If I stick to my scheduleâ€”and I am dorky enough to have carefully written out a scheduleâ€”I will be finished with the second rewrite of my memoir come Saturday afternoon. On my schedule, there is a note that says â€œSUN: Day of Rest.â€ And then a space, and then below that, â€œMON: Line edit begins. â€œ And if history repeats itself, as frequently it does, I will finish the line edit fairly rapidly, ask various people for feedback on my manuscript, and then panic and sit all alone in the dark for two years without touching the thing again.
Itâ€™s getting a little embarrassing, how long this thing is taking me. I know I shouldnâ€™t compare myself to other writers. I know that that is a short ride to a long hell inside my head. I know that beating myself up for being lazy, or scared, or scared and lazy all at once in a dizzying strawberry swirl is no use, at this point, and I should quit worrying about how it looks that Iâ€™ve taken so long and quit imagining that Iâ€™ve done something wrong, and just get back to the writing. Thatâ€™s the important bit, right? Of course it is! The playâ€™s the thing! Fucking etcetera.
I am so tired of writing this book that is about me and all my interesting opinions (note: they are not that interesting). I could write something else! But Iâ€™ve got to finish this book. Why? I just do. I have to write down all the stupid bullshit I have in my head about weight loss surgery and the math and the duringmath and aftermath. I will incorporate feedback and edits promptly and with great efficiency. And then my agents will take it off and do magical agent things and come back with some kind of news for me.
I am assuming itâ€™ll be â€œbadâ€ news (because everyone knows that publishing rulez), because itâ€™s safer that way, and because then I donâ€™t have to think about all the non-writer things that happen when you publish a book, like â€œhaving to talk to peopleâ€ in the name of â€œself-marketing.â€ Â But if someone wants to publish it, I will have a party, I will not lie to you. It really would totally rule.
However, if no nice publisher with many good qualities is interested? I will by-god self-publish the thing even if that means I Xerox it and then throw it up in the air on a windy day in a crosswalk, and then I will burn something in effigyâ€”a pair of my fat pants? A pair of my skinny pants? A small eskimo child clutching a pine cone? Something symbolic, I dunnoâ€”and then I will move on with my life. I will stop being stuck in this run of 9 or so years of my past that Iâ€™ve been wallowing in for so long, and I will find new things to think about and new things to say and new things to care about.
I will write fiction again. Oh my god, I canâ€™t even tell you how lovely that sounds. Imaginary things about imaginary people and imaginary events. Shit will blow up and animals will speak in tongues and the pillar of the universe will tremble and I can go back to being self-absorbed in smaller doses, like on facebook and in blog posts and twitter, and all will be well, all will be well, all manner of things will be well. Ish.