While NaNo-ing my fucking brains out, I’ve come to several conclusions, which I will now word vomit all up in this mofo, in no particular order, like I can even think coherently and shit.
People speak in fragments. Fragments are a reality. Fuck you, Word, you’re not a person, you don’t know!
I had to go have another bloody root canal and lost three days in a haze of pain and pain meds. It’s like NaNo didn’t even give me an extension. Normal people go in, get a root canal, take some ibuprofen and go back to work. Not me! I have complications and infections, and come home with tennis elbow in my jaw, you know how I do. I am just that fucking special.
When I get sick, I ask people to help, but they fuck it all up. My kids end up at Lily’s house after school, chicken is cooked with fear instead of love, and Zoe’s pants get sucked up into the brand new vacuum cleaner. I don’t wanna hear anymore bullshit about how I’m spoiled or whatthefuckever because as The Mister says, I am the commanding officer and he is the first sergeant. That translates to I give the orders and he executes them.
In order to do my best writing, I need to live alone. In order to do superior writing, I need to not have children. In order to write well, I need to stay up writing at night, and sleep while the children are at school.
Everything that is not silence pisses me right off.
*looks at dog*
“I know you do not need to pee AGAIN. Maybe you should slow down on your water consumption.”
Personally, I cannot maintain this level of intensity and still be a good mother. I’m not sayin other people cannot parent well while writing four thousand words a day, I’m just sayin that I am a better mother when I am not writing four thousand words a day.
I’d like to see some stats on which novelists have been the primary caretakers of children while writing their novels.
From three o’clock til now, I have been bothered no less than every fifteen minutes.
I’m going to assume that all blogging mommies and daddies have books inside of them, but they can’t hear themselves think long enough to type them out.
I can’t stand a messy house, and I can’t focus in chaos. Choosing to write prolifically and with dedication means submitting myself to a world where television consoles are dusty enough to write upon, and my husband’s tee-shirts are not folded properly. Eventually, the stress of laundry undone wins, and I cannot write until it’s done.
I saw this meme the other day about how an organized house is a sign of a boring woman, and I’d just like to say, “Fuck you, the neuroses that make me clean my house are the same exact neuroses that make me interesting. If you find me boring, let me know, and I will no longer visit interesting you in your filthy house.”
I could be more productive if I didn’t have to stop to care for other people. I could quite easily subject myself to a life of living in one room, typing away in a frenzy. With my twenty-two open tabs, my piles of drinks on my table, my ugly unwashed sweater, my glasses with the smudges, and my ever-so-pleasant disposition.
I’d like nothing better than to guzzle down actual caffeinated espresso drinks and chain smoke actual cigarettes and never, ever sleep, but then I’ll end up back in therapy with all the Ativan and all the homework and all the caffeine headaches and all the panic attacks…
OR maybe it’s better to drink nothing but iced decaf with too much Kahlua and vape my six milligrams of nicotine, until I am author-slash-alcoholic divorcee…
SO I’m just doing the best I can with the brain and the situation I’ve got.
I have more than met my mark at 28,447 words for today. After this, I’m going to go take a shower and wash my hair like a normal person.
It has always been clear to me that the life of an artist runs counterproductive to a life of normalcy. If we let the craft take over, then the craft is magnificent and the normal structure of life suffers.
Yes, I am saying I think my NaNo project is magnificent. I have no idea if I’m high on laptop fumes or it really is, but it makes me happy in an angsty sorta way.
Did I mention my hair is dirty? Yeah? Okay then.