It appears that all the messy, painful, ugly emotional work I’ve been doing over the past several years is finally starting to pay off.
I’ve been trying to write a book for over two decades. My attempts followed a pattern that went something like this:
Inspiration goes shopping for and procures the perfect new journal to hold the masterpiece
Once home, Inspiration gets a fresh cup of coffee, smokes a Marlboro Light*, and sits down to face the blank page.
*Two decades covers almost 50% of my time on this planet, including my descent into self-destructive madness via nicotine, alcohol, and bulimia.
Inspiration really wants to get that first sentence right — and that string of words now staring back at me from the page, well, it’s clearly shit.
Deep exhale. What should I wear when Katie Couric interviews me on the Today Show? I wonder to myself.
I light up another cigarette while I ponder this important question.
An acquaintance happens upon the writer mid-process (i.e., arrives home, enters the coffee shop, calls on the phone, etc.) and I deliver the most satisfying answer I can give to the question “What are you up to?”:
“Oh, just working on my book.”
I say this as though I were cradling a black pipe in my left hand, little trails of grey smoke emanating outward. (So basically, it would be like if Sherlock Holmes and Sylvia Plath had a love child… who was pretending to write a book.)
Time for work/school/bed already?! My god! Where does the day go?! I can’t wait until I win the lotto/get rich/marry well so I can actually have time to devote to my writing…
Thank the gods and glory hallelujah — that is no longer the case today!
I’d love to tell you more about it — but unfortunately, I’ve got to get ready for work.