How to be a writer
After you write you should feel like a demi-god, or at least like a son-of-an-angel. You should glow, at least from the neck up. Your feet should scuff less on the pavement, because you are hovering (in your flipflops) about one inch off the ground.
After you write you should feel better than the guy who just walked past you, looking for the library restroom. You should feel superior, blessed, wanted, and a part of things. After you write, you should look in the mirror and find that the shorts and t-shirt you threw on hurriedly before you ran out the door, now suddenly appear svelte and polished. You should get a discount when you buy spinach at the farmer’s market. After you write for just one small hour, everything should be good and new. All things should appear more golden or rosy, (depending on your preference). You are godlike, or at least, you should feel so as you write, and especially after writing. It was your conversation with the universe, after all — at least, that’s what they say, and sometimes you say that too.
Only today you wrote about your cat. And you wrote about him the other day too, about that scratch he has on his nose. Just that. You wrote about your cat. And now you are done.
Ok.
I was going to end there, because originally that’s all I wrote on the subject. But actually, the truth is (and as a memoirist I’m just sick-silly-serious about telling the truth) the above isn’t true at all. Yesterday I wrote a lovely/weird passage that may eventually wind up in the next book, which I am currently calling “The Project” or on occasion “Tarzan. (I’m not writing Tarzan, but I do enjoy referring to my next project as Tarzan. Try it. It’s fun. The next time you are cleaning the house, say to your friends and relatives, “I’m going to spend the evening working on Tarzan.” See if it doesn’t make the experience a little better.) So it’s not true at all that I wrote about my cat for several days in a row. (Although, apparently, by mentioning my cat, I am now, indeed, writing about my cat.)
But instead of posting a blog regularly, I am apparently writing little drafts of blogs, saving them under the name “draft” and then not posting them. So the above doodle about writing about my cat was actually written several months ago, perhaps in mid-July. I think. I’m not sure. I’m not good at keeping track of time, and it should be Time’s job to keep track of me, that’s what I think. And truthbetold (which I’m into, as I mentioned) instead of writing a blog I’m working on Tarzan (which is to say, the next project).
(And now, if you think you’re confused, you should see my husband).
All this to say, Hello. How are you? I am fine. I am writing. And thanks for visiting this blog. What are you writing? It’s okay if you are writing about your cat. I do too. And one day he did (not too long ago) have a scratch on his nose. Today he weighs 19 pounds which is slightly less than the 20 pounds he weighed half a year ago. Two weeks ago we went on vacation to Mesa Verde National Park and had a super lovely time—with my husband’s gorgeous daughters. (They live in Colorado.) And now we’re back home, and its September in the woods, which happens to also be gorgeous. Tomorrow I’m speaking to a book group who has journeyed all the way here from Minneapolis for the event. I get a free dinner out of the deal, and that is nice (no cooking). And that’s the news for today!
junemelby 