You. And you. And you. And you. And you. And you. You. You, too. Yes, you. And you.
What a day I have had. The December 11th post took me about an hour to write (after thinking about it for two days). Making notes, crossing things out, cutting and pasting whole sections. Constantly hearing the VERY LOUD voice that says, What are you doing? You can't make sense of anything for yourself, let alone for others who don't even know you. Why don't you go do another load of laundry or something that you know how to do. No one reads this. You KNOW that the little counter on the bottom counts the times you read YOUR OWN blog. What are you doing?
I kept at it somehow to honor my gratitude for Debra, Roz, and everyone else who has ever realized they have the power to change fate by simply being kind right on time.
It was as good as it was going to get. And I posted it. I posted it with the crappy picture of Debra's card, with whatever grammatical errors there might have been, and with the funky (stupid) spacing issues that come with writing on Blogger.
Then I did some laundry and other things I know how to do.
Then I went out with my son and his girlfriend. We did what I wanted to do first (walked around Lewis Ginter Botanical Gardens and looked at all the Christmas lights). And then we did what he wanted to do (have a few beers at Buffalo Wild Wings surrounded by 432 televsions all tuned to different stations). When I got home, I sat down at my computer and read my story. I don't know if it was the Christmas lights in the garden or the beer at Buffalo Wild Wings, but I started crying.
Bawling.
I am not a writer. For me, writing is much like drinking--at the time it seems so FUN and liberating, and AWESOME, and maybe you'll make some new friends this way, and sometimes you can even convince yourself that tequilla tastes delicious! Woooo-hooooo! But then morning comes and you have throw up in your hair and you hope beyond hope that it is your own throw up and that you are in bed alone and you wonder REALLY? Really?
So I was reading my story and thinking REALLY?
And then you chimed in. I started getting messages from all of you. So sweet. I am blown away by the kindness of your notes and comments today. Humbled.
Thank you. You have made my writing hangover bearable.
I kept at it somehow to honor my gratitude for Debra, Roz, and everyone else who has ever realized they have the power to change fate by simply being kind right on time.
It was as good as it was going to get. And I posted it. I posted it with the crappy picture of Debra's card, with whatever grammatical errors there might have been, and with the funky (stupid) spacing issues that come with writing on Blogger.
Then I did some laundry and other things I know how to do.
Then I went out with my son and his girlfriend. We did what I wanted to do first (walked around Lewis Ginter Botanical Gardens and looked at all the Christmas lights). And then we did what he wanted to do (have a few beers at Buffalo Wild Wings surrounded by 432 televsions all tuned to different stations). When I got home, I sat down at my computer and read my story. I don't know if it was the Christmas lights in the garden or the beer at Buffalo Wild Wings, but I started crying.
Bawling.
I am not a writer. For me, writing is much like drinking--at the time it seems so FUN and liberating, and AWESOME, and maybe you'll make some new friends this way, and sometimes you can even convince yourself that tequilla tastes delicious! Woooo-hooooo! But then morning comes and you have throw up in your hair and you hope beyond hope that it is your own throw up and that you are in bed alone and you wonder REALLY? Really?
So I was reading my story and thinking REALLY?
And then you chimed in. I started getting messages from all of you. So sweet. I am blown away by the kindness of your notes and comments today. Humbled.
Thank you. You have made my writing hangover bearable.
Amy
2 comments:
Really.
People are reading. You gave me my holiday spirit back, and I hope to keep it all the year. Thanks.
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