I give up.
I keep trying to come here, but I can’t. So I give up. I’m not giving up on the blog. I’m just giving up on posting a thought-provoking essay for now. I tried. Twice. Yesterday I wrote one that was 950 words. But I decided to sleep on it, see if I still wanted to post it when I woke up. I didn’t.
And then this morning, I wrote something else. This one was 900 words. But when I got to the end, I found I was shaking my head, no. Another essay in the crapper.
I’m writing a book. Apparently I don’t know how to blog and write a book at the same time.
Here’s what I can tell you. Writing is hard work. And I’ve changed so much in the past seventeen months since quitting the day job. I used to be the type of woman who enjoyed sitting on the phone,
blabbing chatting. I’m not her anymore. Now I need silence. I’m in my head all the time. I avoid distractions like they’re contagious germs.
So guess what? I’ve turned into a socially challenged fool. What are people even talking about here on Earth? What means conversation? I can’t. I don’t get it. I overhear it in stores, it sounds familiar. But the thought of participating makes me light-headed with panic. I kid you not.
No social media. No television. No talking, other than to family members and the rare friend connection. Sometimes hubby and I will watch a movie on the weekend and even that can throw me off. Besides, I can’t just watch a movie passively anymore. I’m in my head, rewriting the script for more depth and meaningful character portrayals. Ugh.
If I think of something to post here I’ll be back. But until then I’ve got shit to do. Researching, writing, household choring, writing some more, family living, cleaning up pee due to an aging, randomly incontinent dog, living my life and still writing.
I wouldn’t trade this life for anything! I am the realest I’ve ever been. Yes, writing is hard. But having the freedom to be my truest self is priceless. I don’t even know who that woman was— that lipstick wearing, pearl necklace, business suit looking, bathroom stall crying, I hate all these people, rage in her heart, trapped feeling, I need a drink my life sucks, stabby, neck-punch fantasizing, homesick for Brooklyn — she looks like me, but she’s more serene.
Yes, life has improved tremendously in Maria-land. Nevertheless, it’s also busy, so blogging this way will have to do. For now.