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| Imma eat all your confidence. |
And book.
Right. Did I mention I'm writing a book? I am writing a book. You don't have to say it; It's a ludicrous idea, I know. Everyone is writing a book. Books are a terrifying longshot in a sea full of writers writing books.
Sensible Maven, my alter-ego who doesn't know I'm sitting in a coffee shop drinking three-dollar americanos I could have made at home for a fraction of the cost, says I should not waste my time penning a memoir and should instead be pitching publications full-time as I might actually make a decent living at that.
Sensible Maven, who wears glasses attached to a fake gold chain and perches them just low enough on her nose to furrow her brow at me, says if I insist on getting into this publishing business, I should just ghost write other people's books because they have a higher probability of success than mine does.
Sensible Maven, who has a briefcase full of receipts dating back to 1997 and only attends potluck gatherings because she's diligently saving for retirement, says I'm a fool to dream big.
She says these things to me every time I sit down to write this damn book. And then I can't pen more than a few sentences because I begin to agree with her.
So tonight I strapped that bitch down Clockwork Orange style and made her watch the Katy Perry movie with me.
Yes, the Katy Perry movie, everybody. Laugh away. Go ahead. I'll give you a moment.
Done yet?
Ok. Stop laughing now. Seriously. I still have half a roll of duct tape in my hand. Don't make me go there.
Katy Perry has made an entire career out of doing things her way. She fought the system. She fought record labels. She fought the formula. She fought against people who told her they knew better. She wouldn't compromise who she was or what she had to say just to make a dollar. And now she's wildly successful at being authentic.
How do I know all this? Because my kids were all "please watch a movie with us, Mommy" and put it on and then ninjad their way out of the room to eat popsicles while I sat there worried about Katy's and Russell's doomed marriage, that's how. Now I'm the world's biggest Katy Perry fan and they're bitchy because they've had too much food dye.
I have a story to tell, and I need to tell it. In a book.
Don't ask me why. I don't know why. I just know I have to do it.
Maybe it's because so many people have suggested I write a book (probably because they're tired of listening to me talk about myself, which is weird because I never get tired of listening to me talk about myself.)
Maybe it's because I believe with all my heart that everyone has a great story to share, so why should I be any different?
Maybe it's because I've had a weird, wild, tragic, bold, wonderful life, and that by sharing it I could help lift someone up as others have lifted me up so many times.
Maybe it's because I want to honour what is beneath my roles as mother, partner, daughter, sister and friend; there's a whole person in here beyond those labels, you know.
Maybe it's because I want to heal some of those old, deep cuts and that, by writing about my life with humour, I could laugh my way through it all the second time around.
I suppose it could be all of those things, really. The idea of penning a memoir has bubbled to the surface so many times in the last few years, yet each time I've found a reason to surpress it: I'm too busy, I'm too stressed, it's a bad time in my life, it will suck, I'll hate myself for failing at the one thing I've always wanted to do and years later will be found dead in my hotel room after overdosing on a crateful of peppermint patties.
But fear and worry and doubt are poor reasons not to do something, unless that something is jumping into a pit full of hungry crocodiles. And since writing is nothing like being eaten by crocodiles until the book reviews come out, I need to stop letting those emotions guide me.
Maybe it will suck. Maybe no one will read it, or, worse, everyone will read it and hate it very much. But those are concerns of the ego, and I am not going to be my ego's bitch. Nor am I likely to be Sensible Maven's bitch anymore because I totally forgot she's still strapped to the family room couch with her eyelids taped open, and also because works of passion are not always sensible, Maven.
I have to write this one book - ok, maybe two books because, let's face it, I'm obscenely verbose - and then I can get back to pitching publications and editing other people's works of passion if I have to. But not right now. Right now it's time to do what I promised myself I'd do.
Even though I'm looking down at the crocodile pit, terrified.
And I could really go for a peppermint patty or five right about now.