Writing is giving me stomach cramps. And whatever naturally (feels pretty unnatural) follows stomach cramps. I'm trying to decide if it's my body's way of telling me to get the f*ck out of the writing world or to just let go and dive into the concrete pool. I was at the Bookloft last night and no sooner had I picked up a copy of "Ploughshares" when I started to sweat and was fighting back the urge ditch the book and "drop" my anxiety into the Price Chopper bathroom. Fortunately, I talked myself down and there was no need to purchase Depends or new underwear, but still. What is going on?
"It's your personality. You come by it honestly," was my mother's response. This after telling me she was worried that the kids would mistake acid tabs for stickers and put them on the their body. Since acid is the new drug of choice at the high school.
I wonder why I'm nervous all the time. Thanks for the heads up, Mom. Now I can lie awake even longer and think about Lucian's mind getting fried by LSD before he hits first grade. Awesome. See, I almost have to use the bathroom....again.
I'm fooling myself, actually. I know why it makes me sick....because I have to do it. I just got a short story published and some poems I wrote have made it out the door. Now, the pressure is on for me to keep going, and as you know, keeping going ain't easy. Not like this.
If you can think of any other thing to do in your life, stay away from writing. It's not glamorous. Look at all of the authors we hail as America's literati; Hemingway shot himself with a double barrel, Annie Proulx lost custody of ALL FOUR of her kids, Nathaniel Hawthorne locked himself in his attic for 13 years then married an S&M queen, Raymond Carver's life enacted itself on the inside of a halfway house and then in a hellish marriage, and what about all the guys who wrote the bible?! What must their lives have been like that they needed to piece together chapters about giving up your daughter to a gang rape, some dude sleeping in the belly of a whale, nearly cutting your son's throat...
Yeah, sounds like fun. I think I'll stick to pick-up trucks, alcoholic indians and coffee.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment