Cat photo stolen from Gretchen's Facebook page. Hi, Gretchen! |
I’m
buried neck deep in deadlines, and the voices in my head are screaming at me
that I’ll shrivel up and die if I don’t produce a perfect novel, stat.
Screw
it.
Every
single person I know is having some kind of personal or professional
crisis—moving, having a baby, too much work, not enough work, bad boyfriend,
worse ex-boyfriend, no boyfriend at all, you name it—and a truly shocking
number of them seem to think I can somehow solve those problems.
Screw
it.
The
floor needs mopping, the potted garden needs watering, the whole house needs
vacuuming, and God only knows what the cat needs.
Screw
it.
My
stories are too commercial, too literary, too high, too low, too silly, too
serious, and always, always, always too
weird.
Screw
it.
I
don’t write for the voices in my head, or the crazy people in my life, or the
garden, or the cat. I try to write for the market, but I know I’m not going to
finish anything I don’t genuinely love, so I’m not writing for the anonymous
authors of rejection notices. I write for me;
I sing the words I can’t say, I spin stories from the truths I can’t speak, and
I build castles in the air so I can fool the world into building a few castles
on earth. Sometimes I write for you; I write to make you laugh, and cry, and
think. I write for my heart.
The
floor will get mopped. The garden will get watered. Hands will be held and
psychotic inner voices will be shouted into submission. The cat will be shooed
off, because it's not actually my cat, just a demented
neighborhood tabby that likes to yowl at me and can usually be persuaded to
yowl elsewhere. And while I do all those things, there will be a quiet,
reasonable part of me saying: Screw it.
Some
things matter. Some things don’t. I’m working on learning how to tell them
apart. The things that need to get done are not necessarily the things you’re
meant to do. Do both kinds of things and never, ever confuse the two.
And
when the inner voices get too loud, and the doors are slamming, and that bloody
cat’s on the roof again, the reasonable part will laugh and mutter screw it. Because some things matter.
And
the other things? Screw it.
Um... I was promised swearing in this post. Did I miss something. ;)
ReplyDeleteSometimes my students read my blog. "Screw it" is cussing to them, smart guy. :D
DeleteAlso, my mom reads this occasionally, and I didn't need my mouth washed out with soap.