A Writer’s Call to Arms or Maybe I Can Work at Trader Joe’s
I refuse to live the unenchanted life. There must be the possibility of something extraordinary.
I have twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to write with my hand moving across the page as my pen runs out of ink. I will write longhand until my sub-standard pencil grip, which should have been corrected in the third grade, causes an inevitable cramp. And then I will type my “shitty first draft” (as Anne Lamott calls it). Or dictate, like David Milch, the creator of “Deadwood” — he spoke his dialogue out loud while pacing the length of his office as his assistant took notes.
Last week, before I went on vacation with my family, I made a decision.
It’s never a good idea to make life-altering decisions on the day before embarking on a hectic family vacation. One is rarely in one’s right mind while packing children’s toiletries.
But once again, I’m in a rut — a hollow place where I cannot get enough Biscotti, scones or oat milk into my belly. This empty void makes me question every decision I’ve ever made. And since there is rarely a good time to get out of a rut — why not now? Why not fully commit to a life of writing while debating whether to run to Target for travel-sized shampoo?
I am now 50 years old (50!) and I’ve danced around writing for approximately 44 years. My first effort was the result of a book my mother bought me when I was five, maybe six, not seven. The book was about a duck or a frog or a turtle — some aquatic animal — but the striking thing about this book was that there were no words, only pictures.
This could not stand.
Compelled to fill the pages, I paced the floor of my childhood bedroom relaying the story as my mom sat crisscross applesauce, taking dictation. Barely out of kindergarten and already my own mini-version of David fucking Milch, taking up space and honing my vision.
I may never get paid to write. I’ll take up ranks with the sturdy, middle- aged women of my generation who stock the shelves at Trader Joe’s in their Hawaiian shirts and nifty nametags, if they’ll have me. My high hamstring tendinopathy and compressed L-5 vertebra might make me a liability to the T.J. team. But I need a steady paycheck for the kids’ college fund.
Mine was not a traditional career path. I’m not a nurse or a paralegal or a phlebotomist. But I can cheerfully dole out samples (please God let them bring back samples) behind the acrylic sneeze guard while brightening people’s day. Sure, my college-aged co-workers might refer to me as “the older lady”.
“Did you know that Megan is like 50?”
I’ll smile and shake my head, remembering the angst and loneliness of my early 20’s while bearing witness to their heartbreak. Then, I’ll go home and write about it. Write. Write. Write. (But I will change their names, of course.)
I write because it’s better than the alternative of having nothing to offer. I write because it’s the closest I can get to the core of me. As long as I’m sitting alone with myself, trying to spin the neurosis and longing into something useful, there is hope.
I refuse to live the unenchanted life. There must be the possibility of something extraordinary. There is zero chance of meeting John Mulaney, Mike Birbiglia, or Tig Notaro if I stop writing. But if I keep going? There is the slightest of chances.
The decision that I landed on last Saturday, August whatever-the-fuck, was this: no more days off. I will write every day. No more going away from the page and coming back three days later filled with foreboding, resistance and malaise. No more indulging avoidance strategies like watching clips of Tig on YouTube or scrolling Gary Gulman’s tweets. I will create my own work, complete it, and share it.
One of my favorite lyrics by the Indigo Girls is “Darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable. Lightness has a call that’s hard to hear.” This means my still, small voice stands no chance against the hit, hit, hit,swipe,swipe,swipe, of Instagram and Facebook. “Oh wait, let me read about Jessica Chastain and Oscar Isaac instead of tending to my own story…”
Not anymore.
Choose a piece, Dolan.
Any of the quadrillion “shitty first drafts” in my notebook will do. Edit every day for 20 minutes and, if I don’t have 20 minutes, then 10. Because I have to have my fingers on it. I have to touch it and breathe it and smell it and have a god-damn mental health breakdown over whether or not to use the word “rustic” while lamenting my chronic overuse of the preposition “that.”
I will read aloud to the dog to see how it sounds. Then cut and print and edit and scribble until it’s done, or close to it.
Cheryl Strayed says we must, “write like a motherfucker.” Thank you, Cheryl, don’t mind if I do. Elizabeth Gilbert says if we are to finish our work we must become, “disciplined half-asses.” Yes, Liz. Perfectionism kills.
My jaw is clenched but my hand keeps moving. The timer has not beeped and I have vowed to write until it does.
