The
hardest part about my double life is I don’t have any time to dwell on the
victories of my writing.
I
remember when the copy of my first printed book came in the mail at work.
I wanted to shout and dance and grin broadly and call everyone and post it on
Facebook and then dance some more. Maybe even have a cup of celebratory
tea and toast to the sunshine streaming in the windows!
But
a tape was waiting and my boss was pacing and eyeing my allegiances and so I
put the box under my desk and smiled to myself and got back to work. The bills
have to be paid and I can’t be without a job. Tucking myself away, I set
it aside.
My
second book, like the first, crossed my desk in similar fashion with similar
squelched happiness.
And
now, today, I have officially sent a proposal with real terms to be agreed upon
by real people who have asked me to get their stories in print for other real
people to print and read and share. I want desperately to talk the terms
out with everyone I see. To pontificate and regurgitate and reassess the
pros, the cons, the fears, the accomplishments.
But
no dancing aloud, no celebrations ensue, no reveling here, no discussions,
dissertations or detailing allowed!
Dictation
and filing and other important tasks demand I retain focus.
Someday,
when I grow up, I’m going to be a writer at my own desk in my own space and I
hereby proclaim every noteworthy event will be celebrated with tea, crumpets
and loud voices!
But not today. Today, I get back to work.
At
lunch time, if you look over my shoulder, you might find me tossing words about
the page. Not so they become
memorialized, but simply to empty them from my consciousness so I can concentrate.
Like this:
Let me just put it
out there. If they reject my offer, I am in the same position that I was
in August before I knew such a thing could happen. If they send a
counter-proposal, I am in a better place than I was in August.
What have I got
to lose?
This constant
going back and forth in my mind only serves to distract me from the tasks at
hand and could ultimately jeopardize my job. That is the great
frustration of working and not only writing. The words
chaotically chorus circling my days refusing to behave while I do what must be
done if I will have a roof over my head and a car to drive.
I chase away jealous
thoughts of those who wile their days away complaining about a husband gone too
much or children who crawl into their personal time. What do they do with
all that free time I imagine they own? What I wouldn’t give.... But
then they likely wish they could trade my perceived freedoms and independence
in exchange for their routines.
Since my
mother’s mind knows that no one wins the green-eyed battle, I construct a wall
between my perceptions of them and their realities of me and get back to dictation
while the words dance behind my eyes.
The worst part of
being a writer who happens to be single is that there is no one to celebrate,
contemplate and commiserate with me over the process. I’m quite sure my
friends are tired of my endless bragging and complaining, by turns, about the
process. If I were married, or even dating, surely Prince Charming would
understand my fluttering mind and give me a place to rest. I had a friend
once whose voice alone I could rest in. Something about his tone and
understanding would instantly calm the fluttering phrases. I miss that,
honestly.
Another friend rested
my mind once by saying she was quite sure I wouldn’t want to write
professionally. Not that she didn’t think
I could, but she feared that if I made the thing I love into the thing I must
do it would tarnish its authenticity. As
the contract ballasts are built, I understand what she meant. I only want to write, but if my writing is
valuable, then I ought to get paid. I’m
not sure how to reconcile the two.
Lunch hour has wound down and the timeclock is ticking. Again I set aside the writer's dream until the day the words can play. I put the worries with them in the box beneath my desk.
For today there is
only the hum of the air conditioner, the stacks of filing, the mail to prepare,
the e-mails to read and the bills to be paid.
Today I’m a writer with a job.
To order a
copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please
visit my website: Writer's Pages
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Author Kris A. Newman
