The Wastepaper Basket

This is not the first night that I’ve cried over this stupid book. This isn’t even the first book I’ve cried over. You could probably fill a book with all the irrational things that my writing has made me do. Crying, pouting, self sabotage, fits of anger, sleepless nights, you name it.

The worst part is that I’m the one that gives a shit.

I realized this during the last cry. Maybe as a creative, you relate. Getting upset over a project is all fun and games, but it’s a whole different animal when you’re trying yourself in knots for something that the world will, most likely, forget tomorrow.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if i had finished the damn degree. My satisfaction in self came from work. Homework. As a child that was homeschooled from the itty bitty grades to the great big ones, I was taught that no work is finished until it is finished. If you got a B on a test, you did it again until you got an A. When you’re taught to work through summer vacations, to “double up” on weekends, to tote your workbooks with you to your brother’s soccer practice or in between your piano lessons, you form an identity on the doing. The little-engine-that-could-ing of working and working with the magic hope that next time, you’ll get it right on the first try. This is not a piece about my grievances about homeschooling; I could have been made this way in a dozen different environments. But the fact remains: somewhere in me there is a part that believes that if I start over, I’ll get it right the first time.

Skip forward to college, the school I dropped out after one year. I got a lot of things right the first time. What I didn’t get right were the people. I didn’t really know how people worked. I needed to get the hell out of there to study up and start over. And while I had all that time NOT doing homework, maybe I could finally write that novel. Or a dozen novels–

They did not give out stickers in working america. They did not give out grades– no pecking order, no goals, just you, a shitty job, and a quickly straining relationship with your new roommates/former parents. But this was alright, because as meagre and buglike my existence was without tests, discussion forums, projects and experiments, I was still worth something. I was somebody who was working on a project.

I’m here, almost three years later. I’m crying over a different novel, on a different bed, with different hair and new stretchmarks. And all of sudden, it’s hit me that nobody is watching. It’s not that’ I’m failing the class– nobody gives a shit.

What do we do when nobody gives a shit? Who are we when nobody is there to hound us, measure us up, assume our value? Who are we without a deadline?

I’d like to say I’m writing this from an enlightened angle. That I had a completed epiphany, not a pause between sobs. I know this is more muscle memory than belief at this point. I’m made up of a lot of things, and worth a hell of a lot more than I give myself credit for. But what is going to get me up tomorrow?

I’ve always known I wanted to write. Always. When I thought “fashion designer” meant drawing pretty dresses in a college ruled notebook, and that turning 16 guaranteed instant boobs and a pink car. When beginning a novel meant opening up a notebook and hunting down a pen that still worked instead of turning on my laptop. When the reason for this wasn’t to prove myself, but to do what I loved.

It’s a pretty derivative closing statement. Do what you love, because you love it, keep chasing your dreams, kid, you’re gonna be a star, don’t create to earn love, use your love to create. These are all decent things to say, and it sucks, but sometimes the most generic is what’s going to get us out of bed tomorrow. Now maybe it won’t the next day– maybe tomorrow what gets us out of bed is good old fashioned bribery. If I finish that painting I’ll order in takeout. I’m not going out tonight until I write 100 words. You can tell everyone about the project the minute it’s finished, but not before. Whatever works, that’s what we’ll do next. And when that fails, we’ll find new ways to poke, prod, and torture ourselves to do what needs to be done.

Maybe this is my point; (it seems like a decent one)

We are going to do what needs done, because for whatever fucked up reason, we are all conviced that the project is necessary. If we weren’t meant to be the ones that created, why did God gift us with this terror of being a sham? This fear of never finishing the project? If we’re not meant to be the creators, than what the hell are creators meant to look like?

Let me just say, if I’m crying over this, it must be important. At least to me. Statistically, if I like it, someone else out there will, too. Maybe statistics will get you out of bed. Maybe croissants. But as sure as I am that I will cry about this again, I am sure that you’re going to find a way to get up in the morning. It’s what we do.