And so it goes. 

And so it goes. 

Words about stuff about words. 

Running from What?

Free to be, nevermore.


I now have 200 pages of my next book finished. When I read it, I am very disappointed to get to the point where I stopped. It's like I'm reading someone else's book, and I want more. Yet, I avoid writing almost every day. Why is this?


I believe it is because I am a self-defeating Pinocchio. My strings are the ties to this old world, which turns whether I care or not. I work my job, I care about things that, in retrospect, do not matter, things like which spine labels are on the books in the library, or whether or not kids eat between the stacks. Sure, these things matter on a day-to-day basis, but in the long term, big scheme of life, the universe, and everything? Nah.


So why am I so wrapped up in this stuff? Well, some of it is just life. I have a son on the autism spectrum (and Jesus, that took me years to be able to write, let me tell you), and doing even the simplest stuff with him is a Battle Royale. Homework? Torture, for both of us. Showers? Trickery and deception in the form of Ed Hardy cologne and baby powder. Eating real food? I find Cheeto packets under the couch. He's only 11. I will never make it past his puberty, I am sure. His pits smell. He has classified the pit smell into two distinct categories: minor and major. When you live with a person who quantifies their body odor, how can you realistically focus on stuff like finishing a novel, even if it's good?


And it is good. I am very proud of what I've written. I've had great response to it from my writer's critique group. It feels different from my other books, more special. And yet, here I am, avoiding it. What is my problem?


Life, I guess. Life and autism, and jobs, and groceries, and mortgages, and stuff. At times like this I sort of wish I could run away and live (with my family) in Oregon or Washington, surrounded by trees and running rivers and oxygen. I desperately want to simplify my life. I think this is an old person thing. My parents did this. Whenever I asked them what they wanted for a birthday or Christmas, they always said the same thing, "nothing. We have enough stuff." I didn't believe them then, but now I do.


I just cut my hair, much to the chagrin of my male family members who like it long. It feels more free, a bit jaunty, more unexpected. I feel I need to reach out to the universe and claim my portion of unexpected results. Writing is part of that. So, I need to stop avoiding it with the mundane. I need to disappear despite the fact that I am the only one who knows where the ketchup is in the refrigerator, and the only one who knows when the homework is due, and the only one who can somehow remember to fill the water bottles and water the cat.


Onward and upward. Some strings are fraying at the edges, and soon, I will be floating weightless in the puppet theater of my own design.

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