But it doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t have to do more than that, reflect a silly joke in a snarky way. The fact is, I want it to mean more. I want people to know where my allegiances lie. I want any potential loves of mine to be aware that my deepest emotional commitment is to the stories that I tell and the poems that I compose.

Love? I don’t want to be head over heels so that I can’t focus on my words. Others want that very much. If that makes them happy, I’m happy for them.

People have told me that this makes me cruel, careless, frigid, and a host of other things. You know better and so do I. Everyone is going to approach this whole life thing differently. This is my way. And I’m happier for it.

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