Here is the one major bummer with being a writer...THERE'S NO ONE HERE BUT ME! I can see why all those Faulkner/Fitzgerald guys drank. It's fucking lonely here and yet oddly exhilarating. See, you've got all these characters that you are excited to write about and they have lived with you for a day or maybe much longer and you kind of feel like the characters are alive and that they are your friends and then you sit down and you write about them and you turn to someone to say, "Hey, Lulu is such a kook, isn't she?" but you realize you are only talking to yourself. Because there is no one else in the room with you. And you write for an hour or two or maybe three and it feels great and it's pouring out and you're sweating and you want to celebrate and..."Hello? Anyone there?" No. So you go to the cupboard and you get yourself a Scotch. I so get that. Although right now I can't drink so I go to the cupboard...Actually, I don't think I really have a cupboard. I have a cabinet. Anyway, I reach in and pull out...Oatmeal. Not the same as a scotch but I won't be falling down any stairs eating a bowl of oatmeal.
I think all of this means that I'm getting better and I've got to get out of my room.
There are two things that people say to me lately that frighten the hell out of me. They say, "'Wow, your skin looks translucent." and "You do look thinner." Now this is why that drives me crazy...Normally, I would be thrilled that people would say I looked thin. But when you've had cancer, translucent and thin really mean DEAD. You look like you're dead. And I'm very torn up about this because I would love to be thin under normal circumstances and translucent skin...Gotta love it. But I remember a woman I knew years ago who had that look and yes, she was dying. But she looked great. Everything was perfect just as she had wanted her whole life. And then, BLAM, she was gone. But, of course, who wants people to tell you that you look lousy? So you accept that translucent skin compliment and you just hope you live through the night.
I actually don't think I'm going to die just yet. Oh, I have so many things to do!!
Who am I kidding? What the hell am I going to do? Wash the tub? For that I have to live twenty more years? Go to France? Everyone says, go to France, and I just don't get it. You've got to get on a plane, which I hate, and you've got to pack and you never pack the right clothes and you've got to speak another language and you can't go to the movies because it's in another language and you can't watch Jon Stewart and there's too much cream sauce so what's the point? Maybe I'll take a train ride to Seattle. They speak English there, don't they? And you know those paintings in all the museums in France? I can see them online! In my pajamas! Do you think this is laziness or insanity?
See, I'm trying to figure out what exactly to do next. Can't do exactly what I did before. I keep trying to get to that place where you get so excited about "your new lease on life." But, I don't know, it all seems pretty much the same to me. What I realize most strongly is that if I died tomorrow, nothing would change in this world. It goes on, which is a good thing. The sun comes up, it goes down. Comes up in Paris, goes down in Seattle.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
Oh dear. I think I heard a response. Gosh, maybe that means I'm a real writer! I can have the dts without even drinking! You know what? I think I'm going to have me TWO big bowls of oatmeal. That should do the trick.