I need a piece of corn.

Let’s try this again:

Last week, I planted a mess of seedlings I’d been nurturing for months outside in some raised garden beds I recently built.  They’re dead now.  Apparently, you’re supposed to ease them outside, harden them, prepare them – not just shove ‘em in some mud and expect them to thrive after months without ever knowing the true warmth of the sun.

Nope – too dramatic.  Take three:

When she told him things she was thinking…he said it back to her in language that showed he understood what she’d said. He had the time to hear, like a person who believed there was someone alive beneath the rubble of herself, who heard the soft sounds she could still make from the broken parts that had waited decades to be missed.

As part of my recent reading binge, I picked up Anne Lamott’s Blue Shoe.  At least six different people have insisted that I must try Lamott, that she would change my world, that she would speak to me.

And?

Meh.  It was beautifully written, but way to Jesus-heavy for me.  Plus I really didn’t like anyone in the book.  If I’m going to spend that much time with someone, fictional or otherwise, I’d really like to at least like them, damnit.

There was one line that really stuck with me, though:

“…you should go only as fast as the slowest part of you can go.”

But what if your slowest part has quit moving all together?

Blech.  Take four:

Honesty.  To me, that’s the single most important quality of good writing.  Fuck run on sentences and misspellings and overuse of the word “like” and punctuation errors and proclivities for profanities.  (Fuckers.)  If there’s no honesty, there’s no point.  It’s like masturbating when you’re trying to share an intimate moment with someone.  But dryer.  Usually.

Honesty.  It’s crucial.  Even in fiction writing.  A reader can tell if you’re fucking with them.  Not that you can’t fuck with them and have them enjoy it.  Just so long as you do it honestly.  (Ex: Christopher Moore)  Rephrase: A reader can tell if you’re hiding from them.  Holding back.  Lying vs imagining.

Woof.  This is pompous and annoying.  Even to me.  Honestly.  But I’m not launching into a Take Five.  And not just because that Brubeck song makes me want to run every speaker on Earth through a wood chipper.  So let’s just keep going with this, k?

Besides, I’m building to a point.  Honestly.

There’s a reason I’m having so much trouble writing.  Sure I’m tired.  Sure I’m overwhelmed.  Sure I can’t seem to find the time in a day to make the writing happen.

But that’s not all of it.  Honestly.

You make time for the things you love, don’t you?  If it’s important to you, you make it a priority.  I mean, it’s called “Free Will” for a reason, damnit.

Here’s the thing – I’m not really ready to be honest about a lot of things right now.  Not with you.  Not with my friends.  Not with my family.  Not with myself.  And definitely, not in a written, tangible, forever medium.

So I’m not writing.  At all.  Or thinking, if we’re being honest here.  And that IS the point of this post, right?  Honesty?

Earlier today while driving, I let my mind wander and I started to have thoughts.  Thought, thoughts.  Feeling thoughts.  I heard myself say aloud, “Shut it down, El.  Not now.”

That’s pretty much what happens every time I sit down to try and write.  Or paint.  Or think about the book.  Or whether or not Paul should have a sibling.  Or if I’m ever going to DO anything again.  Or…

But the part to focus on here?  There’s still some part in there trying to think.  Trying to feel.  Trying to connect.  Trying to rally.

I don’t want to use the D word, because that’s trivializing to people that really struggle with it.  And I promise you, I’m not there.  Honestly.  I think it’s just a spell of funk.  Minus the George Clinton.

Then again, I’ve given myself that same speech before.  When I was sick.  It was all, “Suck it up, El.  You only have a 15% chance of death.  Odds are with you.  It’s not like you have terminal cancer, pussy.  Stop complaining.”  Which, in hindsight, I suppose might have been a little harsh.  So maybe I shouldn’t trivialize what I’m feeling right now.  Or not feeling.

But I don’t want to blow it out of proportion either.  I laugh almost every day.  Paul is (mostly) a joy.  I’ve started doing social things.  The warm weather is here again.  I have amazing people in my life.  I even have plans for a few Paul-free hours of craft store shopping later today.

And honestly, I probably wouldn’t be writing about this if I didn’t truly believe the worst was over.

Nope.  The D word still doesn’t fit for me.  So, don’t go fretting, bitches.  I’m ok.  Or at least, I’m getting there.  Honestly.  I still love rainbows and unicorns and glittery, top hat-wearing, jazzercise-performing, ukulele-picking pygmy hippos with cocaine problems as much as the next girl.  Probably more.

I’m just having a harder time laughing about them right now.

And maybe typing that line made me a little weepy.

So maybe I’m going to shut myself down again for another month or so, give myself permission to let this one thing go a little longer, remove “not blogging” from that list of things I beat myself up for not doing.  Then I’ll give it another go.

Because I respect you people too much to lie to you.  And I’m working on respecting myself that much, too.

…but I might still uke.  If only because singing is just about the best therapy I know.  That, and laughing.  So on that note: