One night last week around midnight, while I was hopped up on jelly beans and Taco Bell, it hit me. To really do this right. To actually write well, you have to immerse yourself in your story. You need to believe in it, have confidence in your ability and follow through. In other words, you have to be committed.
No, not like that, though there are some days when I believe they're coming to take me away - ha ha, they're coming to take me away. Case in point - an educated almost forty year old woman was gorging herself into a stupor at midnight with high fructose and artery clogging burritos. What the hell was that all about?
But I digress.
I always knew you had to do those things to write well. But it hit me (in the midst of my Jelly Belly induced delirium) with such certainty and clarity. I'd never experienced that knowledge with such depth and surety before. And I don't know what to do about it.
I've been held up this past year in my writing. I have several theories/excuses. But the fear of commitment hadn't been one of them until last week. And now I don't know what to do about it. I don't know if I'm able to commit to being an author. Not with the depth it really takes. And it isn't because of my limited time. It isn't because I don't think it's a worthy thing to commit to.
It's fear. Plain and simple. It's the what ifs. It's the nay saying bastard voices in my head. And the only one to blame is . . . me.
And I'm tempted. Oh, am I tempted. To stop before I start. To choose to fail under my own terms. My own power. Consciously. By not trying in the first place. To close up shop and shake my head in embarrassment at myself for that crazy time I spent thinking I could actually become an author.
So here I sit, without a jelly bean in sight. Tempted. To chuck it all.
How rude of me. When a body goes to intermission, it's proper to leave some intermission music playing. So here is some I offer up as an apology. (This is one of the songs I sent out to the parental unit for their polka intervention, so it's definitely appropriate for intermission.)
Anywho, now that I've rectified that, I have a question. What current car do you think is the quintessential chick car? Back in the day I would have answered Fiero or Cabriolet or maybe a VW Rabbit. But what contemporary car do you think is a definitive chick car?
So, yeah. Things are pretty much chaos at Casa de Quinn (or chez Quinn for all my legions of loyal but silent French Canadian lurkers). Nothing life threatening, just taking a major beat down by some masked freak in spandex, jumping off the top rope wielding a metal folding chair. You know, normal chaos.
So it's got me to thinking, which with me, you never know where the hell this will go. Usually nowhere good. And here are the fruits of my ruminations - The Merits of the Mullet.
I have now determined that there are some nice benefits to be reaped by sporting a mullet. You don't even have to really get it done. They sell mullet wigs now. All you'd have to do is show up in public with one of these bad boys nailed to your noggin.
So here, in no particular order are the merits and virtues of the mullet as I see them.
1. No one expects anything from you.
2. You can get away with any degree of laziness.
3. You are not expected to be a productive member of society.
4. Any number of carny jobs are yours for the taking. (and really, do I need to enumerate the endless amounts of perks that go along with carny work? I didn't think so.)
5. You can wear the same clothes for days and no one will look twice at you.
6. "All business up front. Party in the back."
7. You can write nothing for over a month and no one looks at you twice.
8. No one believes that a mullet wearer can actually write at all.
9. It's completely assumed that your greatest accomplishment is clearing the lint from your navel.
10. Mullet equals magnificence.
You didn't think I could come up with ten, did you? Yeah, I know. Some of those merits seem almost the same, but hey, what did you expect? I have a mullet. (You just can't see it under the pointy hat.)