Yes, this is what happened today. Sitting at Wegmans, freezing my butt off (too much a/c), scattered from either too much or not enough coffee (could go either way), and just hating every single syllable I was wrestling with…I gave up and went to a salon and asked them to radically change my hair. I know I shouldn’t have (given up, not gotten the cut), but I’ve been unaccountably grouchy about writing the last two weeks or so. Doubts about the memoir itself. In particular, doubts about why anyone would want to read this story. I know, I know. Paul asked me what I would say to my students if they laid that on me (as they have), and I told him I’d have a thousand ready reasons for why they should press on.
And I’m going to. In fact, I did not leap past that painful spot I described last post, but punched right through it. I should feel good about that. I do feel good about that. But I also feel…I don’t know. Just weary. It’s been 8 years since I started writing this and almost 19 since my father died. Weary. That’s the right word.
I’ve got a couple of other things buzzing around in my head right now. An idea for an essay (unrelated to this) and maybe a new poetry project. But I’m torn. Do I try to juggle a bunch of distinct projects in the hopes that I can refresh myself with one when the others start to drag? Or do I just grit my teeth and get this thing done already?
Or, check out for the afternoon and go do something frivolous and nutty.
What’s next, a tongue piercing? Do people even do that anymore?