The Write Stuff

I have this gnawing feeling in my stomach that my book is complete crap. This feeling is likely responsible for my procrastination in actually finishing the thing; well, that along with my basic slothful nature. I've got more than 71,000 words and when I open it up to finish and just get 'er done, I think of something else I need to do. Like dusting. Or Words With Friends. Or working late and coming home with a lowered IQ and eyes that would rather be plucked out of my skull than look at a computer screen for another second.

The thing is, I've been writing all my life. I've never really worried about whether it was good or bad, whether or not I could actually make any money at this and support myself and my dog's growing sweet potato treat habit. When I was looking through some of my stuff for old pictures a while ago, I found some of my incredibly strange writing from grade school. Sweet Mother of Pearl, I was a weird kid!

Some of the poetry is totally nuts - there's a lot in there about sea monkeys, angry ducks, the school band sounding like cats being run over by psychotic lawnmowers, and a tirade against school pictures. There's short stories about other planets with currency based on music, a Wild West where Paul McCartney stops in for a guest appearance, and a slew of bumper stickers about barnyard animals. And this was long before I discovered alcohol! By the time I got to high school, there was no stopping me. I made up songs (again about sea monkeys, don't ask me why I was seemingly obsessed), wrote bizarre and what I thought to be hilarious skits for every Year Day, and    stories in Spanish about my love of Paul McCartney and fear of quicksand (which is why I learned to say, "Ayudame! He caido en la arena movedizza!)

I miss my weirdness. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a weirdo at heart. But I'm more wary of letting my freak flag fly. I'm ground down by being a cog in the overwhelming bureaucratic machine and it has sapped my creativity, courage, and my weirdness. In the dark places I often dare not tread, I'm afraid that whatever bizarre creative spark I had is gone. That everything I'm writing has already been written. That I'll not be able to pull together enough strength to actually finish this book and that even if I do, and I pour my heart and soul into it, and then people won't like it.

There are people out there who go about their lives seeming to pay nary a thought to others' opinions. They do what they do for themselves and if someone else doesn't like it, well to quote my irascible mother, they can sh*t in their hats and pull it over their ears (I'm not sure when she started saying this or why, but there was a 6 months period when I'm pretty sure she leveled that threat at everyone who crossed her path. I've tried to convince her that this is not a legitimate saying or popular expression but she will not be deterred).

Sadly I'm not one of those people. I've found a few of the things I've written freelance posted to my client's site and I can't stop myself from looking to see what people thought of it and wincing if they didn't dig it. I try not to look at the amount of site visits, followers, or comments I get on this blog but I never really succeed. As soon as I post something I go to see if anyone reads it, likes it, comments, etc. When one of my dating stories got accepted by the site, My Very Worst Date, I was horrified when some people didn't like the story or thought I was "uptight" when I didn't want to continue to date a guy who said I should euthanize my dog so I can go out more (see Anger Management for more on that doozy of a date).

This is the problem when you write about your own life. If someone doesn't like what you're writing or thinks that it's complete crap, it kinda seems like they think you're crap too. It's tough to put yourself out there. The excitement that I first had when I started my book began to wane when I started doubting myself. When I tried to reign in my thoughts and tame them so they'd be more acceptable or something. I need to get back to that dorky weirdo who ate far too many cheetos and thought up fantastic and wild ideas without stopping to think, what if no one likes it. The one who didn't think that because it didn't matter if no one else liked it or people thought she was weird. She knew she was weird and loved every minute of it.

Taking a page from a friend who has decided that this will be the Year of Awesome and she will be better with what a yoga teacher refers to as "tough self-love," I will try to embrace my weirdness, revel in it, and let go more than hold back. I'll try to let it inspire me to be brave enough to finish this book and see what happens next. And in the meantime I'll laugh my ass off re-reading the crazy crap that once effortlessly flowed from my pen.