I woke up this morning with this question in my head. "How does a writer dress? When my alarm went off. I hit the snooze button a million times with the question rolling around my brain. I didn't really get a great answer except to see a someone in a kind of cozy house coat thing.
But the question was functional for me because I got dressed today. Before I dropped the kids off and that can be counted as a win.
I'm struggling a bit right now with what I should be doing with my life. I have achieved the stability I hand longed so hard for in my youth. I have, with my husband, created a loving and stable household. The chaos I once knew so well seems to be truly relegated to the past. The chaos I face daily seems to be only the chaos of parenting, which is not nothing. In fact, the chaos of parenting is quite a lot. But it's not the kind of ripped out of bed in the middle of the night, told to grab my sleeping bag and sleep in the back of a moving pick up truck, cause we're going camping with mom's married boyfriend, kind of chaos. The new normal chaos I can handle, mostly. I think.
Having been raised in my mom's kind of chaos caused me to feel as though the walls of my life were perpetually crumbling around me. I found it really hard to find my footing. It seemed like everything was always collapsed or collapsing around me, like I could never get ahead. I grew up understanding a kind of perpetual defeat. This collapse and defeat were long ago integrated into my being and everything I do and have done seems to some kind of fighting in it.
Bootstraps, pick yourself up, do better, do more, do, do do, kind of fighting. But that's all done now. I am here in this place, with 3 kids and this home and a business that feels a lot like a huge drag on me. I like my life. But I am missing something and the something is writing.
Writing terrifies me. Writing is hard. Writing slows me down and wants me to make sentences and ego just doesn't want to do it. So I don't. And then I spin my wheels in my life wondering what it is I should be doing and the fucking thing I should be doing is writing. What a mess.
So here I find myself on the page again.
I have an idea or two for a novel or something. I might even want to make a living at this. But the defeat that has been hammered into my bones has a LOT of opinions about what is actually possible (or NOT possible) as it were. The only way I will get through this is by writing. And not writing for myself in my silly little documents that I hide away and never look out. That isn't going to work for me.
I need to write and have it out there. I need to run the risk of being seen even in something like this. I need to make a deal with my writer self. I need to show up here, every damn day, if it's possible. I need to sew these threads through to a beautiful tapestry of what could be something I write. I don't think it's going to be comfortable. And I can see how she who thinks she is in control of me will make and change all the arbitrary rules about my writing practice. My writing life.
Instead of engaging with her and trying to negotiate with some kind of inner psychological terrorist, I'm just gonna dress myself like a writer, every day and then I am going to do what a writer would do.
I am gonna write. Here. On this blog. I am gonna have thoughts and experiments and I am gonna see how I develop. I have to. I must. I must. Let's see how it goes.
Happy March 4th.