Finally Facing My Waterloo

A few people, on occasion, ask me what I do for a living. I tell them I write. The follow-up questions to this are, “Do you write books? Or do you write for magazines and newspapers? Where can I read your work?” By this time in the conversation, I’ve adopted a glazed over look and my mother takes over. She explains, with a kind of patience that I’m not sure I’ll ever develop, that I am a freelance writer working for a company that operates overseas. She adds helpfully that I’m also an editor for an independent publishing company. (They have a book out, she says, would you like to see it?)

I typically find these conversations fascinating, because while it’s happening, a whole separate conversation goes on in my mind. “I write, yes, but writer? No. I’m a paid hack.” The thought entrenches its ass in my head: You are a hack. Say it. SAY IT. THEY HAVE TO KNOW.

Remember, this inner dressing down is happening as my mother is offering the visitor a hot beverage, and I have to excuse myself (to save said visitor from seeing me frothing at the mouth and raving madly about being a shitty writer) to retreat to the silence of my desk.

My playlist is playing in the background, it’s a mixtape of music that was lovingly assembled and given to me several months back. It’s a great mix of slow numbers about having all kinds of time and a light that never goes out, and fast numbers about elevator love letters and flowers in the window. On my computer screen, a blank Word document stares back at me with silent condemnation.

You’re supposed to be writing, the cursor blinks at me angrily. Yes, actually. I should. I’m some 8 thousand words into this thing – it even has a prologue and a chapter and a half.

When Remi asks me how the writing is going, I look at my feet and say, “It’s okay, I guess. It’s just that it’s shit. I’m putting a piece of crap into book form!” She gives me a hug and tells me to stop saying stupid things.

And my friends. Oh, I have such good (and faithful) friends. Lei tells to stop the crazy talk and cheers me on. I asked Karl to test read for me, and since I believe in properly labeling emails, I put in “Crap” on the subject line. Karl replied, “Oh, you writers and your silly self deprecation.”

I don’t know guys. This story is just too big and too out-of-control for me. It feels like it’ll open its giant maw at any moment and swallow me whole. (And if it’s feeling especially mean, like it’s that time of the month or something, it’d regurgitate my half chewed carcass and then eat me again. Just for the shits and giggles.) I’m ill-equipped for this. When dealing with giant monsters that breathe fire and spit acid, you’d want to have the best possible equipment – like a giant robot armor for example. Or even maybe a Rambo knife.

I’m staring at this monster, my monster, as it looms over me, and I’m scared. To death. My wooden sword of Hopes and Dreams seems feeble in my hand. My thick carapace, developed through years of criticism, seems weak and brittle in the face of this monster. Still, I put on my Oh-Screw-It-All Hat (patent pending) and hack away. I retreat often, with my hair singed in places and probably missing both eyebrows. Still, onward I go. I’m not sure why I’m doing it, because dammit, this is probably one of the shittiest things you can ever do to yourself, but onward and forward we go.

Someday (maybe through sheer luck and with my mixtape of awesomeness playing in the background), I’m going to hit that giant rat bastard where it hurts and who’ll be the bitch then?