Over these last few weeks I’ve been trying to be less obsessive about writing every day.
I thought it would feel like a vacation – and so it has – sort of. But the truth is I’m uneasy with vacations. They throw me.
I don’t like surprises either.
In fact I dislike any unplanned forays into the unexpected unless I’m the author of them. By which I mean I do like to follow fire trucks sometimes – at a discreet distance of course – but I don’t like it when somebody in whose car I am a passenger decides to do that. Then it feels like a hijacking.
I remember once a friend was really pushing me hard, trying to talk me into some last minute escapade. “Come on for heaven’s sake!” she said. “It’ll be fun!”
“I DON’T LIKE FUN!” I answered, which is of course is crazy-sounding but that’s what I’m sayin’ here. I like the fun that I plan for myself. Also the fun that little kids plan for me just because their fun puts me in comical situations.
I once spent a good 40 minutes in a darkened bedroom closet, forbidden to even open the door by my four-year-old jailer. I was supposed to be pretending something, I forget what now, but I felt so Patty Hearst imprisoned by the Symbionese Liberation Army, me a bald babydoll named Bruce, I just couldn’t stop smiling.
For the last two years I promised myself I would write here every day and aside from some stutterings over the last two weeks I’ve done that. Then just in the last few months it’s gotten harder to do. I sometimes feet like a standup comic who booked to ‘work’ every day of the week.
So to ease up or not? Think I’ll step into the closet with Bruce and think it over. Pass me my beret would you? I want to look good for my captor. I think he likes me .