Every day I am convinced that it is my last day of sanity. ‘Oh sure,’ I think, ‘Today I got up, worked, and did things normal people do but that is absolutely no predictor of how things will be tomorrow. Tomorrow I could wake up and go all Girl, Interrupted.’ Not that I don’t love Winona Ryder’s pixie cut, because I do. I imagine I will have to cut my hair like that tomorrow because today is the last day that my hair is going to curl. Tomorrow it will be flat. Lifeless. Today I talk to the people in my life, but tomorrow I’ll be unable to communicate, unable to face them as I withdraw completely. I imagine people will start whispering about how I used to be a fully functioning lawyer, a contributing member of society who voted and recycled, and, after a dramatic pause they’ll lean into their listener, look side to side for eavesdroppers, and say, “now she just sits there. With terrible hair.”
I feel especially fatalistic about my writing, certain that every sentence I write is the last sentence that I will ever be able to write. I tell myself that I am only ever as good as my last word, unable to build up any emotional equity from anything I have written. Staring at a blank screen, I wonder if I have been doled a certain number of words by the universe and if I have already used them all up. When I hit a block like this, I become convinced that there is something in my midst that is throwing off my ability. Looking around myself yesterday as I deleted another sentence, leaving me again with nothing on the page, the blemish on my karma was obvious. My bag. My pink and white, cotton and leather satchel that I had thought so cute before was wedging itself between me and my writing. My bag was an albatross and had to go. It had to go immediately. Yes, if I had the right bag, with the right spot for my computer and powercord, the right pockets for my phone and my lip balm, then I would be able to write something amazing. Come to think of it, my lip balm wasn’t so hot either. I needed something way jazzier or the right bag would be for naught. Who could write the Great Canadian Novel without glossy lips in just the right shade that gives a little bit of colour while still looking somewhat natural? No one, that’s who.
I immediately headed to the mall to remedy this career-obstruction.
“Can I help you?” asked the sales clerk as I wandered through the bags.
“I’m looking for a bag that inspires” I said, “Something that will crystallize the thoughts in my head into perfect, beautiful words that are as deep as they are melodious.”
“This one?” she asks, holding up a black leather purse.
That purse couldn’t even encourage a grocery list. I’m talking about finishing my book here, my baby!
As is always my custom, I picked up a bag I fancy only to discover it is the most expensive one in the store. Sliding it onto my shoulder, I started telling myself that I didn’t just want the plaid woolen Fossil carrall with the buttery brown leather. I needed it. No other bag would do. This one, while practically a mortgage payment, was an investment in my career, really. What wouldn’t I do to advance my writing goals? It would last me forever. I would never have to buy another bag ever again. When was the last time I even bought myself a bag? And, don’t I deserve it? Didn’t I help a blind man cross the street and get to the bank just the other day? So don’t I deserve this gorgeous, overpriced bag that hardly fits my computer? Don’t I?
I didn’t. My bank account said so. Besides, if it was my last day of normalcy, I figured I didn’t need such a fabulous accessory. Just an averagely inspiration one would do.
This morning I pulled my computer out of mediocre black, grey and yellow bag, and wrote a blog post. I hope I will be at my computer again tomorrow, writing away too. But if I’m not, if I should find myself in a padded room, well, at least I’ll have plump, glossy lips that smell like cherries.
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Curious historical non-Canadian footnote. Normalcy is a word inventing by one of the US’s worst presidents, Warren Harding, who in his inaugural address, called for a “return to normalcy.” The correct word, until that moment, was “normality.” Therefore, Wendy, I urge you not to use “normalcy” in your Great Canadian Novel.
A pixie cut would be a disaster for me, my face is too rectangular. I would look like a shoebox with a pixie cut. I like the idea of handling one’s fears with cute accessories, this could save one lots of money on therapy. Great post!
If this is writer’s block speaking, I want a dose!
Wonderful post!!!
Mmmm….. I know the exact Fossil bag. K has been looking at a similar one for the last 3 years. . .
In my opinion. . .you and K should go back , spend an obscene amount of money on a bag and proudly wear it out.
In regards to the lip gloss. . .proud of you.
If that was your last day of writing a blog post, well, you went out with a bang. But, I hardly believe that is the case. The universe is sending you down a Fossil bag full of words. Loads of brilliant words to fill a page. You’ll see. In the meantime, know that there are those who read your posts and think they matter.
Ok. I think writing is like this; it’s the nature of the beast. Where the hell is that next sentence coming from? Will it come? If it does, will I hate it? Someone commented on my blog that writing can never be perfect, so we always look back on our work and see its weaknesses. She said, no wonder so many of us are drunks. I found that interesting.
Confession: I’m a sucker for Fossil bags. More than once, I’ve referred to myself as “a Fossil girl.” As one whose wardrobe is comprised of yard sales purchases, often for under a dollar, this is uncharacteristic of me. But occasionally, I do succumb. And for a brief moment, I feel like I’m rolling in a lavender patch.
That’s a quite-wictkd answer to a difficult question
That crown moulding and the light above the table just do it for me. With a palette like this, there is SO much to do. Add a bit of red for the holidays or punches of pink and peach in the summer? Stunning!
seytan azapta….las`o naibii…ea vorbeste…am inteles si de ce )) are un tobogan in mijlocu` fetei….si normal ca se simte frustrata ca ne legam de altele kre ii seamana:))) nu are rost sa mai uzezi tst ptr ea
Good to find an expert who knows what he’s talking about!