Whatever happened to Charlie? I understand from Marvin that he’s still alive—at least, he was back in November. These days, though? You just never know.
We begin to think again about renovations, big, small, inside, outside. What and when? The basement, the kitchen? Then there’s that septic system and backyard. A new garage. You know, that it would be nice. These kinds of investments: are they worth doing now? How much of a dent do they put in future plans? But why is it always the future we’re considering? Will we ever decide to make the best life here and now or will we always live with too much stuff, too little space, and plenty of regrets? It’s the path of least resistance, and there are days when I can recommend such a strategy. On other days, I’d like to say, “Let’s pass.”
If given the opportunity and space, could I write all day? I wonder. What about something a bit more nebulous, like, create all day? It might include writing, art, photography. I’m quite sure I’d not run out of ideas and avenues. What about the discipline? It feels like the discipline would not be an issue if we’re talking about creating artistic images; the writing, on the other hand, intimidates me. Am I still refusing to let myself succeed? I wonder. And no, I don’t want to just start where I’m at, because that would prove inconclusive. I’ve given it a go enough times already, and I imagine I’ll come up with some new scheme to get me writing on a regular basis, and that will last about as long as the old schemes. I know I need a private space, limited access to distractions, and the will to see it through.
Writing for yourself is not the same as writing for a grade, even though, God knows, I tried to make it that way over and over, year after year. What happens, I wonder, when that driver—that “you have to prove yourself worthy, Cheryl”—gets lost and never finds it way back? I’ve not seen the cringey little gremlin for a few days, at least. Is he gone for good? I won’t hold my breath, but I’m not going to encourage him to come back by worrying about him, either.
I used to be concerned about input and output. There’s nothing like taking part of myself out of its natural environment (a woman’s body), dumping into a man’s world, and telling it to play the game the way a man would, is there? What’s more, I wasn’t even paying attention to the most important input of all: the training and shame acquired in the first 25 years or so of my life.