I Don't Wanna

I don't wanna.

I don't want to write some cute little bloggy blog and be clever and deep about writing and life. I want to sleep. My lovely, wonderful, comfy king-sized bed is just waiting for me to curl up in it and snuggle down deep and close my eyes. Not to be dramatic, but I would probably go so far as to pull the covers over my head. Maybe put on one of those little eye masks so I can stay depressed even when the sun is out. But only if my husband and children will leave me be.

I don't want to write this blog. I don't want to work on the other book. I don't want to send out queries or get rejected anymore. I don't want to be a writer today.

It's funny how the yuck manifests itself where writing is concerned. It's so easy to hide out in my life. I can tell myself that I have a lot of fake work, I don't have time to write. Or I'm hormonal. Yeah. That's it. I don't want to write because of PMS or maybe I'm getting sick. My throat probably feels a little itchy. I have two young children who need my attention. There's second grade and football practice and AR books and preschool and dolls to play with and a DS to negotiate. There's dinner to cook and a house to clean and a ton of laundry. Who has time to write?

Besides, there's nothing to write about anyway. I look at my blog notes, my inferior list of ideas for this thing, and I think, “Who can write about transitions or looking for parking places or surprises when they're so tired?” No one cares about that stuff.

I hate feeling this way. I wish it would go away. I'm much more accustomed to being happy. I am normally very Pollyanna. To the point of irritating people around me. I just usually see things in a positive light. My dad would call me flighty or tell me I was living in a fantasy, but it's worked pretty well for me.

Most of you know me in a pretty daily way. If I wasn't writing this blog, you might never know I was feeling like this. I can fake it pretty well out there in the everyday. But when I'm trying to put something together for this thing and I just feel like eating a bunch of sodium and watching crappy TV, but instead I have to write something to put out into cyberspace, it's harder to pretend. I have two other posts started, but I just couldn't get into it. The fact is, the pressure of my writer's tantrum is only relieved when I'm sitting inside the truth. So I don't really have any choice but to whine right now. Sorry.

Sometimes I think if I let myself feel this way or if I don't get out of it I'm going to drag the whole thing down around me. All the work I've done walking this walk will be flushed away. I think if I don't stay positive and happy, or at the very least, hopeful, that's exactly what I'm going to bring into my life. And maybe that's true to some extent, although I'm sure I don't have quite that much power. Certainly, though, that's what I have in my life right at this very moment. So then I have to think about what I really want.

(Here comes the shift we've all been waiting for.)

Right at this moment, I want to be full and hopeful again. I want to remember that there really is something here and that I wouldn't spend half my waking moments thinking about words on a page if I wasn't meant to be doing this. I have to remember that when I talked to my editor after she read my first draft she said, “Every once in a while I come across a story that just HAS to get out in the world. This is one of them.” I have to remember that everyone who has ever read the book - even skeptical, uninterested boys - has been touched and that I have 12 saved messages on my voice mail and countless emails printed out and taped on my wall that confirm that. I have to remember that when Bestie C reads something to me I sometimes forget that I'm the one who wrote those words. “Damn,” I think to myself (sometimes I say it out loud), “that's good.” No matter what every single literary agent in Manhattan says.

I don't like living in my ego. I actually try very hard every day to get out of it. When I'm thinking about you or how I can contribute to the world, I don't get caught up in all this disgusting crap. I know I'll post this, because I don't have anything else to put up. And because I have some writers in my life who are a little bit farther behind on this road than I who will undoubtedly feel this way someday if they don't let themselves get afraid and quit. They'll need to know that this happens and that you can get out of it if you want to. But trust me when I tell you, I don't like hearing this garbage any more than you do.

Here's the thing: telling the truth and putting it out into the world is frightening. That makes writing a very risky endeavor. I am gambling that my guts and blood, my very soul will be judged or laughed at or criticized. Rejected. Insecurity is my default to begin with. Being brave, not so much. I'm not absolutely certain, but I think these traits are true of most people who want to make their living creatively. Hilarious. I might have to spend some time on this blog talking myself out of throwing it all away.

The best I can offer in compensation for you having to wade through this is that one day I'll be posting something very different.

Maybe tomorrow.