Trying to figure out what to post this evening and I remembered I had this little musing typed up on another day that I had no idea what to write as well. Kermit looks like how I feel right now, and this picture made me laugh out loud. Sure a picture of a coffee mug or some deliciously roasted coffee beans may have been more professional, but I figured I would go for a laugh at almost midnight. I digress, read the meandering mind of a writer below….
It was a horribly hot and sticky day as she sat outside her favorite coffee shop. At a wretched 100 degrees outside, the barista was surprised when she still ordered her usual hot latte. Nothing felt better between her hands than a steaming mug of coffee to help clear her brain. Beads of sweat started making her light green shirt cling to her back as she sat on the patio but she didn’t care. She was kid-free for the afternoon while they visited their dad and even writing in the heat was a respite from her normal duties as mom and magic making employee.
All her life she had wanted to be a writer. Life had gotten away from her. Bad decisions made by the impetuousness of youth veered her from her path. She had worked for software and hardware companies, been a receptionist a few times over, data entry, union shop steward and executive board member, sales manager assistant, kitchen worker and kitchen lead, and facilitated classes for new hires at her place of employment. She had entertained becoming a teacher and started off her life as an adult going to college. Despite being an honor roll and AP student in high school, her heart wasn’t in it. She had even been accepted into management training programs and had been offered a management position at an outside company.
Three rambunctious and wonderful kids, a handful of relationships and a divorce later and here she was… pouring her heart out the old fashioned way, pen to paper. There was something always oddly satisfying from writing the old fashioned way and experiencing writer’s cramp, as if the written word would only have meaning from physical pain. Her fount of creativity seemed to be stuck in a quagmire. Yesterday’s completion of a rough draft of a new story she was extremely excited about seemed to have expended all her creative energy, but she was bound and determined that she was not going to waste precious moments on any time wasters such as surfing the web or social media sites.
Her coffee satisfyingly drained of its contents, she turned off the ringer on her phone and flipped it face down on the table. She pulled her notebook into her lap, settled her back against the chair and tucked her left leg under her bottom. As her pen touched the paper she began reminiscing about her own life, her own experiences, and childhood. What if she had a story about herself? Would it even do well? Usually celebrities and established authors wrote their own memoirs. Would anyone truly be interested in the life of a random single mother from Southern California? However, when she searched deep down, she found this story wouldn’t be written for anyone in mind. This was her story and if it helped inspire, challenge or console someone in this world anywhere then she would have accomplished something. The big question would be, what part of her life should she start on? Her childhood, quite happy despite financial woes, her parents losing their home and eventually divorcing when she was 19. Her late teens to mid-twenties when she started losing her way, hooking up with a man she knew was all sorts of wrong for her who helped her spend her college savings, who also couldn’t hold down a job to save his life, while she jumped from job to job and couch to couch. How about her mid-twenties to early thirties when she thought she had found the man she would have rocking chair races with some day. Who was more controlling than she dared to believe, giving birth to three beautiful babies, raising two kids as her own blood. Fighting exhaustion, depression and despair as mounting bills, the pressures of being a mom to five kids, and knowing deep down she was missing what was fundamentally “me” in her life. Finally, the last four years of her life. Starting off at a break neck pace with two important men in her family dying within days of each other, a brain tumor diagnosis for her husband chasing right on its tail, followed by frustration and realizations of her life falling apart that started in separation and culminating in divorce. The depression of once being a house full of seven people and how utterly alone she felt while the kids visited their dad, causing her to reach for a bottle of red wine, a sleeve of cookies or tub of ice cream, accompanied by a movie with Audrey Hepburn so she could feel like she could believe in love again. Perhaps she could write about love renewed in the last two years and how a man had come into her life that made her honestly believe she was worthy of a happy ending, despite questioning its validity every step of the way during the start of the relationship. Thinking “this is too good to be true” and “when will the other shoe drop?”
So much life to write about from such a relatively short period of time…