More Me- Sunday February 13th

I’ve written a lot of words. I’ve read more than I’ve written, but I think I’ve written more than more people. At least more than people who rarely or occasionally write. Sometimes I write very seriously in journals, other times I write words and sentences on envelopes or receipts. There is a never ending stream of words trying to escape my brain through my fingers and my mouth. I’m a writer in spite of my fear and insecurities and level of talent (or conviction that I had none). I’m a writer because there are words in me, as I expect artists are full of pictures. Tom G is full of numbers that manifest themselves in any number of ways that are unexpected to me and obvious to him.

I’m afraid to let some of the words come out, because I know how they’ll be interpreted. Or worse, I don’t have any idea how they’ll be interpreted, and then I’ll have to answer a lot of questions. I feel like I’m on the verge of something- or have I been saying that for years now? Well this time I feel like I just have to let the words come out. People will think I’m writing about them, or me, or us. People will be hurt or offended or feel validated. But that’s not my intention. My only desire, the only thing that drives me, is to get the words out. I’ve learned through experience that keeping them in leads to scary and unpredictable results.

Three weeks ago I started Weight Watchers. It gave me back a feeling of control and accomplishment. Now I’m ready purge the words. It doesn’t matter where it leads or who it leads me to.

I think first I’ll write about drugs. Or revenge. First I’ll write about being lonely. No first I’ll write about being nothing like me. I’ll write like Tom Robbins or Kurt Vonnegut or David Sedaris. No, first I’ll write something I wrote a few moths ago:

The book is about a girl who had it all. The book is about a girl who lived a charmed life. The book is about me, but not exactly me- a better version of me. Funnier, a little thinner, a little more thoughtful. Cooler, a bigger party animal, a more casual risk taker. The book is about the me I want to be and hate being. And even in this version my baby dies. I can’t escape the new life that I have. I mean I can’t exaggerate until it changes, I can’t make it funny so that it didn’t happen. There’s nothing I can do, even in this novel that I’m writing. Whatever version of me it’s the same version of my son.

There. I started. It’s not about me or you. It’s just about an unchecked tsunami of brain excrement that’s pouring out of me.