Summer Time and The Grass is Burned

Judging by the amount of time it took me to gear up for this blog, I think my brain is as fried as the lawn.

I know I'm burned out and in dire need of a vacation, but there is no rest for the weary. I'm all in- my cards are on the table and I'm down to my last chips. I will not quit early, I won't pass out from heat stroke and I certainly will not whine about the long hours in front of the computer. It's all good, and it's all leading me in the right direction.

About three weeks ago, I quit my full-time job as director of Public Relations for a local college in order to focus on writing. (Can someone give me a WOO-HOO?) All my life I've wanted to be a writer. (Well, that and a professional basketball player. The way I figure it, one out of two isn't bad.) But for as long as I have been working, I've been earning my living; paying my bills, by NOT writing- by doing other marketing and communications work that wasn't at all as fulfilling. I justified continuing in this manner because, well, the utilities bill had to be paid and I needed gas in my car.

Then one day, I watched "The Secret" and I realized something very simple in theory, but life-changing for me. I realized that so long as I kept working and trying to write in my spare time, I was never putting it out to the universe that I EXPECTED to succeed at writing, that I was good enough to throw myself into it 125%, and be paid well for that work. So I made a change. The utilities bill still needs to be paid, and I still need gas in my car, but I never doubted I'd make money some other way.

And you know what? Now I'm actually getting pay checks to write. It's been a seamless transition. I might say I've been lucky, but that's not the truth. I've asked, and the universe is responding in kind.

When I get overtired and feeling sorry for myself (don't worry, it doesn't happen often), I think of the quote by Michael Jordan where he said "winners will do whatever it takes not to be losers, no matter how unpleasant the work of improving may be."

I've learned that writing is an awful lot like basketball. It's all about repetition, about doing the work when no one else is around. It's about putting in the time and willing myself to improve, to take the next step, even if I'm too exhausted to take another step.

Why are people so intimidated to work hard? Do do what is in their hearts?

If there is one thing I have learned these past few years it's that I know what kind of people I want in my life, and what people I want to work with. I want to be with people who inspire me, who have a light within them. People who still make shapes out of clouds and tell knock-knock jokes and love hard and strong and true- those are my people!

And so I'm writing. Every day. Sometimes for me, sometimes for other people and companies. I've finished a script based on the life of Emily Dickinson and I know that story came from somewhere down deep inside me, like the words flowed from some previously untapped well.

Now I've tapped the well. I know how to access it and I won't let that door close ever again. It's a new day. A new life for me. My list of things to do today puts it all in perspective:

1. Live in the moment.

2. Snuggle with my cats.

3. Play wiffle-ball with the dog.

4. Write for me.

5. Write for clients.

6. Meditate.

7. Workout.

8. Read one thing today that touches my soul.

9. Laugh.

The Farmhouse

I passed a beaten down farmhouse on the way to Geneseo. It was an an unusually warm late summer day when even a convertible wasn’t cooling.

The house once had life kicking within it, an expectant mother smiling each time she touches her stomach. Freshly painted outside with the comforting smells of bread baking, an apple pie cooling on the kitchen windowsill, a dog lying near the back steps, snoozing in the late afternoon sun. There were fights and parties, a death or two, screaming orgasms with headboards banging, rain pouring off the roof, lulling those inside back to sleep.

Now empty and forgotten, the ivy ate the house board by board greedily engulfing the entire lower floor, stretching its sticky fingers upstairs, past the shattered windows, its black eyes swollen shut, its red trim peeling and dark, dried blood caked into its sides.

As I drove, I felt its sadness reach out to me. If it had arms, it would have lurched across the expanse of highway to grab me as old people do when you walk down the hallway of a nursing home. The house begged, “please burn me down now, let me go, or else the nothingness will eat me alive.”

I ignored it and continued on my way, pretending I had somewhere better to be. Perhaps if I was a different person, I would have pulled over and gone to the house, sung it a lullaby, whispered gently as I lit matches near the front door. If I were different, I’d sit with the house, respecting it enough to hear its final confession, watch it heave its final breath before giving itself over to whomever it is that watches us all.

Instead I continued to drive further and further east, away from all the things in my life that are supposed to matter, wishing I had the chance to become myself all over again. Because then, I would have made sure to become the type of person who would stop and help a friend in need. Instead of being this person, afraid to make eye contact, afraid that if I stopped, all I would to do is climb up its uneven stairs and curl up in the farthest corner until the autumn breeze cooled me down.