My Bad Day

The problem with reading a good book is that, if you're a writer like me, you inevitably end up comparing yourself to the work in your hands.

And after I got to the end of Chapter 3 of Donna Tartt's "Goldfinch," that's exactly what happened.

Today was already a shitty day to begin with. I woke up overwhelmed with yesterday's undone to-do list. So much writing to do. And the more I wrote, the more I saw more work I'd have to fix later.

I thought reading something would help. That didn't quite work out the way I wanted.

Without meaning to, I let Inner Bitch Critic remove the bandanna I had tied around her mouth months ago, and she started talking to me.

Why can't you write like this? How come you can't describe shit like this? Are you ever going to finish this work?

My current work in progress has sucked up a year of my life. And it's looking like it might take more of it. The more I've worked on it, the deeper I fall into that endless dark pit that is editing. It overwhelms me to think of how much I still have left to fix.

As the day progressed, I felt shittier and shittier. And the only thing I wanted to do was take a bath.

So that's what I did.

I sat in the tub looking at my pink toes. The water poured until lavender-scented water stopped at my nostrils. I blinked, my exhaled air caused ripples in the still water. I thought to hide from the world like some sad toothless crocodile.

I suck. What am I even trying to do? This is so hard. How much longer do I have to do this? Maybe I've bitten off more than I can chew. Someone else could probably do a better job with this than me.

Then I started to list their names, those authors who I look up to and marvel at.  But before I could play the Compare Game, she materializes.

Inner Bitch Coach, the arch nemesis to Inner Bitch Critic.

Inner Bitch Coach looks a lot like Edna Mode from The Incredibles. She terrifies me and the Critic, who has decided she has to be somewhere else and poofs away.

"What are you doing?," Inner Bitch Coach asked suspiciously, surveying my pathetic state.

"Feeling sad and unworthy."

She rolled her eyes. "Again? Didn't we take care of this toxic habit of yours? Compare is to despair, remember? Argh, look at you!" She folded her arms and tsked. "You might as well shoot yourself in your own foot if you're going to continue doing this to yourself."

"I'm not sure I can do this," I whined.

"What a stupid thing to say. You ARE doing it. You just keep doing it until it's done."

"But this is hard. What if I fail?"

"What are you talking about?" Her eyes thinned into slits of impatience. "You are you. You have gone through worse. You think this is hard? Well, life is hard. You will fail. And so what?" Her hands waved open. "You keep moving forward, silly girl. You don't stop."

I didn't have anything to say to that. Any defense I thought to say sounded stupid.

"Look at you, marinating in this useless pity party." She tossed her hair. "I've got places to be. Call me when you won't waste my time," she said before disappearing.

Alone, I slid lower into the tub until I was looking up at the ceiling. Water soaked my hair. I had gathered it in a high bun because I hadn't wanted to deal with washing it.

Fuck it, I thought, letting the strands get wet. Just fuck it. Who cares? 

I pulled my hair free, let it tangle in the water so I could be some sort of Medusa mermaid. Enya sang about sailing away and I thought of joining her.

I should go back to writing something easier. This kind of writing is too hard. Why would I do this to myself? Pick the easier road. One where you don't have to fight so hard. 

The hot water turned lukewarm. My toes and fingertips wrinkled. And I tried to remember what happened to set me off writing this story in the first place.

Then, I remembered.

Oh, yes. I remembered. And remembering re-lit the untended fire within me.

My flaccid muscles tensed. My heart pulsed, eager to race. I slid lower into the bath and baptized myself with my rage.

I emerged, clean, the greasy grime of hopelessness had slid off me.

I stood up, ready to work.

What happened was not going to be forgotten. I had something to say. Something that was going to take more than one TLDR email. This work, this monster of a manuscript, I had created was mine and mine alone. No one else could write it because no one else knew about it.

This was my story to tell, and I had forgotten that purpose.

Even if this manuscript ends up being the only thing I will write in my life, I will do it as best as I can. I have something to say, and I'm going to work my ass off trying to say it as clearly and coherently as I can.

At the very least, to serve out some justice.