Post #50 (a)

I realize that I sort of skipped right over the fact that the other night's post was #50! That's kind of a big deal. I mean, whatever. But 50!

And I officially have run out of things to say. Is that possible? It's different writing when I know people will read it--and the people reading it are a confluence from every part of my life.

It doesn't help that I've pretty much just been working and playing Scrabulous on Facebook and so find myself unfilled with anything except: is "hae" really a WORD? Come on! And "za"? Seriously? Yes, seriously. It's slang for "pizza." And a totally valid move, apparently.

So glad I am getting down to what's important. Well, the words are pretty central to my well-being...

Have been reading an interview--Jonathan Lethem interviewing Paul Auster--and I find myself envious (jealous even) of their conversation around what it's like to work on a novel for 5, 6 hours a day. They are writing for a living. And it makes my writing life seem so paltry in comparison. Sometimes I think it's the goal. Other times, I'm not sure that's what my writing life is shaping up to be, or even wants to be. Sometimes I'm glad I manage to find time to have fun--see music, go to folk dancing events, get cast as an extra in a video.

But I also want to work harder. To dedicate more of me to the work. And I actually don't think it's so much about dedication as it is about confidence, believing that I'm going to get somewhere with it, that my writing is worth my time (and others). I know it is, but then I forget. Most of my recently published work is years old...so it's scary, wondering if I can actually finish something now. Finish something and then do the work of getting it out there, in print.

Less e-mail, more poems? Less scrabble, more juice for essays? Less e-mail, less e-mails in return, more loneliness? Who knows the answer...

I know that even when I do shift my tasks, I often feel like I should be relaxing more, or cleaning more, or writing more, or having more fun, or playing more Scrabble. So maybe it's not so much about what I do, but where my head's living.

I know I work hard. I drive a lot. I try and keep my dishes washed, my clothes clean. I wouldn't trade my friends for anything in the whole world including an ultra successful writing career. I know I can have it all...it's just a slow road. Sometimes slower than I would like.

A friend and I were talking recently, and he was talking about G-O-D. And he said that lately he's been noticing how he gets everything he needs, but it doesn't always come the way he wants it to. It's only in hindsight that he's in awe over how it unfolded, how perfectly, even tho it felt far from perfect at the time. He raised his hands in the air, and addressed the heavens: "that's why you're God! Because I could never come up with that shit..."

So I'm going to try and be in awe right now. And take my comfort--if maybe in smaller doses, so I don't feel weighed down by inaction, by too much typing and not enough imagining, by too many lists and not enough language.

At this moment, dinner at the Kripalu dining hall calls...and I must answer.