Friday, January 20, 2012

There's No One Like Me, Right?

What you must know about me, if you must, is that there’s a book in me, a confessional really. Thing is, I don’t know when (or perish the thought, if) it will ever get from the inside of me into a bound book. The creation of it is kinda killing me. It’s just another thing I’ve started and not finished ‘cause eight hundred four things come at me a day moving at least twelve miles per hour and my little (self-diagnosed) A.D.H.D. brain says, “I can’t do everything so I’ll . . .  check Facebook. Change the laundry over. Pet a bunny. Gobble a tiny triangle of shortbread decorated with dark chocolate and peppermint dust.”
            Then this demon with a face like a burnt marshmallow perches on my knee and his talons, to tell the truth, they hurt a lot inside my skinny jeans even though I’m wearing black and white striped Betsey Johnson over-the-knee socks ‘cause a West Virginia winter in a one hundred one year old house can be pretty chillay. That’s French for chilly, you know.
            And the wee, wrinkly, skin-flaking freak lectures me. Tells me I’m a Shop-Vacking failure at life. That if I was really a good girl with some value I’d be scrubbing the hardwood floors on my hands and knees in the morning, Bible studying and chauffeuring kids all afternoon, and commuting an hour away to do a booksigning (Yeah, a real writer would have a book that people would line up to sign.) at a cute cafĂ© in a historic district ‘til midnight. And the weird thing is, I believe him. Even though I know failure is just another F word.
            But that’s just me. No one else feels this way, right?
           
So then I get an idea. I fetch a Band-Aid and scribble a scripture on it. Slap it (gently though, ‘cause truth be told, I’m hurting) on my forehead. Oh gosh. That feels so much better. I lean toward the mirror and translate the aqua-penned, backward writing, on the flesh-toned strip.

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.
           
Take that, you fart face, skin-flaking, marshmallow moron.

4 comments:

Daphne Michele Webb said...

Chuckle, chuckle, snort, snort!! :oD
And if your book is anything like these blog posts, I would definitely BUY!

Goodness you brighten up my day!

Sara said...

I love your descriptions:~)especially the paragraph beginning with "And the wee, wrinkly, skin-flaking freak..."

Regarding the writer frustrations, I do understand them and how "other things" get in the way.

Keep on writing that book. Don't give up on it!

sandbox gems said...

Let us know when you get it done because I too would buy it! Still waiting for my Snarky in the Suburbs to publish her book too. Anyway, just passed on a blogger award to ya because I think you are a versatile blogger! NO pressure to accept it but it is great for writers block.

writingdianet said...

Hi friends! Thanks for stopping by. Encouragement and empathy MUCH appreciated.
@ Sandbox--I can't see an award. Where might it be?

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