A MiniEpiphany of Sorts

I know what I’m doing wrong. I’m not owning it. I’m not buying into it. And I sure as hell have not drunk the Kool-aid.

And I must. I must drink the Kool-aid.

The simple reality of my life right now is, I can’t afford to have one. I’m sick of constantly living in the red. Black, baby. Black is the new black.

I also have a book to write.

Both of these require staying home. A lot. A real, real lot. It requires less alcohol, eating more simply, managing my time better, and being organized from top to bottom.

I’m making more progress on all of the above, but there’s something missing, and I know this. Couldn’t figure it out.

Just now, it hit me — I stay home, and I secretly wish I hadn’t. I’m not productive enough about it. Or, I haven’t been. I don’t do it with vigour — I don’t plan for the act of staying home and make it rewarding in a way that feels like it’s a choice.

For instance, I took a moment just now to scan for movies with TiVo. Now I’ve got a couple quirky movies to watch tonight, one that I’m just beaming about because I never even knew it existed. My mother would be in the glory if she could hang with me and check it out — Murder by Death, from 1976, starring Peter Falk, Truman Capote, etc. A noire comedy about a writer who stages a murder for fun one weekend. Or something. Ooh! Fun.

But I also need to schedule more time to write. We full-time employees-in-fields-other-than-writing need to do such silly things. Nonetheless, writing is clearly returning to me. It’s teasing me a little more often and prodding me into action. It has been a long, long while since the art of wordsmithing has held much appeal. And to actually be able to say what jumbly thoughts are swirling in this big brain of mine, well, that’s extremely satisfying. It’s also very rare, so one must use it or lose it.

Inspiration? Fickle bitch.

You don’t fuck with inspiration. When she’s coming to you, you take her in and do what she wants you to do. You don’t argue, you go there, you find the time for her, and you milk her for every moment for all she’s worth, because you just never know when next she’ll be that good for that long again. Or if.

And I feel I’m getting onto my game. This is gold time, it’s time to work.

Another week of Indian Summer, and they say the fall will then roll in. And I’ll be ready. After all, I’m single, I have no kids, my job is flexible — there’s never been a better time for me to be full-on writer-girl.

You can’t just make choices to act in life — you have to believe in what you’re doing. I’ve been torn for a really long time. I like being more social, I like cutting myself some slack for a change and working less.  I’ve really enjoyed my mental break from things, I think it’s started to fire some new writing wants. I’m enjoying the outlet of words again, and it’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed writing for this blog as much as I’m beginning to now. But that’s the life of a blogger. Cyclical.

Tonight I’ll find some steak, have a salad and some wine. Enjoy some of my movie, and spend some time working on my outline. I obviously have a great body of work to mine and sort through on this blog. I need to find the time… and the wherewithal… to spend a whole night or two reading over the last four years of writing on here. There’s four MEGS of compressed postings on here, more than about 1,500 posts, averaging 800 words per. Um, yeah. Then there’s the other blog of mine, another 1,600 or so posts over five years.

That’s a lot of yourself and your life to relive, you know. Some crazy waters under that bridge.

See, when I reread my work, it’s different than your experience of it. This is probably true of every writer. But because I write some pretty personally revealing work that shares a lot yet only barely skims the surface, when I reread my work, the reality surrounding that post at that time in my life, that floods back over me. I remember it on many more layers, and I don’t need to read between the lines — I built the fucking lines.

But to go there, I need to own that I’m finally on this mission of doing this book I’ve been working toward. (I have not been able to start it before now, even if I’d wished to; you’ll know why later, one day.)

I need to become solitary writer ninja girl. For realz. I need to read through all my work with the realization that none of that shit can ever hurt me again. It’s in my past, it’s there, and being scared to go there? Pfft, what good’s that doing me? I should be proud to go there. I lived through that shit. I did that. When I remember where I was five years ago this month, I’ve accomplished BEYOND a lot.

Oh, right, by the way, it’s been the five-year anniversary of my almost-death and head injury from when I flew off my scooter and landed on my head in an intersection. (That tale has been posted below this posting.) I’ve been thinking a lot about the life I’ve lived in five years, and I’m only now appreciating the magnitude of it all. Five years of that, man. Five non-stop years. Wild.

But times are good. And choices have been made. Changes have happened. Momentum has come. And there’s Kool-aid for drinking.

Bottoms up.

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