I don't know how people who work from home do it. I had an afternoon all scheduled for writing and drinking champagne on my deck, but in the allotted hour I gave myself, I ended up hanging clothes up (I hadn't anything to wear that was already in my closet), drying my hair (which seemed to be drying faster than normal, and if I let it air dry, I would look ridiculous and I had plans that evening), cleaning off the patio furniture (because I couldn't write on a table covered in potting soil), moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer (because if I didn't do it right then and there, I would certainly forget it altogether), and cleaning off the champagne glasses (because we usually never drink champagne, so they had a good year's worth of dust on them) that by the time I was sitting down to write, I had a mere 20 minutes left, and then I went ahead and wasted five more minutes whining about it here.
And yet here I am with whatever little time I have left because it's about damn time I start sticking to my guns and actually do things I say I'm going to, which I've never been too good at doing in the past. Thus, the reason I've been absent so long. There hasn't been anything worth writing about--well, of course there is always SOMETHING to write about, but as far as the status of my writing or new things I've been learning, new leaps I've taken, there simply haven't been any.
Failure, of course, is something worth writing about and something I'm getting to be an expert at for certain. However, I'm not particularly fond of writing about my failures, mostly because my failures tend to be self-inflicted. I'm perfectly aware that if I don't write, it's simply because I haven't taken the time. There is no one to blame but myself. As the Eagles might say, I'm a prisoner of my own device, stuck in a continual Hotel California not even trying to find a way out. I can't complain about my life not going the way I want because I am capable of changing it. What a powerful statement. I am capable of changing my life. I am capable. I choose not to.
And to write about my failures would feel like I was only complaining when I have no right in which to complain. Thus, I have remained quiet, not facing my life or my failures, watching time tick by, nearly three months into the project and still the same ten pages to show for it.
If it's one good thing I can say about the past month, it's that I've forced myself to go back to hip-hop dance class. At least I'm doing some extra-circular activity that gets me out of the house and gets me thinking about what I really want out of life. Believe it or not, dance classes are a great place to think, or at least they are for me. It seems like I would be too distracted with counting and memorizing move sequences and trying not to look like the white girl ironing board that I am compared to my smooth, sexy instructor who probably came out of the womb popping and locking.
But in a dance studio, I spend my entire time staring into a mirror, realizing all the flaws and imperfections, every move that is correct and every move that is incorrect, my facial expressions when I miss a move, when I get a move right, the way I feel the music and the movements. It's no internet blog that I can hide from and avoid for a whole month. Everything is laid out in front of me; all the problems that I have to fix are unrelentingly reflected back at me. And most of the time, I'm scared shitless that my classmates or Mr. Smooth Sexy Instructor are watching me, judging every one of my mistakes, but then I realize it's just me and the mirror. Everyone is focusing on themselves, finding the errors within themselves and attempting to repair them each time the music restarts.
I suppose that's what makes it hard about trying to make friends in a dance class. Sure, there are times where we're all joking about a move or helping each other out with some sequence, but for the majority of the class, we are each in our little bubble, alone with the music and the mirror. I've been meaning to stay a little later after class, try to talk Mr. Smooth Sexy Instructor about any other dance opportunity he may know of for 20-something ex-baton-twirlers or find out how the other girls in the class spend their free time. But I guess I find it exposing enough that these people see me struggle with moves and constantly misstep. I guess by the end of class, I'm just ready to get back to my safe cocoon that is my car and my normal boring life.
Which is a shame, really. I have found in the past that the bond shared between people with the same passion is the strongest bond of them all. I often think fondly of a specific moment in my past, standing around a piano late at night at Adrian College when most people are back in their rooms, surrounded by strangers who quickly became family at a summer camp, my dear friend playing a song from Les Mis his fingers have memorized and all of us singing along casually, poking at each other and laughing all the while. It's a kind of camaraderie you only understand if you've had it before. And even just standing around a piano singing warm-ups or a song everyone knows, what fun we all had. It was all we wanted or needed in that moment. It may sound silly, but I miss standing around a piano with people like me.
Sometimes I think all of this would be easier if I had chosen to hang around people who had the same life goals and passions as I do.
It all goes back to what John said that first night I attended Writing Club. He said writing is a lonely business. And it is. I keep fooling myself into believing that I can write and NOT be lonely, that I can spend time with my husband, our families, our friends, and STILL write. But that's not the case, not all the time anyhow. To achieve my dreams, I need to instill discipline in my life and I have to be willing to sacrifice, even if sacrifice means being alone, even if only for a temporary time. And I guess I haven't been willing to sacrifice yet. It's funny, really. Writing is what I really want to do, but I'm not willing to sacrifice what's necessary to get it. I suppose that's something I'll have to come to terms with.
A funny ending to a rather pensive entry: My husband came home and gave me a kiss hello, quickly followed by a, "Have you been drinking?!"
"Just a glass of champagne," I batted my eyes innocently.
"It's not even 5pm!"
"It was just one glass!"
"Yeah, right."
And then giggles ensued, which did not help plead my case in the least.
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