It used to be, long ago, that if only the guy I was living with could get a part-time job as a sandwich artist at Subway, we'd have enough money to pay the rent. If only. (He didn't, by the way. And we didn't. And we got kicked out.)

Then, it was if only the same guy could sell a car. Just SELL a car already. Then we can make rent. Then you can stop going to work day after day and not getting paid. Then we can keep this apartment. (He didn't, we didn't, we got kicked out. Again. Eventually I got rid of him.)

I got myself together and went back to school, and then if only I could get a job in the computer lab, I'd have enough pocket money to go out and get a beer. If I could get a part-time job waiting tables, I'd maybe be able to buy some cheese sticks, too. (I did, I did, I did, I did.)

Then I moved off-campus, and the money at the first restaurant dried up. If only I could get a job at the suburban high-dollar chain, I could make rent and not have to cash the patronizing $100 check my then-boyfriend had left for me "to buy books" before he dropped out of college and moved back to the east coast. I did, and there was plenty of money. Enough for rent and clothes and all the fun I wanted.

I left the job waiting tables when I moved for grad school. I was a grad assistant, but we got paid only so often, and the student loan money didn't go very far in pricey Boston. I paid almost as much for my share of the rent as our 3-bedroom apartment in Cleveland had cost. I hung on for awhile, but it became too much to manage. I needed another job. If only I could get a job temping, that would fill the gaps and pay the rent and maybe even buy actual food. I did, and it did.

I graduated, I was living with someone again. If only I could get an actual job in my field and quit the temping gig, I would be able to afford my student loan payments and a reasonable share of the rent. (He would probably still have to pay when we went out to eat, though.) I finally did, and it did, and I even bought a car.

Then we bought a house and were getting married and I was starting a new job and I got pregnant. And I lost the new job. But it was Ok, I would get another job after the wedding/after the baby was born/after the baby got to be 6/9/12 months old/maybe never. But I missed working. If only I could get the job working part-time for the health startup, it would contribute financially and give me something to keep my finger on the pulse of the working world. And I did and it did, till it eventually completely changed directions and eliminated almost all of its staff, me included.

And my husband stretched his wings and went for another job, it was a shaky proposition but it paid about $10k more than his previous job, so he went for it. And it was awful but he hung in there, and eventually they ran out of money and he was looking for a job. And I wasn't working and he wasn't working and it was scary, but only a little because the recruiters circled like vultures. If only he could get a job making another $15k a year, we would be so much better off. If only. And he did, and another $20k on top of that besides.

We sold our house and we bought another house and I was pregnant again and we had another baby. And now I couldn't go back to work, because the economy is awful and jobs in my field(s) don't pay enough to keep the kids in daycare. So I'm home and I'm freelancing when I can find the time and I'm setting a goal: If only I can make xyz (almost as much as my first full-time gig out of grad school), it would really help out. And it's totally doable, if a wee bit lofty. Things are tight, sometimes. My husband works to increase his income by another $20k. Or more. We call it a "struggle", and by the end of the month we're not going out to eat any more and I'm pulling food out of the freezer instead of buying fresh stuff at Whole Foods. We wish we could buy a new car and renovate the kitchen.

I wrote all of this because sometimes, I think it is easy to get caught up in the rhythm of the struggle, to say to yourself "I am someone who has had to struggle for everything I've gotten.". And that may be true--we all struggle. But sometimes if you're busy looking at the struggle, you miss the progress you've made along the way. And you might mistake yourself for a scared 19-year-old who just wishes her loser boyfriend could get hired at a fast-food joint so she'll still have a place to live, when really you're nothing like that person any more, not at all.

Semantics

It's been forever, she says.
Forever.
It can't have been forever, I protest. Forever is used too lightly. Too conversationally.
Forever.
What is forever to someone like you, I think and do not say.
Is forever as long as it takes for a bad haircut to grow out
Like that time you got fed up and lopped off your bangs
Hunched over our dorm sink, OfficeMax shears in hand
Laughing with your teeth
It grew back, though, that's the thing.
Is forever as long as it takes to learn all the bones in human anatomy
Distal phalanges, intermediate phalanges, proximal phalanges, metacarpels, carpels,
Scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate
I could never think of a mnemonic device to remember all of them
And those are just the ones in the hand and wrist.
Is forever as long as it takes to find the perfect lo mein
Trying the Chinas Pearl, Harbor, Inn, Taste, and Palace
Before moving to the Dragons of the same.
None were right, you said.
So I kept driving
And we kept ordering lo mein.
Those things all took time. Not as much time as it's been.
Not quite "forever".
Forever is longer.
It stretches, swells, takes up more space than you planned to allot it.
In the span of "forever" you can love a person so much that it makes you feel like a wrung-out washcloth
Or maybe a crushed soda can
Or one of those vacuum-sealed storage bags they advertise late at night
And then hate them ferociously
In a way that scorches your insides
And fills instead of empties you.
But forever is long enough for you to empty again
Day by day
Drop by drop
Until you feel neither love nor hate
Just a slightly foggy haze of regret
When your emotions' object plants herself in your path and says, "It's been forever".
Yes, I agree. It has.
It's been forever.

Dog

The Dog had been lying quietly on the floor for some time when He returned home. She woke with a start and clambered ungracefully to her feet, sending tumbleweeds of dust scattering across the weathered hardwoods. Her nails, longer than they should have been but not quite meeting the criteria for 'neglect', tap-tapped on the floor as she stretched like a yogi, first front legs then rear, and walked the few steps to the front door. His keys jangled and fumbled in the lock, he would be inside with her soon. She bent her legs as if to sit, but squatted instead, kept the weight in her paws so she could easily jump up to greet him when he crossed the threshold. Her tail beats a brisk staccato on the hallway floor.

The door swings inward with a creak, striking her sharply in the chest. The Dog leaps back, a bit surprised by the pain, but her tail doesn't stop wagging. His voice bursts forth, first her name loud and frustrated, then trailing off into other words she doesn't recognize and finally her name again, soft and apologetic this time. His hand thumps her ribcage, a dull hollow sound. She wriggles with pleasure.

Then the thunking of the bag he takes with him when he left the house each day, his body leaning over to drop it gently at the foot of the curving staircase, the weight of all he carried collapsing to the floor. The sound of his voice again, calling to Her, loud enough to close the distance from the door to the kitchen where She's making the clinking sounds that usually mean cooking and food and dinner. No food smells now, just a dry musty newspaper smell, and more clattering. She answers him, faintly, her voice sounding strained, as if she's trying to swallow something dense and unyielding. He presses his hand against his forehead, mashes his fingers into his eye sockets. The Dog watches, thumps her tail hopefully against the floor. He heaves a great breath, his chest expanding till the buttons threaten to pop from his shirt. His hands fall back to his sides, and he begins walking towards the kitchen, the sound of the old hardwoods creaking as he goes. The Dog gets up and follows him.

carry me ohio

One of those songs I want to wrap around me like a blanket, stand alone on a mountain in the cold with eyes closed, let myself feel warmed by it.
I don't want to know the lyrics, because they couldn't possibly make it better, might make it worse, might do something to take away from Mark Kozelek's eerie haunting voice.
If I could write the way he sings, with that soul-piercing, achingly beautiful quality, than I would never need more than that. If I could just unload emotions so poignantly, I would feel always cleansed.
For some reason, it makes me think of dried out corn husks, the quietly broken-down reeds of autumn stacked in fields. The soybeans, dried and brown but soft with fuzz, hanging dully off the plants. Plodding onward, hair scattering around my head. Cold and dry and alone, and I'll always be alone, and I'll never know how to let anyone relieve me of being alone.

Have I yet? Have I figured out how not to push people away, how to stop forcing myself to be alone? Sometimes I catch myself still living in my own log cabin, peering out at other people through the windows I constructed, finding reasons that we can't relate.

Exacizing Doz Chompas - Describe Your Mental Partition

You're supposed to use a "mental partition" to separate yourself from opinions and half-truths that keep you from writing, apparently. I'm supposed to describe mine here. This seemed silly to me at first, so imagine my surprise when one appeared almost immediately in my mind.

My partition is tall, but not too tall. Maybe not tall enough to protect me? It's made of looping vines, roses and ivy, climbing high and thick up a verdigris trellis. Pink cabbage roses bloom here and there. Thorns jab out everywhere, threatening to prick the fingers of anyone who dares to scale my partition. It's lovely, but sinister at the same time, sort of like the thorn thickets that surrounded Sleeping Beauty in the classic Disney film.

Surrounding myself with this partition feels strangely stifling. You would think I'd feel protected, since it's supposed to be keeping out the festering negativity that keeps me from writing. But no, instead I feel trapped. Maybe I need to make my space bigger. Can I see enough of the world to accurately describe it? Am I limiting myself? No, I'm just keeping out the negativity--why would that feel stifling?

For the next part of the exercise, I'm supposed to write about what I'll tell myself when the negativity seeps in and threatens to bring my writing to a grinding halt. What will I tell myself?

Barbara DeMarco-Barrett (that's the author, maybe I'll remember her name now!) suggests her own line/mantra: Someone has to make it, why not me? Yeah, it sounds a little Al Franken, but isn't he a Congressman now anyway?

Someone has to make it. And why shouldn't it be me? I'm witty, intelligent, insightful. I can dig up a compliment here and there that reminds me of my good (and relevant) qualities...I need to remind myself of them. Yes, sometimes I give people pause. No one is saying that I rock, hard. But remember, I'm untrained. I've never taken a professional or college-level writing course. Get me some training, get me some experience, and I'll rock your freaking socks off. If I'm this good NOW (and by that, I mean good enough that my work gleans compliments, etc.) think of how good I'll be once I've got some experience under my belt.

And one day, when I've made it, i can tell those stories of the lonely little girl who lived in the middle of nowhere and entertained herself by making up stories in her head as she walked back and forth in the yard, or bounced the ball in the solarium, or played Zim-Zam (remember Zim-Zam?). See--it's just pathetic enough to be endearing. Right?

Nothing worth doing is easy, that's what I tell my friends. I roll my eyes at people's inability to see the truths behind their actions. But it's hard to turn that microscope on myself. I have to remind myself that if I were my friend, I would encourage me to go for it, to stop lollygagging around and get to work, already. I'm not exactly getting ahead in my writing career just sitting here. And I don't want to grow old and always wonder what would have happened if I had ever really tried. There is no shame in trying. And those who don't try, really TRY, rarely succeed. Especially in a cutthroat business like this.

So I'll tell myself to heave a great breath, suck in my stomach, and push past the negativity. I don't like it here in the negative quicksand patch, so I'm getting the eff out. I'm going to rise above those nasty, negative voices. I'm going to succeed and flaunt my success for them, instead. Nothing worth doing is easy, right? And someone has to make it. There are thousands of freelance writers who are making a living as such, many of which aren't as witty or insightful as I. So, as Al Franken would say, why not me? Why not make a go of it?

EXACIZE Those Chompas, Again

Hey, imaginary friend who wants to write, you should do it. What are you going to do, spend the rest of your life NOT writing? Become one of those bitter little old ladies who live to dash others' hopes and dreams because you never really pursued your own? You say you're not sure you have the chops--well, you owe it to yourself to find out if you have the chops or not. And anyway, if it turns out that you're not as great as you had hoped, that doesn't mean that you can't still work to improve. Maybe this is something that you have to work harder at that anything else you've done if you want to make it a reality, you know? Maybe you give it a shot and find out you need some brushing-up. Maybe you take a few classes at a community college, or through a center for adult education. But improving just increases your chances of success, right?

Don't fret about not "being there" for your family. In the first place, you shouldn't be so damn irreplaceable that your occasional absence sends them into fits of confusion. That's just unhealthy and a sign that you should have been doing this all along. It might be a struggle at first, honestly. But they'll learn how to function without you. That doesn't mean that you aren't integral or that they don't love you--it means you are doing your JOB of teaching your kids (and husband, who is really a sort of kid as well) to be independent of you. In the second place, you owe it to your family to be happy, and fulfilled, and a bon vivant. Will writing help you to get there? Or would you be better off waiting tables for some easy cash? Yeah, that's what I thought. Be fulfilled, be more interesting, have something else to talk to your husband about over dinner. And so what if "dinner" is sometimes KFC takeout or hot dog fajitas? It's worth it in the end. You can't allow yourself to become solely responsible for your family, anyway.

You say you worry that you don't have anything to say. I totally understand that worry--it's a very normal and human worry. That's the worry of someone as her hand is hovering next to the door knocker, afraid to attend the cocktail party. Hey, you might NOT have enough to say, at least at first. But you have SOMETHING to say. Say it, at least for practice. Try and find your voice and maybe you'll find you have one, after all. And don't be so shy--chances are that what's important to you is also important to other people, too. Every single thing you write doesn't have to be worthy of the New Yorker--let's just start out with being relevant to SOMEONE, anyone. There are plenty of writers who never see their bylines in the Atlantic or the New Yorker who are still very successful, very relevant. Just because you're not one of the big dogs doesn't mean you can't still bark.

I know you don't know where to start, and that the first steps seem really intimidating. That's because they are. It's ok to feel intimidated. Hey, give yourself a day. Feel intimidated. Curl up in the fetal position if that's what you want. Then, get over it. Get up and get cracking. People who spend their days in the fetal position rarely become rousing successes...unless of course they are actual fetuses. Maybe start by taking a workshop, or a class. Does that help you feel inspired? If that feels like too much, hit your local library and you're sure to find a ton of books on writing to help you get started. But the most important thing is that you GET STARTED. You can do it. I believe in you.

Now, write to yourself.

Hi, self. So, self, you want to be a writer. You are even starting to let on to a select group of people that maybe, just maybe, you want to be a writer. You've been writing for half of forever, and you've had some admirers along the way. But guess what? You can't pay the bills on "you have such wit!". You aren't going to be remembered for "you should write professionally". If you want those things, you have to work for them. And probably, work hard for them.

You're so lazy with your dreams, self. You gaze indolently at them from a safe distance, promising you'll get to them later. But now you're 33, and they're not any closer. Your old approach clearly isn't doing the trick. It's time to step things up--it's time to be the person you know you can be, but don't make the effort to be.

Signing up for the workshop was a first step. But now you need more steps--you need to sign up for more IN PERSON local workshops. You need to call more mags and get samples, spend more of your valuable time researching and getting ready for querying. You can do it, you know you can.

You have to stop treating this 'ramp-up' as an annoying barrier between you and success. Maybe it is, but you must take it seriously and scale it fully if you want to BE successful. Everyone would love to breeze past the hardest part, you know?

You ARE worthy. You DO have something to say. When you start to talk, people listen. But you have to have the chutzpah to start speaking up in the first place.

Now, let's talk goals. You and I both know that if you had your druthers, you'd be pounding out a piece for Cookie or WonderTime or Family Circle right now. And it would sort of rock, obviously. And you'd stack up those clips and bylines and parlay them into that fantastic nonfiction book deal--that Priced Out project, and maybe many others besides. And let's not even pretend that you don't hope that once the writing bug bites you and bites you good again, that you'll be cranking out lovely fictional short stories and even novels. And screenplays? Well, why the heck not? You do it all, don't you, Amanda? You're the brilliant writer with the acerbic tongue and deliciously literary nonfiction, the mom people think of when they think of someone who found a way to fit her career in with her homelife. You're the one people can't wait to mention to their friends that they know, and say that they remember when she was just starting out as a writer and didn't know what to do or how to do it. Your success feeds them all, you know.

Autumn is my favorite season. This is what I always say. I love the round orange pumpkins, the crisp air and brilliant blue skies, the leaves just starting to change color. I love sweaters and hats and scarves and not sweating all day long.

That's what I try to remind myself of on days I don't love my life.

Today feels better than some. The screaming toddler in the other room and the realization that I was in for a full day of such behavior made me smile somewhat indulgently, not slam my head against the table and cram my hands over my ears. The same toddler was thrilled to be handed a box of toys he had forgotten he possessed (that cabinet at the front door isn't working quite how I envisioned...). Now he's contentedly watching Elmo discuss 'singing' with his forced puppet seriousness. Singing, it's serious business.

According to the book I started reading last night, before I fell asleep and woke up and fell asleep and woke up, says that I should start writing in small increments. That 15 minutes is "enough time" to get things started, to flesh out ideas so they may later be turned into articles and short stories and works of sheer literary amazement. It also says that you have to get over the thinking that you're not good enough and just write, already. You don't get better by discussing writing, it says.

So here I am, plugging away. Jodi Picoult said that if you write complete crap, you can edit it into something manageable later, but you can't edit a blank page. Well put.

It's getting past the fear of failure for me, again, once more, like usual. Funny how many things in life I've denied myself because I didn't want to admit that they might matter to me. I'm trying to get past that now, but I'm not feeling that inspiration that I was a few weeks back. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that the author of the book I'm reading (have to remember her name for crying out loud) would tell me that 'inspiration' is for amateurs and failures, that it's something people who don't have the chops use to help enable their procrastination. Fuck inspiration, she'd say lightly. You can't eat inspiration. Inspiration is a NSF check you'll never cash.

Maybe that should be my new catchphrase--fuck inspiration. Inspiration didn't get me through grad school, or miserable times in my life. It doesn't make friends for me. It doesn't lose 37 pounds. It's like a petulant child demanding attention. And hell, I have one of those already.

Wow, she (the woman who's name I can't be bothered to remember?) was right. I do feel better.