This is so damn hard. It’s embarrassing to be here again, like some shmuck constantly apologizing for forgetting your birthday. I suppose there are people who can just come back to a blog after a month or more and write like nothing happened. Like it’s ok that they were away from the blog, farting around, playing the stock market, tweeting, flossing, betting on Roller Derby, designing new lawn furniture from the recycled bones of KFC family meals, Whatever man. But I’m too self-conscious for that. I can’t just blog you and leave without at least making you coffee.
I feel like I’ve abandoned you. I feel like it’s a problem I’ve always had that needs deep exploration with a Jungian analyst. I feel like you will never forgive me, or you will think differently of me. You will think, there goes a woman who can’t wear lime green. Or, look at her roots, ugh. Or, I bet her children don’t have a bedtime.
Or, she is a chicken shit writer.
Well I am. I’m a chicken shit writer.
The other day I tried to write in a coffee shop. Across from me sat two women writing. They were friends, writing buddies. Their nails were painted black their hair long and beautifully unkept. Fabulous scarves were tied around their necks like Gordian Knots. They had journals and Apples and iPhones and tablets and clanky bracelets and lattes in oversized green tea cups.
I had a spiral notebook and cold black decaf in a paper cup. And let’s not even talk about my clothes.
I got nowhere. I got nothing. I thought, why am I even trying?
Because it’s what I do. It’s what I keep dragging my sorry ass back to. It’s the only way I get to feel that bit of warmth still there from an ember of a dream. And even if it’s a really really small ember, it’s my ember nonetheless. I’ve carried it around since high school. Through college and rocky relationships and childbirth and day jobs and fibromyalgia and loosing my mom and debt and cooking show addictions and flat tires and floods in the basement and fabulous sex and wrinkles and pain and hilarity and ingrown toenails and bad perms and silk pajamas and elastic pants.
I have had this dream for such a long time that I totally take it for granted. And just when I think it will leave me, just when I’m sure it will die out forever, the ember sputters and sparks. It flames up again like that phoenix and I am back at it. I am swimming and stewing and singing and swaying with stories. Words start following me around like paparazzi. I am scribbling things down, thinking where can I use this? I sign up for a workshop. I make it to a writers group. I put my tail between my legs and give up my best puppy dog eyes and plead with anyone who ever read this silly blog to take me back. To understand. To judge me only slightly, with humor and warmth and good spirit. I am your friend, your writing buddy. It may feel like I left you. but I will always come back.