Ironic isn’t it? Virginia was my intentional first name, but my father got it mixed up, and I was christened someone else. Strange that, as I’ve always felt I was mixed up at birth anyway.
Following a little bit of a ranty post, “Things I’m NOT Thankful For”, my pal, and one of my wonderful mentors sent an email, gently asking what the heck was up with me.
You see, even from across the world, she, like me ‘gets it’. Being sensitive is not an easy thing to be in this world. Not at all. We may feel joy more intensely, but we feel our lack as intensely as well.
So, sitting in the midst of my writing squalor, I took a look around, and thought, well, for one thing, my writing area is a cluttered mess which, metaphorically of course, makes me feel like I’m drowning in paper. Drowning is a familiar feeling in the world of finance, romantic comraderie and life in general for single-parents. It’s a feeling I can sweep under the rug until I take one giant gulp, and have to wave my hands for help.
So, Virginia saw my hands waving, and asked a few gentle questions.
Was it my latest disappointment in the world of dating douchey-men? Perhaps the bills piling up and my panic over constantly trying to make ends meet? Maybe….
But then I decided quickly, “No, I can deal with all of that stuff”.
“Try visualizing the life you want….”
I didn’t have to look around, or think too very hard. I knew. My creative self has been drowning. Ironic that as a writer, it’s drowning in words on paper. Ha! Ha-flipping-ha-ha-ha!
Someone pour me a mimosa.
Ironic also that I work in the death and dying ‘industry’, and have been internally hyperventilating since my editor and friend died suddenly last month, making my unchecked manuscript that much more of a guilty reminder that I had yet to review his preliminary edits.
On the outside I look like a force of, “Boy, she’s got it all together”, but on the inside,
I’m a calm, braless, intellect addict dressed in batik, listening to early Bob Dylan songs, painting and writing all at the same time in my seaside cottage, while my five cats lounge in the sun, and my young, naked lover cooks my breakfast.
How’s that for visualization Virginia?
So, as the rest of Canada slips into a tryptophan comma, I shall begin digging out from under the piles of paper, articles, flyers, lyrics and poems that have gathered in my very tiny, intimate writing space. Following which I will settle down to methodically put together my novel with the ghost of my brilliant editor guiding me.
Thank you Virginia for having the good sense to ask the obvious. As always, this Thanksgiving, I AM thankful for the wonderful women in my life who raise me up and carry me along when I’m too dog-tired to do it myself.