I like to mix pink lemonade and freezing cold water in a coffee mug and drink it before bed. I've found that I am always particularly parched right before I resign for the night. The sweet and sour tang of the pink lemonade mixed with the refreshing cold temperature of the water always quenches my thirst perfectly.
The words have been bugging me to be released tonight. Apparently much needs to be written yet I've been avoiding looking at the computer because I have no idea where my writing is these days. It pains me to admit that I put pressure on myself to form compelling posts each and every time, which is why I often fall short.
I'm in the middle of another Erica Jong novel, "Parachutes and Kisses." Although I find some of her sentences exhausting and overdone, I am repeatedly blown away by her ability to lay everything out there on the line. She mentions her ex-husband who she's just parted with over and over and over again. After three times I thought, "that's gotta be the last time. We've already gone over how much you love him and I don't need to hear it again." Then she mentions him again in describing her home - the home they built together. I thought, "seriously, stop. Move on to the next topic." That is, until I realized how f'ing real she is. She's repeating the thought of him over and over because that's reality. That's what happens when you go through something heartbreaking - whether it's a relationship, a lost job or the death of a pet. When it means something to you, even if you try to get away from it, it comes back to you - subconsciously, consciously and if you write, it definitely makes appearances in your writing. So I am now able to accept her writing as is because it's real and she makes no apologies for it.
That's what writing usually does for me, yet lately I've been worried that I repeat myself too often and that other readers will not want to hear it. Notice that I said other readers and purposely italicized it. Since when have I cared about what other people thought of my writing? What's happened her? Have I gotten so caught up in the hype of blogging and commenting and feedback and hoping by blog attracts another follower that I've forgotten what writing does for me? What it's always given me?
A sense of relief, of release, or pride in the power of my own words sprung from my own mind. Art is essentially meant for the artist who composes it and no one else. I know this because when I try to write for someone else, after re-reading it, I feel embarrassed by my lies. Just like when I paint flowers just because I want a large canvas on my wall that others will like because floral paintings in family rooms are popular these days. I have yet to complete this imagined canvas because I can't paint when I have already pre-determined what the outcome will be. The outcome is never what I set out for it to be. And that's art. Who cares what other people want or like or comment on or expect? Right?
I told my Dad tonight that even though I'm hoping to finally land some type of "career" upon entering a new job journey on Monday, that in 10 years I'll be sitting pretty no matter what because my novel will have been written by then. Said novel has been talked about since I was a child and has yet to even come close to fruition. Yet I told my parents they would disown me after I wrote my already infamous novel because it's going to be a "no holds barred" type of thing. My mother said, "Go ahead, I'll disown you." My response was, "Don't worry Mom, it won't be a memoir. It's going to be fiction. Fake." She was quiet then. As long as she isn't mentioned, I'm still in the family. What does that tell you about my relationship with her?
It's awful though because sentences, words, phrases, scenarios and fabulous first lines bounce in and out of my mind like kernels of roasting pop corn, yet I only talk about it. I never actually try to make something of it. And the past couple of months have been full of nothing but time. Wasted time. Open time. Free time. And yes, I've blogged and I've done some soul-searching and some relaxing and some freaking out and some nervous breaking down, but I haven't written anything that I'm proud of.
Have I done anything that I'm proud of? That's a question I'm not ready to answer.
I do know that I will have to mention the elephant in the room before I part for the night. I am starting full time work in two days. Those who have asked me what I'm doing at this job have received the response of, "I don't know yet, I'll tell you when I find out."
How does an English major, creative-minded, scatter-brained and insecure 26 year old find herself working in Finance after a 4-month lay off?
By turning on the charm like no other, wearing nice suits, curling her hair, wearing makeup and realizing that if she doesn't land a job soon, she will legitimately be served eviction papers within the week. She put her mind to something and she got what she wanted.
I have no idea what I'm getting myself into but I just realized something: I can do anything I put my mind to. Yes, I really can.
The novel hasn't been written because I don't really want to write it. It's not ready yet. Maybe it never will be.
Yet somehow I'm ready to work full time again, learn yet another new trade and throw all my pre-conceived notions of who and where I thought I would be out the window.
It's time for another chapter - in the book called my life.