I was given some advice when I announced,"I'm writing a book!".
The advice: Just Write. Write a total flaming turd and then give it to someone you trust to read, someone who will be honest. Just write a chapter...or even a page.If you can do that, you can write the book.
Here goes.
I am a giant mess. Each day I take prozac in the morning with a lorazapam chaser, drive the kids to their charter schools, play the part of gracious volunteer, doting parent, magical homemaker/domestic artisan, church goer, yoga girl, runner, bawdy, go the extra 26 miles, artist, in on the joke, in the know, in control but always edgy. In don't know who the fuck I am. A bunch of adjectives strung together by others? Why can't I decide? I am so concerned with being the person who everybody else wants me to be. I feel like a child, though I have four of my own. I feel orphaned though I have a "mother" and "father". I feel like a failure because I continue to make it happen. I am mid-sabotage constantly. I can't make sense of my own ideas, wants, desires because I'm too afraid to own them. I'm terrified to put something out thereof my own. What if it sucks, not good enough, too derivative? What is my talent? My passion? How did I get here when I expected to be there? Why is the shame so tight on my skin? I try so hard yet I am so lazy. I watch from my window, above it all. I have been in the world. Many times. I can feel it slipping away as the world turns cold, silhouetted in white. I lead a secret life. One I never share. One that insulates me from the world. Little by little I come back to where it's safe--enveloped by my force-field. Safe...from living. I'm hiding and I don't know how to come out. I wonder, will someone find me?
