It seems like we’re being dramatic, and we are. Writers, I mean. Everything’s a matter of life and death with us weirdos. When we’re writing, we feel bad. When we’re not writing, we feel worse, and then there are these vague periods in between where life just has a vague film of “ugh” on it. Maybe I don’t speak for all of us, but personally, I can’t think of a writer who I both respect and is “happy” in any conventional sense.
I am particularly torn apart by horses, even more than usual, because I haven’t been writing. Correction: I write 27 hours a day for my job (at the Missoula Independent – I don’t want to hyperlink for whatever reason) and I come home weary and exhausted. On the one hand my silly little 300 word articles are read by lots of people I know in real life and it can be super rewarding. But then the locals get mad at me when I fuck up their event listing and I have to go cry in the bathroom. Molly hates having people being mad at her more than just about anything.
I’m trying to think of what else I’ve been doing besides working, worrying about not writing, tweeting and feeling sorry for myself. Let’s see.
I broke up with my boyfriend, and it was terrible, and exhausting, and heartbreaking, and I feel like a monster! I want to lock myself up in the attic. I’m 29 and every relationship I’ve been in has ended, either because I broke up with them, did something monstrous, or both. This leads me to believe that I am incapable of maintaining a relationship, which is not so much a belief as a cold, hard fact, empirically supported by the data. Anyway, I hate myself. And I know I brought it up and everything but I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve been told that one day he and I will be okay.
Lastly, I’ve been gorging myself on A&E’s Intervention, Obsessed, and Hoarders. Addicts I get, that’s easy, of course you can’t stop drinking. That’s why it’s called drinking, but the hoarding and the OCD stuff feels way voyeuristic. I’m like the anti-hoarder. I’m liable to throw away my toothbrush for no reason and then be all, “oh shit, I needed that.” I am like certain hoarders in the sense that I’m kind of a slob. To paraphrase my friend Alice, who is the same as me: “I seriously just like, don’t see dirt.” I watched six episodes of Hoarders back to back hoping it would somehow pull me out of my existential torpor and convince me to do my laundry, but instead I just decided it could wait, since I don’t shit in a bag and then throw the bag in the corner. God, a lot of those Hoarders are total assholes, especially the old women. At least a drug addict has the good sense to hate themselves. The hoarders are all “this isn’t garbage, it’s somebody else’s fault you found a flattened cat behind the refrigerator, blah blah blah.” If one of those old women were my mother I would stab her. Seriously bitch, your doll collection is tearing this family apart.
So there, I wrote something. It’s not my novel but it’s a start. Celebrate the small victories.