I have just finished reading a book that I wish I had written. It wasn't a brilliant, connect-with-the-masses, destined to be studied in every high school lit class from here to kingdom come type of novel... but it was irreverent and funny and touching and real and I would have been proud to call it my own.
Because of that, I've had to leave the comfort of my own bed to write and scribble and jot down... nothing in particular really. But out of that drivel, I hope to find a gem, a seed... something that can be planted and nurtured and grown into something that will be bound and sold to someone else so that they can read it in bed and be happy enough to wish they had written it.
A good book always makes a copycat out of me. Is it too much to hope that I will do the same for some other reader one day? Good God is it ever! But one can dream, no? That's the thing about dreams. They can be as big as you want them to be.
(Oh, the book? It was Spanish Disco by Erica Orloff, for anyone who's interested. Just a little chick book, really. But it was fun to read. I wonder if it was just as fun to write.)
* * *
I'm in need of physical comfort tonight. I just want to share my space with someone, bask in the knowledge that they want to share their space with me. Even if I manage to find a tiny sprout of an idea that will turn into something wonderful and worthwhile, I won't be able to kiss it goodnight at the end of it all, when I'm weary and blocked and feeling distinctly useless. I should start to mark down my moments of intense creativity, and my moments of alone-ness... I wonder if they fall at the same times. Maybe it's hormonal. Maybe it follows the moon.
* * *
Yesterday, in the middle of one of the worst days I've ever had, I received some good news that made me shake with joy for a few hours. In a mindless move that I later realized was meant to extend the glory and dull the nameless ache of the past few days, I downed four scotches faster than I've ever done before. Silly of me, really, and totally classless. Strangely though, I remained thoroughly and intensely sober, my inhibitions safely locked and in place, my mind performing with crystal clarity. It's funny isn't it? My body has no rhyme or reason. It will betray me at the worst moments, choosing to bleed or break out or succumb to one glass of delicately sipped at wine. And yet, there are days and weeks when I should be smacked many times with a hard object for allowing myself to give into extreme acts of stupidity, and my body will not only hide the damage, but stand up and ask for more punishment.
I don't understand myself. I just don't. But to try to figure it out now would be senseless. That seed won't be found tonight, much less planted. But tomorrow is another day, thank God. Another chance at... something. Maybe a kiss at the end of it, if I'm lucky.
For you too, hopefully.
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