Big Talking

I’m a big talker. Like many other revelations I’ve come to in public here, big talking is something that’s plagued me much of my life, maybe ever since I sat on that counter at summer camp when I was two, helpless to get down without the assistance of my mother who had apparently lost track of me. “I’M BUMMED OUT AND PISSED OFF!” I shouted, trying to get the attention of whatever adult was close and able. What I really wanted to say was, “Can someone help me off this counter?” but what came out was what a friend of mine would term “blather.” Loud nonsense.

Apparently, my moods and neurosis ebb and flow. When I put myself in a position where I’m exposing myself and my trains of thought (however many there may be), I am subjecting anyone who takes a peek at this blog to what might be just the tiniest bit of . . . wishy-washiness. Today I feel differently than I did the other day when I professed my “love” for my new novel. Oops.

It’s really not as fun, it turns out. I mean, the first book is about love and pain and music and redemption. FUN! This second is about women and sisterhood and family and cancer. Um . . . not as fun? The other day when I was complaining to Bestie C about the sad state of my affairs and how none of the Besties are really “into it,” she said, in not so many words, “Gaaby, be realistic. It’s not like we’re going to get all excited, ‘Ohhh! She’s got diagnosed today! I can’t WAIT to read!’ Or better yet, ‘She’s dying! Woo hoo!’” Apparently it’s just going to be a different experience. But I’m not sure I want to have that experience right now.

So back to the big talking. I say I’ve moved on, I say I’m in love again, I say it’s exactly like it was, but, of course, it’s not. So I’m going to put it down for a little while. I’ve decided I’ve been trying to force a solution, and all that big talking was just a symptom. I’ve got about 100 pages, and it’s good, I like it, but I’m just not that into it right now. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of writing consistently, and I’ve got to do something to jump start things. Now.

It turns out the most painful thing about waiting for me is not writing, and I have to say, that fact comes with no small amount of joy. I’m excited that I’ve gotten to the place where I’ve let go of the results sufficiently enough that I’m not checking my email 45 times a day or in pain with anticipation. I’m just living my life, knowing that it’s going to happen, just maybe not in my time or in the way I think it ought. I can remember, though, on most days that every step of this way has brought me farther along the path. I have honestly just continued to move forward in this process, and I feel like I can trust that today. Fairly well-adjusted, right?

Except for the last stronghold I have on not letting go: I'm not writing.
So, among other things, like considering entering my novel to win the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, I think I’m going to try something different. Maybe essays, or a short story, and I think I need a deadline, so I’m going to look into some more contests. I NEED fire, and I’m apparently not conjuring it up on my own. Instead, I’m awake at 4:22, having been awake for a little while now, and, after spending a sufficient amount of time on Facebook and reading entertainment articles about Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck and how they keep the love alive, I’m at the end of page two here, getting some of the words out of my head. I’m certain I could be putting my laptop to better use.