Get To Work

Here's the not-so-pretty scene:  

Me, idling in my car, three kids squawking in the back, waiting to pick up the fourth, scrolling through Facebook like I am wont to do.  And there it was.  Staring at me.  An innocuous Facebook announcement from a well-loved and notable writer promoting her new endeavor. That's how, I’m sure, it was read by most scrollers.  But, to me, it may as well have been a neon sign blaring. . . .

Sorry, sucker.  Too bad for you.  I took your chance.  You have nothing to say.  There's not enough room for all of us writer folks.  Give up.  Be done.  Sling snacks to little kids because that is all you have the time, energy, and talent to do.  And freaking organize your house, return emails and phone calls before hell freezes over, finish the laundry, get in shape QUICK before summer comes, and for the love of Pete, GET YOUR GRADES SUBMITTED BEFORE THEY ARE LATE AND STUDENTS START STALKING YOU AT TARGET.  Oh, also, did you realize your shirt is on backwards AND inside out? Gah!!  What is WRONG with you?

I'm spewing all this vitriol in my own direction because one of my favorite writer/bloggers has been invited to write for an organization I love.  Not only love, but aspire to write for myself.  Not only aspire to write for myself, but long to be an intimate part of that particular community of smart, thoughtful, faithful people.

I surprised myself by being reduced to hot, angry tears. All I could think about was how this woman, who I truly admire, was living THE WRITING LIFE OF MY DREAMS.  I bought into the notion that there is a limited space for creative people out there, and she just took my place because I was too busy schlepping kids hither and yon to get anything done.  I'm late to the party!  There certainly isn't enough room for me. Now this (extremely talented) writer is now surrounded by the people that I would give my right arm to be working alongside.  Not that it was ever even a viable option for me in reality, but WHATEVER.

I feel indicted. . .indicted by my own lack of commitment to the craft of writing, by my lack of showing up for myself everyday on the page, for not just going for it, and for letting my dream be deferred, one snack request and laundry load and text message at a time.

BUT.  More than all of that, I feel profoundly, deeply, desperately afraid to be rejected. 

I'm afraid to FAIL.

So I don't get to work.

I make excuses.

I create habits and activities and tasks that prohibit me from working.  I escape and feed my Bravo TV  habit. (But, in my defense, I also read the Bravo blogs!  It's studying the craft of writing, OKAY?).

The differences between me and my envied writer/blogger may be legion, in that she has real, quantifiable, actual talent, and I scratch out missives on a teeny tiny little blog, but there's definitely one glaring difference between us:  she works.  As in, gets up every morning before her kids and gets her work done.   Me, not so much.

In studying the habits of writers, I realized that I'm not alone.  Stalling, procrastinating, self-defeating self talk, the shame spiraling. . . all writers cope with it.  The ones that succeed just push through all the nonsense and do their work.

Here's the amazing thing.  The writer who "took my place" didn't take anything from me.  In fact, she is one of the biggest advocates of aspiring writers out there. Which, frankly, annoys me even more in this moment.  She is magnanimous AND talented?  GAH!!!  She makes it so hard to be mad at her. 

Shortly after my tearful outpouring of frustration and envy, I read these words by Jennie Allen in her book, Restless:

Behold my view in the carpool line, where everything GETS REAL. 

Hear me.  You have a race that no one else can run. So please run.

Please run.  Despite my jealousies and histrionics, I resolved that I do not want to write for just fun, or for accolades, or even for the prospect of being read.  I just want to write as my work. Because by writing, I may, in fact, work out my life.  The process of running my race and writing my stories. . . it helps me to determine what I think, feel, believe.  Through wrestling with words and ideas, I can see who I might become.  The process of writing could be life-giving for me, and maybe (cringe!) for others as well.  And these "others" don't have to read my work in the New York Times or on HuffPost, although, who wouldn't like that?  Maybe some folks will just read what I have to say in an email.  Or on my wee little blog. Or not at all.

Tears are wiped dry.  Sighs released.  A congratulatory Facebook message is sent to the writer that unknowingly sparked all of this angst.

I don't have any more time to waste.  It's time to get to work.

My life is waiting.

Nobody's Cutter Than You

Yesterday I was able to steal a few precious hours for the rare manicure/pedicure excursion.  (Side note:  When I had my physical recently, my doctor took one look at my anxiety-ravaged hangnails and cuticles and told me that weekly manicures would be a good idea.  Who am I to go against doctor's orders?)   I tucked a book that my friend loaned me into my bag and sailed into the salon filled with anticipation of an hour of quiet reading and pleasant conversation with the ladies there.

Emma greets me at the door. (That's not her real name.  That's the name she told me to use, but the name her momma gave her is from her language of origin.  I saw it on her cosmotology license.  And I don't think it's Emma).  Emma was delighted that my name was Jennifer, as that's "so easy to remember," settled me into a chair and watched curiously as I pulled out my book.

Emma:  Nobody's Cutter Than You.  What's that about?

Me:  Oh!  It's a memoir about two best friends.  It chronicles 25 years of their friendship.  The title is from a joke that they have, that no one in the world could POSSIBLY be cuter than each other. (This was my polite way of correcting her reading of cuter as cutter).  

Emma:  (gives me the side eye):  It's about best friends?  

Me:  Yes.

Emma:  Hrumph.

We are quiet for awhile.  Then, Emma LAUNCHES INTO IT.

Emma:  You have to be careful with best friends.  And with nannies.  You have a nanny?

Me:  Well, yes.  We don't call her that, but I have a wonderful woman who takes care of my kids while I work.  (And when I very occasionally get a medically required mani/pedi).

Emma:  Watch out for that nanny.  Is she old?

Me:  No.  She's not.

Emma:  She's younger than you?

Me:  Yes.

Emma:  THAT IS A VERY BAD IDEA!  That is not SMART!  She is going to take your husband!  In my country, all of the nannies are old!  At least 55 or older!  The women in my country are not dumb like American women!  This nanny will steal your husband and take your babies!  I tell you the truth!

I assure her that this is not the case.  Her response:

A side eye and a noisy HRUMPH.

I spend the next several minutes thinking about how the conversation got from me sharing that I was reading a book celebrating the relationship between best friends to her complete disgust at my poor nanny hiring judgment.  We sit in silence for awhile, and, slightly befuddled, I return to reading my book.

Emma:  Best friends will also take husbands.

Me:  Excuse me?

Emma:  BEST. FRIENDS. TAKE. HUSBANDS.

Me:  Ok. . . . .

Emma:  My cousin married an American girl.  She's a doctor.  He's an engineer.  He has a good job.  She has a best friend.  The best friend has a husband.  They are all friends together.  Best friends.  My cousin's wife says she is sleeping at the hospital on lots of nights.  SHE WASN'T!  She was with her best friend's husband!  She took her friend's husband!

I murmur my condolences and cluck over how awful that would be for her cousin.

Emma:  She could have made it better, but she was RECKLESS.  My cousin would never take her back now.  

Me:  Why?

Emma:  Because I told you she was RECKLESS!  She had the best friend's husband's baby!

Me:  Oh.  No.

Emma:  YES!!!  And the best friend took her husband back, and the stupid American doctor now has a baby, no man, and no best friend!

Again, I cluck and murmur my condolences.  We (mercifully) settle into silence for a bit.  I begin to read my book again.

Emma:  Do you have a best friend?

Me:  I have several really close, really wonderful women in my life.  Lots and lots.  I love my friends.

Emma:  That's a bad idea.  They will take your husband.

Me:  HRUMPH.

This is when it becomes clear that I have done a poor job presenting the content of this book, and that I have been a truly bad ambassador for both friendship AND marriage.  It was officially my least effective book talk ever. I was not clear. I was not concise. I did not convey the theme of the book or the intent of the author. I think we had lost something in translation here, as my sweet book on friendship was bringing about some serious tales of betrayal.  THIS WAS MORE INTENSE THAN REALITY TV, and that's saying something, as I consider myself an expert in that field.  I felt a little defeated. . . I mean, as defeated as one can feel while having one of the most heavenly foot massages in the history of the world.  Emma finds women very suspicious, but she can give a mean foot massage.  Just don't try to be her friend, or she will think you are trying to take her man. 

At the end of the pedicure, I thanked Emma profusely, and expressed that it was so kind of her to do this for me and that I was grateful.  

Emma:  Let me see that book again.  "Nobody's cutter than you." (She carefully examines the book). Oh!  Cutter is different than cuter. Cuter is nice, right?  That is a book about nice best friends? 

Me:  Yes  And I think you should read it.  I think you might need a different perspective on friendship.  And on American women, for that matter.  

Emma:  HRUMPH.  Nice. Not mean?  Nice.  Cuter is different than cutter, yes?  

Me:  Yes.  Much different.

Yes. Different. Never underestimate the power of the double consonant. Or of a manicurist whose second language is English who also shares parables of wayward men, conniving nannies, and shady best friends. Both make for some serious entertainment.  And my nails aren't half bad, either.  And don't worry, Emma.  I won't go trying to be your nanny.  Or your BFF.  I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea.  HRUMPH.