A despondent Mercedes is a Mercedes that is out of sorts, and it must be remedied. I did some good hard analyzing yesterday, and this is what I realized: I wasn’t having fun. All of the “Do this!” and “Do that!” and “Don’t forget about these!” were sucking the life out of me. I was going to be nothing more than a dried husk at that rate, and that just doesn’t fly.
So I shut down the computer. I put the stilted writing session on hold. I played that song on the piano without earning it, and it was the best thing that I could have done. It’s darkly ethereal and haunting. Its called “Fake Wings” for any of you .hack fans. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about!
I am two (or several) very different people. On one hand, I believe that if you want something, then you need to work hard for it. I believe that my heart continues to beat by sheer will alone. I believe that if I am savvy enough, and if I write enough, and if I’m smart enough and submit enough, then one day you’ll be picking my book up at the grocery store. (And hopefully enjoying it.)
On the other hand, if you press and press and press, you wear everything down until whatever was raw and beautiful is ground away. And a slick product without any passion whatsoever…well, that’s spiritless. That’s not the way to write or live life.
Today I’m going to introduce RunStarGirl to the critique group. We’re going to meet at this quirky hole-in-a-wall cafe with chocolate and cream euro crepes. When I get home from that, I plan to listen to a new CD mix, eat a chocolate chip cookie, and read another poem out of Kurt Newton’s Life Among The Dream Merchants and Other Phantasies. I find it luminous and sad and horrifyingly lovely. It’s thoughtful, most certainly.
Tomorrow the race may well start again, but for today, my world has quite simply stopped.