(tea lounge, brooklyn. photo by me.)
J yelled at me today when I told him I’m starting to freak out about turning 34 in less than six months. It did seem a little crazy after that, but I’m still not really sure about where the freak out is coming from. That’s not totally true. I’m not writing enough and I’m spending too much time comparing myself to other people instead of paying attention to my ball and where it’s going. The truth is that the people I think about all day, every day, do not ever leave, and if they did, I could figure out how to bring them back. So I’m deciding right now not to court the crazy anymore and just write. (I’ll let you know how it goes.)
When I was thirteen, I wrote a novel. It was terrible, but I was extremely loyal to it, instead of self conscious about its quality. I had no sense of risk. I’d write every night for hours and I didn’t edit myself and I didn’t worry about doing everything ever in five hundred words, or if I would be able to make the reader feel what I felt. I just wrote. I saved everything on a floppy disk (see? I’m old) and maybe I even slept well at night.
I am in something, but it feels tight and I’m worried about how to put in flesh and secrets and jewelry and pasts. I have to figure out how to step back and watch and let it grow on its own and still manage to remain an involved parent. It’s just what needs to happen. I am terrible at trusting the process, but I am in it now.
