I've been "writing" again. I say "writing" with those annoying little quotes because what I am actually doing every morning (EVERY morning) at the crack of o-dark-thirty is this: BlackBerry Curve (the snazzy red one) alarm tone chimes (I really like the chime sounds - and am I not sooo cool to wake by cell phone rather than an old school, totally annoying alarm clock??), I press snooze a few times (no more than three) then get up, and go pad around the dark kitchen for a few minutes deciding if I want to nuke yesterday's brew or make a small pot o' fresh. Fresh usually wins.
Meanwhile, I try not to step on the small, annoying, yappy dog right at my heels that I swore I would never own - no offense, but I'm a big dog person historically, and this guy does nothing to change my mind about it. In fact, I may switch back to a cat - and I go out to my laundry room office to fire up the PC. Yes, I am not a Mac, I am a PC. No special reason, except lately I've been selling off refrigerators to support my family and the indulgence of an insanely expensive computer didn't seem practical.
Coffee made, dog avoided, PC slowly waking up - fifteen minutes gone.
Log on, go back to kitchen to get that cuppa (w/fat-free half and half - isn't that crazy? How do they make fat-free half and half? Isn't the fat the whole point of half and half??), come back out to laundry room office. Where are my slippers? Spend another five minutes deciding they are lost (those kids!!!!), and open up both the note-taking site I use and the mind-mapping one I've got for this supposed, alleged, much talked about "Memoir" I'm "writing".
I review the previous day's efforts to get my berrings. Throw up a little in my mouth.
"GAH! It's all CRAP! What the HECK am I doing here? What kind of an idiot thinks her life is REMOTELY interesting to ANYONE??? I should go back to bed."
Internal dialogue here. Don't want to wake the precious children.
I shake it off and try to focus.
The problem is that I don't know what to focus on. I think I know what I want to say, then when I start saying it, doubt creeps in on little cat feet. Maybe I'll stick with dogs, after all.
I have a section of life I think I am supposed to talk about. I have stuff mapped out, and think I'm ready to go. Then, when I start writing, it seems so pointless: what am I trying to SAY??? You know, is there a moral to this story? "Kids, don't do drugs", or "Stay in school". I could be a poster child for those causes.
In fact, I have "experimented" with so many things in my life that, to me, it seems a little implausible. I look like - who's that guy, the one who got outed after Oprah loved him? And, I really don't think I need to expose every single little part of my huge, white underbelly. It's kind of a need-to-know thing, isn't it?
Plus, it does seem self indulgent. Why does my story have any more worth than anyone else's? Because, really, it doesn't. We all are in one big story together. We all have our small stories within the context of that one. So who cares?
I titled this post The Gorilla in The Room because you often read about writers having an internal critic or editor. That little annoying voice that nags you and hounds you and tells you you are full of crap (I mean the other word, but kids read my blog, besides I try really hard not to say it . . . much). My little voice is like monster huge. And I picture him as a King-Kong sized gorilla who would be hanging on my back, but even my back isn't big enough, so he sits in an office chair with his huge, gorilla feet crossed and propped up on the desk next to me. He is constantly grooming himself, even as he zings me with his little comments: "You're right you know," he says as he examines whatever nasty thing he just found in his fur, "it doesn't matter. No one will want to read it anyway. Why are you wasting your time? You should go back to that mystery series. Don't you have it all plotted out? 'Course, that's all a bag of poo, too..."
As he pops the invisible nit into his huge, nasty mouth.
More time spent trying to shut him the heck up. Focus, Kathy, focus.
What am I trying to say???
Mr. Gorilla chimes in, "Exactly. You have nothing to say".
Deep cleansing breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
So you see what I'm up against? I will, however, attempt to persevere. I hate stinky Mr. Gorilla almost as much as I hate Small Yappy Dog - no offense.
Somewhere in this room there's a pony . . . but that's another story, and I need to get back to my real "writing".
Hang on, I haven't checked my Facebook or Twitter yet this morning. . .
No animals were harmed in the writing of this post. Yet.