Wake up at 8am. Sometimes 6. Either way, never less than four hours behind on news. Find that someone’s already published the article I put together last night (in my head) and gotten congrats for the story I concocted (in my dreams.) Realize the novel I’ve been writing in my spare time was just a clever re-write of something I read in my teens. And that it wasn’t that good of a book.
Rethink my purpose in life. Think about Anne Lammott. If she has purpose, anybody can.
Recall the meditation book I read. Make plans to start tomorrow at 6am. No, 5am. Everyday. Or at least 3 times a week. Maybe just Sundays. If it’s not too stressful.
Decide it would be better to start that after the baby starts sleeping through the night.
Try out using the word “clever” in private because I think it makes me sound clever. It doesn’t.
Try it one more time just to make sure.
Roll my eyes at the newspaper for being so sensationalist. Remember they get paid $500 a pop. Sigh.
“It’s probably because they knew the right people.”
Hug my kids tightly. Decide to never writing again but instead live the rest of my life focusing on them. Maybe get a dog. Start doing yoga. Become centered. Start speaking quieter–like that lady from the movie last night. So calm and collected no matter what she faced. Take up painting. Scratch that, no painting– remember I tried it in my early 20s. There isn’t a big market for Pennsylvania Dutch-flowered clay pots after all.
Read a great piece on the internet that has four million and a half comments. Decide me and the author are simpatico. Make her the new inspiration. Decide to be a writer. Decide I have always been a writer. Decide nothing will stand in my way.
Read bio on the 22 year old author and realize it’s her first published piece. “I’m really a singer and painter by profession, I just write in my spare time because it’s a nice way to make a little side money.”, she says.
“ ‘Spare time’ my a—” grumble, grumble. “ ‘Side money’ this—” grumble grumble.
Decide to only write in my private journal. Save myself the embarrassment.
32! Only eight years until 40. Okay, 7.5 years. Maybe I should embrace the gray hair like my friend’s mom.
“She never seemed old, even with a head full of gray. She was an artist! A writer is like an artist, right? Like painting with words… right?”
Contemplate dying hair. Get a new look. A different kind of mousy brown to stick under my knit cap. Look grown up. Taller people get taken more seriously. Decide to wear heels. Think what it would take to pull off the mod look from my current closet and avoid heels.
Google “clothing that make you look taller”.
Play Regina Spector. Spend ten minutes sweeping hair to the side attempting to look like an immigrant to this country. Whisper “hello stranger” with a Russian accent. What does a Russian accent sound like? “It probably sounds better than mine. Better, better, bett-ah bett-ah, bett-aaaah…!”
Blush and walk away more scared than ashamed.
“What kind of person pretends they are an immigrant in their bathroom mirror?”
Contemplate that therapy I’ve been putting off for years. Roll diagnoses like “illusions of grandeur” around in my mouth. Then remember it’s “delusions of grandeur”. Decide on the more romantic “melancholy” instead. Try to remember how to spell melancholy by picture the Smashing Pumpkins cd.
Write a quick script in my head of Dr. Phil diagnosing me with melancholy and telling me to snap out of it.
Would his antidote involve a cat? It always always involves a cat. Realized I spelled involve wrong. Consider signing up for college courses in grammar. I’ve never been to college.
“Do they even have college courses in grammar? Is it like Grammar 101? I could probably start at Grammar 202. ….Or is it 102? or 201?”
Google, “Grammar 101”.