Jedi Writer

Let’s see if I can name off all the stupid things I did today instead of write. First off, I tried my hair up three different ways: a twist, a side braid, and a low ponytail—none of which was the least bit captivating (I’m having a midlife hair crisis, for which I think the only cure might be the royal blue Bake Sale Betty bob I’ve been fantasizing about for some time now). What else? Oh, I bought several attractive, succulent plants at The Home Depot. Upon returning home, I ate a shameful number of Peppermint Patties – seven, maybe eight (I know what you’re thinking, but they were the mini ones). Also, I chewed way, way, way too much gum – like thirteen pieces (and there’s my first, public confession of the shameful gum addiction). And never mind that I have TMJ and shouldn’t chew gum. Not to mention, I’ve recently taken it up a notch, since I started wrapping Altoids inside pieces of gum and then chewing it all up together in one glorious, crunchy, juicy, flavor-packed mass. Let’s see…what else did I do? Oh, less exciting, and only slightly less shameful, was me on the sofa folding laundry in fake slow motion (also Grey’s Anatomy happened to be on the giant flat screen). Later, I ate leftover green beans and chicken, then made a cappuccino, then emptied the dishwasher, then crunched some more Altoids. I did try some earthy, green paint samples on the external body of the writer’s shack – does that count? But in the end, I did everything but write. And my head is hung quite low, good friends, quite low.

Somewhere around four in the afternoon, when I was on my ninth peppermint patty, the following thought came to me: I am a woman who says she wants a writing career; a woman, who, in fact, wants nothing more than to be a fully blossoming writer, with her creative petals facing to the sun…publishing articles, books, giving interviews with Oprah…but what am I really doing about it? And why, in the name of all that’s holy, am I feeling so stagnant now that I’ve finally cleared some space in my schedule for the pined-after writing life?

Maybe because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

Some weeks back, some friends inquired with furrowed brows about why I wouldn’t be teaching art at school this year. I explained I’d cleared room in my schedule to become a more serious writer. Oh, wow. Freelance? How do you do that? They wanted to know. And that’s when I said to myself: Holy Shanny! I don’t think I even know how we do that. I mean, I’m fairly confident in my writing skills, but entering the writer’s market…that’s a foreign endeavor altogether. Bringing home some bacon with my words…how do I even make my first penny? The truth is, I’ve been mothering so long, I don’t know the first thing about freelancing. It’s daunting. It’s new, and overwhelming. So instead, I eat Peppermint Patties.

To illustrate the awkwardness of the transitional phase I’m in, here is a conversation I had with my child’s teacher yesterday:

Me: I’m sorry, Mrs. G, but I decided not to be a weekly volunteer for the time being because I’m trying to work part time.

Mrs. G: Oh, what do you do?

Me: I’m trying to write for a living.

First of all, do you know how lame that sounds? And second of all, what is this business of trying? As our wise friend, Master Yoda says: Do, or do not; there is no try. But Yoda! I think Yoda would have no tolerance for my whiny, gum-chewing ways. He’d slice me up forwards and back with his giant, green lightsaber. Much of my time is wasted wondering why my career goals or passions can’t be more straightforward. Like, why don’t I want to fight fires or cure the sick? I confess to envying those with well-defined occupations, like my R.N. husband. Lately, I even envy my friends with work schedules, regardless of the nature of their jobs. I picture them in the still-dark morning, drinking their Joe, listening to NPR’s morning edition, then crossing the dewy grass to their cars in a pair of polished little work shoes, and speeding away to their work lives, where they have desks, coworkers and appointed tasks waiting just for them. They clock in; they clock out. It all seems like a much neater package than mine at the moment. I know what you’re saying: The grass, dewy or not, is always greener, Shanny. And you’re right. But I’m just trying to figure out which damn patch of grass I belong on.

I suppose everyone has changes they’d like to make in their lives, risks they need to take…big ones, small ones... But I’m curious – how long are we willing to stay miserable before we choose to make a change? How long do we feel sorry for ourselves instead? How long do we fantasize about who we want to be or what it is we want to accomplish? I mean, really – how many Peppermint Patties do we have to eat before we’re ready to get to work? I don’t know how long it takes to get a butt like mine in motion, but I have to thank you for listening, because I must say – all of this speculation about how long it’s going to be before I get myself going makes me want to do my hair up Princess-Leia-style and get out there and make Master Yoda proud (which, incidentally, might also solve the current hair crisis).