This isn’t something an aspiring writer-type such as myself is supposed to admit, but …
I usually only write when I feel like it. I’ve heard enough quotes from real writers to know this disqualifies me from their club, but it’s true nonetheless. Real writers, I think, are supposed to be miserable as they write. Writing for them brings self-loathing, and painful introspection, and torturous editing and rewriting and – well – there’s a reason Hemmingway was an alcoholic.
But this particular post – the one you’re reading right now – is different than normal for me. It’s not something I WANT to write exactly. I more feel compelled. I feel like not writing about this would be wrong.
***
It started with me sitting in my broken down car, complaining/petitioning/kinda-yelling at God. Now generally I don’t argue with God, for the same reason I try not to argue with Calvinists – I just end up frustrated, and with more questions than answers, and a nagging sense they’re more right than I want to admit.
But at this particular moment, right after my car broke down for the 7th time in two and a half years, I decided I’d had enough – not just of the car, but in general. I was tired of my failed attempts to get a career going as a writer and a speaker. I was tired of opportunities drying up, stalling out, or sitting frustratingly out of reach. I was tired of wondering how far, exactly, my car could go with the low fuel light on and of wondering how I’d pay my credit card bill. I was tired of overdraft fees and uncomfortable silences when I deposited checks at the banks followed by the ominous words “teller assistance!”
And above all I was tired of complaining about how tired I was of all this.
The self-employed career path wasn’t working – at least not quickly enough – so I had already turned to Plan B a month ago, which was unfortunate for me because, like most plan b’s, mine was like a fire extinguisher sitting on the wall of a public place: it’s nice to know it’s there, but you always hope it won’t be needed. Plan B was to find a part-time job to supplement life while I got things going. Plan B was my easy out if things fell through.
But Plan B wasn’t working. I couldn’t find a job anywhere, and when I say “anywhere” I mean that in the Green Eggs and Ham sense of the word:
I could not find one as a cook, I could not find one reading books.
I could not get one in a store, nor selling products door-to-door.
You get the idea.
The pressure – as tracked by debt and bills and email notices from my bank – was building. And then, as I was driving back to the apartment I still owed rent for, my car broke down. So I called for a tow truck using my cell phone that would probably be shut off in a couple days, and sat alone in a Shell station for an hour waiting.
That’s when I lost it. Continue reading ‘Chronicles of a starving artist … and a loving dad.’
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