After all this time there are some things you still don’t know about me, believe it or not.
Lately I’ve been working on my novel which is the best piece of writing I’ve ever done, which is not to say I haven’t considered throwing the whole thing out and starting over on fourteen different occasions.
I even did start it again, from a different angle, and then reread the restart and rejected it and returned to the original.
In my lifetime I would just like to finish this damn book.
I don’t even like it anymore sometimes. It’s become a burden, a source of guilt and angst and broken dreams.
“You need to finish that best seller so we can retire,” my husband says.
I laugh maniacally.
“Just because I finish it doesn’t mean it will sell!”
I just need one year alone in a cabin in the woods. With internet.
(Again with the maniacal laughing)
My novel is about a woman with an eating disorder who tries to save the world. I mean, the saving is more specific but she at least wishes it was the world. And of course then there’s a whole thing that happens and her enemy becomes her friend after her best friend betrays her and all she wants to do is rescue the princess or something like that. Roughly. It’s chick lit.
I briefly wrote about it in a story about camp, my experience with bulimia.
When you are an addict, usually the method of treatment involves giving up what you are addicted to completely. Well, you can’t give up food. I mean you can, but they put you in the hospital for it.
And also, most people associate eating disorders with teenagers but I’m 48. Take that, stereotype!
For the most part, I’m recovered, but this whole writing-about-an-eating-disorder is igniting something sinister. I’m aware of it though, obvs, and I’m on it. I just don’t like it. But you write what you know, you know?
I need to be alone in a cabin in the woods with Internet and a chef who comes in to cook me healthy meals and brings only healthy snacks.
And then, how do people who write a whole book do it in one hour a day increments and then do something else? Sure I can write for an hour every day but then I spend the other 23 hrs thinking and dreaming about it. I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.
Also, speaking of dreams, do you ever ask yourself, am I recalling a previous life or am I psychotic? No? Don’t you ever wonder where that weird stuff in your dreams comes from? What is going on in there (I say to my brain). Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that I am supposed to connect the dots but its just beyond me. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’m not psychotic.
But how can I dream about the same house over and over that is not my house and not anyone else I know’s house or any house in anything I’ve ever seen but it’s the same in every dream from the outside and in? Can someone please explain my brain to me?
Anyway, writing gets my brain all fired up day and night. I like it- I’m sharp. Just a little too sharp maybe, there are some things I maybe don’t want to know. it’s like those “this is your brain on drugs” commercials, only opposite.
THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON WRITING
A long many years ago, like ten, I let my boss read my partially completed novel.
“I better start looking for your replacement,” she said, “cause you are outta here.”
It’s called “Puke”, my book. I gave it that working title because I like how it just puts something gross right out there like it’s normal. I imagine I might have to change it later. You know, once I sell the movie rights.
Anyway, thanks for listening. I will now return to my regularly scheduled program which includes not worrying about parallel lives and eating disorders and whether or not I’m developing psychosis and more writing.