The Thing About Pain
The thing about pain is it hurts. Maybe that's why I don't like it. Motrin, wine, anti-d's (anti-depressants, for those of you not in the know). They can only do so much. That's why sometimes it seems much more prudent to just shut off. To sleepwalk. And wait for a miracle to happen. I kind of think that's what I did for the last few years. Sleptwalk through my life. Because things weren't working. No matter how hard I tried. Pretty soon, existing seemed easier than hoping and asking and being disappointed. And helping other people became far easier than helping myself. If one of my friends had only one facet of her life that wasn't working? Easy. I can help fix that. And that's what I did.
I helped friends get jobs and boyfriends and errands done, get through lonely nights and heartache and buy clothes and houses and find direction and get press. It gave me a function. It gave me pause.
But there's a big problem with sleepwalking through your life. Eventually, you wake up.
On Sunday, I went to my writing workshop for the very first time since July. Or maybe it was since May or June... I don't really remember exactly. I just know that I stopped going because my life wasn't working and neither was my writing. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was my life. Maybe it was because I didn't have the money anymore (yes, even just $400). And I felt like I should be working. Maybe it was the ex-convict-- and I was in the middle of that, part deux, and it wasn't easy to focus. Because again, there was pain. And I needed to write about it. And one story later, it became some fucked up version of group therapy with one girl wondering too strongly what I was doing with him and why I had no self respect... and in short, it was a disaster. That's why non-fiction should ALWAYS be called fiction. I don't care how many books being non-fiction sells.
I used to love my writing workshops. They made me feel like a writer. They made me feel like I was heard and respected and inspired. And hopeful. That there was a path. I had a path. That I would be seen as a writer again. All the writers in the group are so talented. And Lisa makes everyone feel like they can get wherever it is they want to go. And that's a beautiful thing. Until someone in the group doesn't make you feel that way any longer. And that's a little less beautiful. That's why I left. I had no fight left in me. To defend my writing or my choices or my life. So I just left. And at the same time, I left what I cared about. I left writing.
Sure, I wrote emails. I wrote cover letters. And I started writing this blog. But I stopped believing. And that's why sitting there on Sunday... well, it was painful. It wasn't that I had a problem hearing truly inspired writing or that some writers had been accepted to colonies or were submitting collections to agents. It was that I had a problem realizing I wasn't doing anything to get me any closer to my goal. I was nowhere near being called a writer again. How can I call myself that if I'm not writing anything that can sell? The simple fact is, if I do want to be a writer, I need to wake up and do something about it. Otherwise, it's not going to get any better. I will be nothing more than a great cautionary tale.
I have two friends who want to help me. They want me to write. To take a month to write. To work less. And write. They want to loan me money. They believe in me. They hope for me. And I'm not going to lie-- that's its own kind of pain. I worry that I'll disappoint them. I worry that I'll take the loan and never be able to pay it back. I worry. That's the simple truth. I worry. I can't wait until I'm a success and I don't have to worry any more.
My heart hasn't hurt this much since it was broken. And it's hard to sleep through the night with that kind of pain. Passion isn't just for people. It's also for things. And the thing is, I don't have a husband, a house, a child or a lucrative career, but I do have writing. I have stories to tell. And I know how to write. And it's something I can do all on my own.
I helped friends get jobs and boyfriends and errands done, get through lonely nights and heartache and buy clothes and houses and find direction and get press. It gave me a function. It gave me pause.
But there's a big problem with sleepwalking through your life. Eventually, you wake up.
On Sunday, I went to my writing workshop for the very first time since July. Or maybe it was since May or June... I don't really remember exactly. I just know that I stopped going because my life wasn't working and neither was my writing. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was my life. Maybe it was because I didn't have the money anymore (yes, even just $400). And I felt like I should be working. Maybe it was the ex-convict-- and I was in the middle of that, part deux, and it wasn't easy to focus. Because again, there was pain. And I needed to write about it. And one story later, it became some fucked up version of group therapy with one girl wondering too strongly what I was doing with him and why I had no self respect... and in short, it was a disaster. That's why non-fiction should ALWAYS be called fiction. I don't care how many books being non-fiction sells.
I used to love my writing workshops. They made me feel like a writer. They made me feel like I was heard and respected and inspired. And hopeful. That there was a path. I had a path. That I would be seen as a writer again. All the writers in the group are so talented. And Lisa makes everyone feel like they can get wherever it is they want to go. And that's a beautiful thing. Until someone in the group doesn't make you feel that way any longer. And that's a little less beautiful. That's why I left. I had no fight left in me. To defend my writing or my choices or my life. So I just left. And at the same time, I left what I cared about. I left writing.
Sure, I wrote emails. I wrote cover letters. And I started writing this blog. But I stopped believing. And that's why sitting there on Sunday... well, it was painful. It wasn't that I had a problem hearing truly inspired writing or that some writers had been accepted to colonies or were submitting collections to agents. It was that I had a problem realizing I wasn't doing anything to get me any closer to my goal. I was nowhere near being called a writer again. How can I call myself that if I'm not writing anything that can sell? The simple fact is, if I do want to be a writer, I need to wake up and do something about it. Otherwise, it's not going to get any better. I will be nothing more than a great cautionary tale.
I have two friends who want to help me. They want me to write. To take a month to write. To work less. And write. They want to loan me money. They believe in me. They hope for me. And I'm not going to lie-- that's its own kind of pain. I worry that I'll disappoint them. I worry that I'll take the loan and never be able to pay it back. I worry. That's the simple truth. I worry. I can't wait until I'm a success and I don't have to worry any more.
My heart hasn't hurt this much since it was broken. And it's hard to sleep through the night with that kind of pain. Passion isn't just for people. It's also for things. And the thing is, I don't have a husband, a house, a child or a lucrative career, but I do have writing. I have stories to tell. And I know how to write. And it's something I can do all on my own.
posted by jodypwrites | 8:39 PM
1 Comments:
Take the loans. Take the chance. Life is so short. You have been given a possible way out here. Your friends would not have offered if they could not do this. They know there is a chance you will not be able to repay them. So take this wonderful gift that you have been offered and honor them by working hard and proving that their faith in you was well-founded. Take the chance to change your life for the better, like it sounds you have been doing for other people.
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