This is the ONE HUNDRETH post at the DayLee Fix!
I know, I know...for "bloggers" that's nothing. But I keep saying I'm not really a legit blogger so I'm gonna maintain that it's a big deal for me. Like, if you've ever noticed, there's no annoying ads and whatnot littering up my page here. I'm not getting paid. There are three of you reading this right now. Let me have my little moment. I don't have a lot of accomplishments in life, so I have to celebrate where I can.
I have accomplished things. Like, I have pushed three humans out my vagina. The same vagina. And I still have that vagina. And those humans. Somewhere.
I have done other things, too...like passing a grueling certification exam that I'd rather not talk about because it's for my super boring actual real life job that I do for a real life paycheck.
That's why I say I'm "not a writer" I guess. Because I have a job.
So last week The Hubs reminded me like forty eleven times to get the oil changed in the hockey wagon before our last weekend tournament journey and I was all, "shuuut uuuuup" because he is so OCD and it's super annoying. Like I need to be reminded. Duh. The sticker is RIGHT THERE on the windshield.
And then all of a sudden it was Friday and I was like, "SHIIIIIIT." But luckily the dealer has a quick lube so I just ran over there real quick in the morning and then...because of course they did...they closed it and now all they have is their regular service area. And it was going to be a TWO HOUR WAIT. And of course I had to submit to their game because otherwise I'd never hear the goddamn end of it from you-know-who.
As I sat in the waiting area I cleaned out my purse, updated my calendar, and realized I had...time. Time to...write.
All of a sudden the unused Starbucks napkin in my purse that was destined for the trash became a valuable vessel for words. I could commune, in public yet alone, with this tiny rectangular space that suddenly became precious and sacred. I scribbled feverishly until that brown crumpled cloth was covered in ink, then I tucked it inside my Anne Taintor calendar, satisfied and less chafed over my extended wait for a simple oil change.
Over the weekend in the car, I would pull that napkin out, the only thing in my purse suitable to blot my lipstick. Seeing the black scrawling, my husband recoiled like he just caught a glimpse of a serial killer's manifesto.
"What the hell is that?"
"What? This? Nothing."
"What does that say?"
We argued incessantly over why I wouldn't let him see it. I explained that he just didn't understand and needed to respect the process of a writer, that sometimes there were things that I didn't want him to see, that it wasn't done, that it was...private. That it was difficult to explain.
He looked at me like I had three heads.
And I wondered, does this make me weird? Or does this make me...a writer?
Probably not. But on that note, and to celebrate the big One-Zero-Zero, I'm sharing my favorite writer quote of all time and deconstructing what it means to me:
"Write drunk, edit sober." Whether or not Hemingway said it, I return to it time and again to simplistically peel back what it means to pour out your authentic self on the page. To open your floodgates and let the words flow when your inhibitions are lowered, when you're tired, when you're buzzed on love or seething with hatred, when your fire is burning hottest. Then pulling back in the morning light to edit. To view your words anew with a level head, stark and raw and in need of a shave.
I hope that those three readers have felt that with me. I am genuine. I can't say that 99 posts have made people happy, made me any friends, made me famous, or made me any money, but they have showed my soul and told the truth. Thank you to those who have stuck it out with me from the beginning, including and especially my partner in crime, The Hubs...who supports everything I do and say and rolls with the punches like a sport.
I love you.
But you still can't look at my napkin.