Why You Should Probably Keep Smoking (Just Kidding)

I’m going to tell you the truth- I just don’t have a single thing to say. I have spent WEEKS, now, avoiding this website. This morning, as I woke up at four a.m. (the way I used to every day before I quit smoking) I could no longer avoid it. So I sat down here, and started to write. Only, every word of it was shit, so I deleted it all, and started over.

The problem is, I still am not in the mood to write. I don’t know what the story is- I have plenty of things to write about. My life is full, and interesting, and funny. I am really into my recovery right now, and I’m on this really beautiful spiritual journey, I’m really getting my meditation practice down, I’m working hard on my parenting methods…I quit smoking, I’m getting a roommate for a while to get myself out of debt. But I don’t feel like elaborating on any of this stuff.

Which is not only a damn shame, because I have always loved to write, but it’s also a damn shame because I feel like a lot of the stuff I go through, a lot of the conclusions I come to, they could be helpful to other women…other anybodies, really.

But I don’t want to. And I think it’s because I quit smoking. I’m not even kidding around, I think not smoking cigarettes is killing me in a different way than smoking them was. I think NOT smoking has destroyed my creativity.

It used to be that when I was writing, and I was really caught up in it, really into whatever I was saying, I would have to take a lot of little breaks to go take a puff or two. Now that it has been over a month since I quit, that whole scenario I just described seems weird and nonsensical, but it’s the truth, it’s what I did.

And now that I have quit, I don’t even want to get out of bed in the morning. Like, I used to leap out of bed every morning at four, and I thought it was because I really was just a morning person, but now ? I think I just really wanted a cigarette all the time. Now, My alarm goes off in half hour increments until fifteen minutes before I need to leave for work- and only because that is when I finally crawl out of bed. Without my beloved Marlboro 100’s, I have no reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Isn’t that pathetic? Eh, I guess I am in mourning. I hope my desire to share my life with others through writing returns…but even if it never, ever does? I gotta tell you- I still don’t think it’s worth smoking over. I want to be around a long time for my kids, so smoking isn’t really an option for this particular person.

Have a great day

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Who The Hell Are You, And Why Have You Come Here?!

Me and the daughters in question.

A little while back, I signed up to do the blogging 101 thing through WordPress, which is kinda weird, I know, considering I have been blogging for a pretty long time now.  The thing is, I just sort of jumped into it blindly (the way I do most things) and thought I would figure it out as I go…and I have, pretty much. But…you know…my following could be better (maybe my WRITING could be better, I don’t know) my stats could be better. I could be more consistent. Anyway, I wanted to see what I had missed and what I could do better, and maybe connect with some other bloggers.

Of course, my life picked the day that the assignments began to sort of go off the tracks. So I have decided not to let that deter me. I am going to try to catch up with the three or so assignments I have missed, and carry on. Writing in hugely important to me, and I need to make time for it (in all its wonderful forms) in my life the way I do everything else. Okay? Okay. Here goes:

My name is Courtney, and I am a single mother of two kids (thirteen years apart), both of them beautiful girls. One a teeny little thing, the other a young woman, now. I often write about my kids. I am also in (and sometimes out) of recovery, as in, twelve step, have a sponsor, know a lot about drugs…yeah, that kind of recovery. I don’t repo cars for a living, not that kind of recovery. I write about that quite a bit. I am a big dreamer and a deep (some might say over) thinker, and lots of times I write about my hopes and dreams for the future, or just my feelings. I have a big, sick sense of humor, and sometimes I am funny.

My blog is not super focused on one subject, and that is something I am trying to decide if I want to change or not…part of me likes it as it is, and thinks maybe I should start a separate blog that has a theme, (i.e. parenting in recovery, or something like that), part of me thinks I barely have time for this blog, so maybe adding a whole new thing is not such a good idea. I don’t know.  The jury is still out.

I am hoping to connect with other writers like myself- people who view parenting (and life) with humor. People in recovery who are so grateful for their lives. People who believe in the power of setting goals and having dreams. People who write about all of that stuff. 🙂

Well, I have to go to my real job now. Expect several more (extremely short) blogs such as this from me in the very near future. I am committed! Have a beautiful day.

Liebster, New House, Worrisome, Kind of Racist Paragraph. (What? I am TIRED, I can’t think of a better title. Goodnight.)

So, this is the first blog…the first ANYTHING, actually, that I have written in my new house. I have to admit, it’s a pretty fresh little pad. I have a real front porch, where my rickety, old, wooden bench thingy sits, and I am way up at the very top of a hill, so I can see the whole city laid out before me. I can see all the way into Monterey, almost, and I can see Carmel Hill, and how steep it really is. If you don’t live around here, you will just have to take my word for it, it’s steep. And yes, I’ll admit, the neighborhood isn’t quite as…it’s a little less…it just seems slightly more frightening than my mild and monotone Pacific Grove home. But it’s new, and new things can be a little scary, sometimes. Especially at night. When you have a gigantic yard that your house sits right in the middle of, so your neighbors, whoever they are, can’t hear your screams for help as you are being murdered. Not that I have lost any sleep over that or anything. And yes, there is an axe near my front door, a baseball bat next to my bed, and I had my landlady put in extra locks on all the doors. But I am just cautious, that’s all. And besides, during the daylight hours, I am not even a little freaked out. I do use the peephole prior to opening the door, but, I mean, that is just being smart.

Okay, fuck it. I’m not fooling anyone. i am a little scared over here. The truth is, and you can do whatever you want with this information, I don’t care- I am one of the only white people in my neighborhood, and this is a new experience for me. I am definitely not a prejudiced person, so don’t get all weird on me, now. I have just noticed this, and noticed, also, that it makes me feel a little…different. I have tried introducing myself to my visible neighbors (there seems to be some kind of mechanic operating his business right on the street across from my house. I wouldn’t recommend him though, he has been working on the same car for about…the entire time I’ve lived here. And by “working on”, I mean “staring at the engine without actually doing anything”) and did not get a very warm or welcoming response, except for one really nice Hispanic lady who lives across the way- she seems wonderful, but there is a language barrier. Which is just sad, on both of our parts. But anyway, I’m sure you will all think I am some racist now, and I’m not. I’m just not used to standing out like a sore thumb. Well, I am, but for different reasons entirely.

Okay, awkward racist speech over now. The point is, my house is cool. My neighbors are charm resistant. And my neighborhood is on the lower income side, which, actually, is why I can afford this big ass house. Anywhere else in town, and it would go for a thousand bucks more a month. But what I really want to talk about is my Liebster Award. I was nominated well over two weeks ago, and mentioned it in my last blog. I believe I said I would get to it “tomorrow”. Never believe me when I say that. Again, the other day, I was gently nudged by the person who nominated me, Annie at http://underandoveraroundandthrough.com/ (I really hope I did that right). I am not sure exactly what that means- according to HER blog, it’s like a German word for sweetheart or something? So I got the sweetheart award, not a small feat for a woman who says fuck as much as I do. Anyway, she nudged me to acknowledge and, perhaps, I don’t know…fulfill my part of the bargain, which is to:

1. Thank and link the person who nominated you.
2. Answer the questions given by the nominator.
3. Nominate 10 other bloggers.
4. Create 10 new questions for the nominees to answer.
5. Notify all nominees via social media/blogs.

(I am so lazy, I literally just copied and pasted that.) So, Annie, consider yourself thanked, and linked. I will get to the questions in a minute, but here is my caveat- I am not a very considerate and dedicated blog-person. I don’t have much time to write, let alone read other peoples blogs. I may be able to come up with a few bloggers to nominate, but probably not ten. So if you ARE a considerate and dedicated blogger, and you know of someone who deserves an award, can you send me a link to their blog? And I will check them out, I really will, and maybe follow and nominate them. I don’t know how else to do this, other than, you know, putting a bunch of effort into it. I mean this is supposed to be a goddamned award, not a part time job, right? (I am totally joking) (mostly).

Now, on to the questions:

1) What is your favorite book, and why?: This is one of those damn questions that I feel I just can’t answer without further direction from the asker, much like “what is your favorite color?” I don’t have a favorite color, and I don’t have a favorite book.  I like all of the colors, and most of the books. Well, a lot of the books. Just as I have a favorite color for kitchens in houses built in the 50’s (yellow, with red accents), I have favorite books for certain seasons, moods, and stages of my life. I loved “A little Princess” and “The secret garden” as a kid, and I still do, but they aren’t my favorite. I really love Eat, Pray, Love, and have read it four or five times. But I also love Harry Potter, The Last Apprentice, and The Help. Mostly, I like books that aren’t overly serious and pretentious. They must be something I can relate to, in some way, no matter how far fetched the plot is.

2)Did you believe in Santa as a kid? Were you crushed when you found out the truth?: Before I begin, I would like to point out that this is actually TWO questions, Annie, you cheater. So…yes, of course I did. I am so glad that I didn’t have any asshole older siblings to ruin it for me, like I did to my brother, and Aisley did to her MUCH younger sister. Not that Camryn believed her…but, was I crushed when I found out the truth? Nah. I think the truth just sort of absorbed into me gradually, so it wasn’t some earth shattering moment. It just kind of came to me, over time.

3) Do you have a favorite smell?I think everyone should. What is yours? Just like the book question, I refuse to be pinned down to only one favorite smell. I loved the smell of my babies, and the scent of my ex’s top lip- whenever we would kiss, the smell of him was better than any cologne. Although, being from the era that I am, I do love the smell of Drakkar. I love the scent of Lavender, especially if I’m somewhere snowy, and I love the scent of pine trees on a warm day. I love the scent of cold leather, because it reminds me of my mother when I was a tiny girl, and the smell of gum, cigarettes, and cologne, because it reminds me of my dad. I love the way the people I love smell, I guess, more than anything else.

4) If you could choose only one person to live with you on a deserted island for the rest of your life, who would it be, and why? The true answer would be: I would rather die than be stuck on a deserted island for the rest of my life. I can’t even function when the power goes out for an hour. And the next answer would be: I have two kids. There is no way I could choose, so I would have to disregard your rules and take them both. Sure, they would both be miserable,  but I don’t care. At least we’d be together.

5)If you could choose one person to punch in the face, who would it be, and why? That’s easy. Nancy Grace. Why? Because she is an asshole, and a bully, and a loud mouth, and she always looks like she just smelled something bad…and when you look like that, and act like that, someone needs to punch you in the fucking face.

6)What is one daily essential item you could not live without? It’s a toss up between mascara and coffee. And my phone. Probably coffee, so I don’t kill people/

7)Do you have a favorite tv show? Nope, I really don’t. I have a four year old. The only times I can watch tv are, like, now…and I would really rather be sleeping or doing this.

8)You just won 100 million dollars. What is the first thing you do? Quit my job. Duh. Then get really, really paranoid.

9)What makes you laugh? Thankfully, just about anything, myself included. Things that should make me cry, make me laugh. Life is absurd, unfair, and really, really, stupid sometimes. If you can’t laugh…you’re pretty much screwed.

10) As a reward for finally being recognized for your awesome brilliance, you get to rule one country for the rest of your life. Which one do you choose? ( I paraphrased this question. I’m tired) : A) That seems like a terrible reward to me…Like my work giving away spots in the Big Sur Marathon. How bad can a prize be? B) but if I had to choose, I hate to tell you, it would be here. I don’t care enough about anywhere else. Maybe Mexico, but not because I care about Mexico, it just seems like they need a little help down there.

Okay, that is it for now! Have a lovely tomorrow, since today is pretty much circling the drain right about now.

A Few Things…

The first thing: I really need to sit down here and write whatever it is that I feel compelled to write, when I am feeling the compulsion. I need to finish whatever it is, and I need to then publish it. This used to be a pretty straightforward cycle for me, but all of the sudden, I have started dragging my feet, over-thinking, stopping in the middle and then abandoning nearly finished blogs altogether. It seemed like a phase, at first, but now it looks suspiciously like a bad habit. I have enough of those already, thank you very much.  So, I am going to try to do that- sit down while the sittin’s good, write until it is written, and then publish it. I don’t want to alarm anyone, but you guys are really missing out on some great and brilliant musings because of my selfish withholding, and it has to stop.

The next thing: My only New Year’s Resolution this year was to give zero fucks what anyone may or may not be thinking, saying, or feeling about me, due to an inordinate amount of time spent obsessing (by me) over what everyone, from the mail man to my mother, those thoughts, etc., may be. I am rapidly closing in on my 40th birthday, and I’m very tired of giving so many fucks about imagined, and real, opinions about me, my life, and whatever else. I mean, who fucking cares, right? It’s exhausting, and I have vowed to quit it. Unfortunately, as is often the case when resolving to change something, I find that I am either giving a lot more fucks about the above mentioned things, or I am just hyper aware of all the fucks I give. But I have gotten good at recognizing the tension that creeps into my body when i start giving a fuck, and I can quickly relax into the “give a fuck” contraction, and breathe my way out of it. Seriously, though, I would like to be able to take in someone’s advice, opinion, or even their shitty, backhanded compliment, and not take it ON, like it’s automatically a fact, or a misconception of which I must convince the sharer otherwise. “Oh, really, you think I could improve my parenting skills? Well, aren’t your thoughts straying far away from home these days, eh? You have a nice day.” “Sooo…you have some advice I didn’t solicit about how I run my life, huh? Wow, and you’ve never even been to my house, met my kids, or seen me outside of a controlled environment. I’m just going to keep texting while you talk, but I am totally listening to you.” THAT is how I would LOVE to be. Instead, I am more like “Oh, shit, the neighbors are watching me parallel park…I’ll just…I think I can pull straight in, there’s enough room. SHIT. I’m twenty feet from the curb, I’ll do it the other way. Why are they looking at me? FUCK. They probably think I am such a lunatic. Oh my God, I am STILL ten miles from the curb. Fuck it, I am just leaving it, I don’t care if I’m in the middle of the road. if those assholes weren’t sitting there, judging me, maybe I could park my car like a normal person…” And this is just me, parking my CAR. There’s a part of me that knows how insane my thinking is, and that they probably don’t even notice what is happening at all. There is a part of me that understands, even if they are gawking at my shitty parking job, why the fuck should I care? I mean, it doesn’t matter. But the bigger part of me is hysterical, loud, and incredibly anxious and sensitive, and she wants those gawking assholes to be in AWE of her mad parallel parking skills. She is the one I am trying to mellow out a little bit.

My hope is that I can bring my “no fucks given here” policy to my blog, as well. I would like you to share your feelings and opinions with me here, with the understanding that I am hearing what you are saying, and I am not going to allow it to embed itself on my skin like a tattoo. I am not even going to put it in my saved file unless it really is worthy, and I will offer, in return, full disclosure when writing, no matter how annoying that is to my mother. Feel free to not care a whit what I am telling you, of course. I am not there just yet, but that is my goal.

The last thing: The other reason I think I need to get on here and write, as close to daily as I can is this: I am just drowning in good material these days. And if I don’t use it, I lose it, or at least, the real essence of “it”, when we are referring to writing. You have to get it out when it is consuming you, because it can die down so quickly, the fire that flares up when one is taken by the muse…anything written when the steam is dying down is going to be less engaging. For me, in my writing, anyway.

Today, I had a horrible day, which means I learned some stuff. The lesson today was this: No matter how incredibly dramatic and awful things appear at first, they almost always simmer down to simply lame and tiring within hours. So getting all hysterical over stuff is pretty much a waste of time. The secondary lesson was: You will instinctively know when it is high time you put your foot down, stand your ground, and defend yourself, and you will also realize that you are a pretty decent human being, all things considered. You, I mean I, do not have to deal with manipulation or bullying from anyone, and I won’t. So THERE.

Well, I am afraid that everything from the second paragraph on is a run-on sentence, written in Pig Latin, but I am not going to check. I am just going to get this published. Besides, everyone knows Pig Latin, anyway.

Routine Maintenance

I am re-blogging one of my older posts because I am in the throes of nano-insanity, and trust me, this is a lot better than anything I could come up with today. I am busy trying to crank out 1,500 words of fiction, so I can be a world famous, best selling author pretty soon. And you can say, “Hey, I read her blog!” And I will totally sign copies of the books you buy from me. Have a wonderful day.

After The Party

Recently, I had the extreme pleasure of being sent for my first mammogram…although I am only 36, I had been having some increasing pain in my left breast- so much so that I finally went to the doctor to have it checked out. Mind you- living, as we do, in this wonderful age of Google and WebMD, I was already a complete basket case by the time I got there. I found myself waiting in my doctors exam room, in that thin, blue, paper “robe” they give you, fighting back tears, sure I was lugging around a boob full of stage IV cancer. I lay there on the exam table, fondling myself like a sixteen year old boy (only I was looking for lumps, thank you.)while salsa music played through the speakers in the ceiling, making me feel like I was in some bizarre indie movie. Right before my doctor came…

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Dear Daughters:

Hi! It’s me, your mom- you know, the weird lady who lives down the hall, who yells a lot (so that you can hear me, because apparently, our “inside voices” don’t work around here).  Anyway, I figured I would write to you this morning, since you girls are the center of my universe, basically blocking out everything else, and I have no other material. Not that I am complaining. I feel pretty lucky, I happen to have created not one, but TWO, offspring that I actually like.

I mean, yes, you have your less awesome moments. Like Camryn, when you want me to pretend to be a vampire or some other scary, imaginary creature, and I do, and then you get too scared, and punch me in the mouth with your tiny little fist. It’s hard to believe how much your bony little knuckles can smart, but you always seem to catch me in the exact wrong spot. I know you feel bad about it, and I am likewise ashamed of my (clearly too) believable portrayal of a blood sucking demon of the night. I don’t think I want to play that game anymore. And Aisley, thanks to our much lengthier history, I have a wide assortment of complaints I could lodge against you, anything from vomiting in my shoes, to taking my thong underwear to school for show and tell, all the way up to sneaking boys in the house (which I actually found more amusing than anything, because any guy who still likes you after being covered in your dirty laundry deserves whatever he gets). Despite all of that, however, you are both my favorite people in the whole entire world.

There is probably something wrong with me. But, I am not alone. Most moms feel pretty much the way that I do, just loving the shit out of our disgusting, embarrassing children- lucky for you. I am sure it is just some built in safety feature that keeps us from eating our young, or leaving them out on the side of the road when they become too screamy. Nope, most moms still don’t do that, even now, in these crazy times. Not that it doesn’t cross our minds occasionally. There was actually a full year, Aisley, when you were about thirteen or fourteen, when my dearest fantasy was to…well, it wasn’t kind, lets just say that. But in my defense, you were barely a human being at that age. I think it speaks volumes of both of us that no one was jailed. For long.

I can assure you, before you were born, I had never been peed on. Not even for fun. I had never been vomited on, at least not by the same person more than once, ever. I had certainly never been able to continue to tolerate anyone who wet MY bed on a regular basis. I am pretty sure that before you guys came along, no one had ever used me as a Kleenex, although that is one of those things you can never be totally sure of. I had never been expected to comfort and soothe someone who obviously hated me, I had never had so many doors slammed on me, so much change stolen from me, and so much of my stuff haphazardly destroyed. Before you were born, my main job was keeping myself alive, and I was not very good at it- mediocre, at best. After you were born, I was suddenly promoted to keeping alive small humans who couldn’t even hold their own heads up. Do you know how fucking terrifying this is? You both had mushy spots on your HEADS where the effing SKULL hadn’t finished growing. I just wanted to point that out, for the next time (or in Camryn’s case, the first time) you want to tell me what a terrible mother I have been. I managed to not let your giant heads snap off at the neck, and I kept things out of your soft spot. Cut me some slack.

In spite of all of that, I find that I can still look at both of you, at times, and feel the kind of love I have never felt for anyone else. The kind you read about in overly dramatic romance novels, only without the creepy parts. You both make me weak and stupid with love, like, my heart pounds and I get all choked up, and ALL of that. It’s embarrassing. But you are both SO lovely, and so funny, and so full of life and outrageous personality. In a MILLION years, if I had been able to hand pick every single aspect of you, to make a perfect child for me…I never, ever could have gotten it right. No one could ever be better, more perfect, in my eyes, than you are. You beautiful girls make me laugh every single day. I keep going because of you. I try harder because of you. I may not always get it right, but please believe, I never, ever stop thinking about you. And I love you both more than I could ever have imagined loving anyone, and that will never, ever change.

I just wanted to let you know.

Love,

Your mom ( the crazy lady down the hall)

My Day, So Far (This is probably not a good blog for men, today. You have been warned)

“What a weird title for a blog written at five thirty in the morning” you may be thinking to yourself, ‘how much could have possibly gone on in someone’s day at this hour?’

Well, let me just tell you- although most of the people I know are still in bed right now, and a few of you are just getting up, I get up at four, every morning, ON PURPOSE. I know, I know, that is like the middle of the freaking night, and it’s a little weird- especially now that it doesn’t even get light out until about seven, pretty much. But I do it because it is the only time of the day that I can legitimately claim for myself.

I used to (like, until right now) say that I get up this early to write, which I do, but as you can see, it is now almost six (and no, it did not take me almost a half an hour to come up with those first two brilliant paragraphs, I was rounding down. It was really like five forty seven, Mr. Literal) and I have gotten very little writing done. Sometimes, I get up at four and get no writing done at all, ever. But I do get several hours owned by me, to do with as I wish. I am not on the work clock or the mommy clock, I am on the Courtney clock, and sometimes, these tiny hours way before dawn are the only thing that keep me hanging on to sanity. I would also hazard a guess that they are also the main reason I can’t stay awake past seven in the evenings, but I try not to think about that. Nothing good happens past seven anyway. Right?

Anyway, I get up, I make coffee, I grab my phone and my latest book, and I get started on my me time. The first thing I do is check Facebook, and I get all excited because I have like twenty notifications, then I get all disappointed, because eleven of them are comments to a conversation I didn’t care about to begin with and only commented on myself to be polite, six of them are other people liking something I wrote to be polite, four of them are game requests from people who should really be sleeping, and there is always one weird one from a guy I am not sure I actually know, and I can’t tell what he is talking about, but I think he is hitting on me. Or possibly a serial killer, so I can’t delete him, because I want him to feel like we are on the same page, so I am not his next target. That seems like it is probably more than twenty, but I am not going to check. This is an example, anyway, not a word for word alibi or anything. Calm down.

Then, I check my WordPress stats ( Apparently I spelled “wordpress” wrong. Twice.) Actually, in case you haven’t caught on to this yet, I don’t even have one single relevant or interesting thing to say today. The sole reason I am writing this at all is because I am such a Word Press (I guess it is two words? You would think that since I am literally writing IN WordPress (aha!) right now, I would be able to see it written on this page somewhere, but it isn’t) junkie, I am terrified to skip a day, now. Yesterday, I broke the record number of views from the day before, and so now I feel compelled to keep going, knowing there is a real danger that I am boring you to death because I am not really saying ANYTHING. So, I check my stats.

Then, hopefully, at that point, I have something funny or interesting (at least to me) to write, and I just can’t keep from writing it. That is not the case today. All that happened so far today is that I went to the store in my pajamas (although I did put a bra on first) because we needed cat food and tampons, because the only tampons in the house were like super-ultra-extra-amazing-power tampons that I clearly grabbed by mistake. I don’t even want to contemplate who would need a tampon that large. You shouldn’t have to brace yourself when it comes to feminine hygiene. Actually, now that I think about it, almost every part of feminine hygiene requires that you brace yourself, doesn’t it? But it shouldn’t, not when we are talking about tampons. Also, we needed bread. So, my me time was punctuated with some household chores, but if you have ever tried to write a blog with starving cats meowing accusingly at you while trying to figure out how to comfortably sit with an industrial sized tampon on board…you are stronger than I am.

Well, that was fifteen minutes of your life you are never getting back. Plus, my mom is going to be disgusted with me for writing about tampons. Sorry, mom. Someone needed to broach the subject.

I promise to be less offensive tomorrow.

The Writer’s Dilemma…

I have started working on a new story, so what is happening is what always happens- I am finding it harder to come up with the time and energy to devote to this blog. It’s funny, because they are such different things, and both of them give me something I want. Blogging has the immediate reward that I love- I have the ability to see who has read what I have written, who I have reached, who enjoys my writing. I get that immediate gratification that I love so much.

When I am writing a story, though, it is different. The story starts to materialize in my mind before I ever sit down to start sketching it out. It always starts like this- I am washing dishes, or walking my dog, or sitting on the toilet, and my mind goes “what if…say a girl was walking her dog early in the morning, like this, and they were by a cemetery…and the dog dragged her into the cemetery, and she lost the leash, and when she was trying to grab it, she fell…into an open grave…” Or maybe I start to see other parts of the story first, and then that first part comes to me. Eventually, it becomes almost painful not to start writing it out. I don’t get any immediate feedback on it, and most of the stories I have started, I haven’t even finished, for one reason or another. I lose interest, or something happens in my life that takes me away from writing, and when I come back, I just want to start something new.

I want to develop better habits, a solid writing routine, because- I have finally realized- this is everything to me. If I don’t get on the ball now, when will I? When I was very young, I already knew that writing was my calling in life, but I thought I had all the time in the world. I don’t know what I was waiting for. I don’t want to wait anymore. So, here I am, back to getting up at four every morning, so that I can have this time to write. I’m two chapters in on my new story, and I intend to finish this one. I also have decided to finish the editing of my first finished novel, and start sending it off again. I figure one of two things can happen- it will be rejected, or it won’t. I don’t need to get all nutty over it, I just need to do it. If no one wants it, then I will come up with something else. I don’t need to be afraid. I should be more afraid of doing nothing.

I plan on continuing blogging, and actually, I wrote a really good one earlier this week, but decided not  to publish it in the interest of not pissing off everybody in the world who disagrees with me…especially a few particular people whom the blog was aimed at. If they weren’t people I knew personally, I probably would have gone ahead with it, but I am trying to be responsible with my words these days, and not go around stabbing people with my literary sword. Although it sure is tempting sometimes.

I am very interested to hear about your writing routine- are you dedicated to it? Is there a time of day that works best for you? Do you have a hard time blogging when you are caught up in other literary pursuits?

I know this is a short one today, but I really just wanted to check in, let everyone know what is going on with me. I’ll be back before you know it!

Restless

 

You know that feeling, that one where you wake up in the morning, already stressing about something that could or could not be happening later that day? Already worrying about that weird, and totally rude, letter you received from the IRS, or about the paycheck that you already spent, even though it won’t be deposited into your bank account for over a week…you know, that feeling? Or how about, even worse, that awful feeling that you woke up in the middle of a life that is a total mystery to you, and you suddenly understand that Talking Heads song, where he’s all “Where is my beautiful wife?”, except you are a woman, so…you get the picture.

I am all about being grateful, you guys, I really am. But there are some days when it feels like there is a very fine line between being grateful and settling, and I think, at least for me, it is hard to discern one from the other. I wake up three hours before I need to start work every day, just so I can be me for a little while before I force myself into my role as a responsible member of the working world. Even with all those hours to myself, I am nearly crushed with despair when I must log in and get started. Like, I literally feel as if I cannot bear to sit and do my easy, well paying, job for the next eight hours. I feel like a trapped animal.

Then I feel guilty for feeling that way. I mean, MOST people would (or at least say, and probably believe they would) love to have my job. I make decent money (not that it matters, it’s so freaking expensive to live where I live, not to mention have two kids and get no child support), I get to work from home, I have great benefits. The truth is, I love the people I work for, and the people I work with. It’s the work itself that is a problem. I am so bored I could just sob. I have tried every thing I can think of to make it interesting, setting daily challenges for myself, taking on different tasks, learning new things. After seven years, I am out of ideas. And I feel really guilty about not being grateful, because, on a certain level, I am. I know without this paycheck coming in, I’d be in big trouble…right? I KNOW it would be hard to go back below the poverty line, after having it somewhat better for all these years. But there is a little part of me that wonders how bad it would really be.

There is a certain amount of sacrifice involved in joining the grown up world. You lose a lot of freedom, the possibility of what may be next dwindles, you begin to worry about what you could lose now that you actually have something. Sometimes, you get everything you worked for, and then figure out that you never even wanted it in the first place. You did the thing that would make everyone else feel better. So,  now your mother is sleeping peacefully at night and you, my friend, are fucking empty inside. Or am I just projecting? ( 🙂 )

As I was writing this, it occurred to me that perhaps I am thinking of this incorrectly, in that black and white manner I have that has no place in reality. Here I am, thinking, “life that is killing me, OR, life of destitution”. Hmm…thoughts like that are the very reason I have a therapist.  The only fact about my thoughts, sometimes, is that they are really, really messed up.  Maybe there is a middle ground? Maybe I could, I don’t know, continue pursuing my other dreams while simultaneously keeping my job? I mean, I’m a writer, it’s not like I need to go anywhere…I don’t even really need to change chairs, to be honest with you.

I am really glad I wrote this, this morning. You may not get a damn thing out of it, but I certainly needed to map out some way out of my miserable thinking. Little change of perspective, Court. One foot in front of the other. I may not know exactly what my options are, or exactly how to get from where I am to the life I want to wind up in, but I do know this much- right now, I have a better chance of getting there than I would without ANY resources. I may be restless, but I can deal with that. Restless, with a direction.

Well, I guess I need to start my “real” job now. Say a little prayer for me.

Why Writing Rules.

 

I don’t feel good when I go too long without writing something. I realized that this morning, as I was stumbling over my various pets, trying to feed them all, and give them the affection they seem to particularly need the moment I wake up in the morning. As if they go into some type of deficit during the hours I am asleep at night, all of them blocking my way, head butting my ankles, trying to murder me. Trust me, if I were to die of clumsiness, no one would question it- the animals would get off, Scott-free. Whatever Scott-free means. What does that mean, anyway? Hold on, I’m going to google it  real quick…Huh! It means to get off without paying taxes! Who knew? Well, I guess that doesn’t really apply, then, does it? Anyway, it really doesn’t matter, because this has nothing to do with what I was wanting to write about…or does it?

Because, see? I feel better, already. Just that I wrote something, not very meaningful, but hopefully, a little amusing, at least…it makes me happy. And that’s the thing- even when I am super happy, and everything in my life is excellent, writing about it, sharing it with whoever wants to partake…it just makes it that much better. And, when I feel like shit, and everything is falling apart, but I can put it down “on paper” (you know what I mean, don’t be an asshole), it helps me make some sense of it all, at least. Sometimes, I can even coax something beautiful out of what appeared to be nothing more than a mountain of shit, minutes earlier. Writing helps me.

Let’s use gratitude for my next example- I am capable of nearly manic bouts of gratitude for my life. Just the fact that I am no longer killing myself on a daily regime of methamphetamine  and rage is all it takes for me to get real grateful, real quick. Anyway, do you think I can just walk around, bursting at the seams with little rainbow beams of happiness and gratitude? NO. People edge away from you at the grocery store when you are that happy. Trust me, it has happened to me a time or two. In this day and age, really, really happy people are thought to be either crazy or dangerously drugged, and they are not the ones you want your children to make eye contact with. So I can write about it, which is good, because I can share it with you, when you are receptive to it (rather than when you are trying to figure out which cereal to buy, which, lets face it, is pretty freaking stressful), and it also removes some of the pressure of wanting so badly to share my happiness, from me.

Also, I can write sappy things, full of love, for people, that I could never in a million years say to their faces. I mean, that would just be awkward. Plus, can you imagine any child, of any age, sitting still to listen to their mother’s mushy declaration of love and devotion? I hardly think so. Besides, any mother would make it about four words in before she interrupted herself by saying something like “Godammit, don’t roll your eyes at me, I am TRYING to tell you how much I love you!”, thereby pretty thoroughly killing the mood. As an added bonus, unless something changes, I have been told I will die someday. My words will not. So, these things that I write for the people I love will be around for them when I am not. Unless, of course, they happen to die first, in which case, my words will only serve to depress me. My children, however, have been forbidden to die before me, so I don’t worry about that. Much. Well, I try not to, anyway.

Well, my coffee is done. I guess I’ll go have some. Hope you enjoyed this little thing as much as I did. 🙂