I've avoided coming here for days because I've been battling my addiction. I really need an AA program: Authors Anonymous.
My life has become unmanageable because of writing, and it's not just writing, the physcial and cerebral--the emotional and the spiritual act, it's what writing does to others. I crave that "It was beautiful. It was lovely. It's exactly how I feel."
I hate this about me.
And that book. I now refer to it as that @#&!$# book. It's torturing me. Day and night, I claw the walls wondering. Will it sell? Will he (the editor) like it? What if he likes it but the committee doesn't like it? What if he and the committee like it but the marketing and sales department don't like it? What if he and the committee and marketing and sales department like it, and they buy it, and the lady with the alligator purse doesn't like it?
And my agent. What if the poor man really sees that nobody, especially the lady with the alligator purse, likes my writing? And then he won't keep me, and I'll DIE!!!!! I'll waste away, and be found clutching my unliked, unsold manuscript in my dead, cold, bony fingers, next to my dead, cold, bony ribs.
You see what I mean. I try to think of something else. I try to work on something else. I try to pray and IT JUST KEEPS COMING UP!!! THAT @#&!$# book. I hate that book, but...
I love that @#&!$# book. I wouldn't be actin' a fool if I didn't love it. I'm having physical withdrawal symptoms because the editor and agent have the book and I can't control what they think or will do.
Okay. I'm okay. The first step is admitting it, right? No matter that my response to my misery is to come here and write. I'm admitting it.
And I'm afraid to let it go. Not just the @#&!$# book, but what it is that deep, deep down I really want. I write because it can be fun, cathartic, freeing, and I'd like to think I'm even a little bit good at it, but you know what, I use it, because in the end, I write because I want to be loved, and I don't want you to forget about me.
Ouch! That really hurt to say.
I would have taken this whole thing down, cold turkey. You just look up one day, and there's no more ragamuffin diva, just a message that says blogger not found. But God says this doesn't belong to me, it belongs to him, and like all addictions, they have to be dealt with with grace, and humility, and letting go of what you think you need to do to fix it.
Somethings you just can't fix. Addictions, quite often, is one of them. I'll take the hand of grace over my own works, and the lies I could tell myself as I force the need--not for the work, but for the love, down down down until it's just a low murmur. And you know how repression is, the addiction--the desire is still there, and bound to come up in the most untimely, embarrassing ways. Like this heathen, wretched blog entry.
So, here God. For the thousanth, thousanth time, take this, and give me grace and a bit of your peace. Help me to let go of what the editors, and committees, and ladies with alligator purses will say, and let me find you in the empty space it leaves behind. Turn my desert into a garden, show me Your love, and let me know that I don't need these words like I need You.
In Jesus' name, Amen.
Now, I must go. I'll see you when I'm not strung out anymore. Don't forget that I love you. As much as an addict can.
Say a little prayer for me. Okay?