I finished a couple editing jobs yesterday. After I submitted the second job, I immediately started cleaning. I vacuumed my two rooms and the hallway, I washed cat blankets, I swept up cat litter, I cleaned the mold growing along the edges of the tub, I scrubbed the toilet. I recycled a foot-high pile of reports I will never read again. I even started a new batch of wheat grass for the cat. When I finally stopped for dinner, I felt righteously deserving of something special. Mmm, waffles.
Later I fell asleep on the couch in a carb-induced haze with the murmur of angry town hall voices in the background. I dreamed of buying a decrepit hovel in Italy for $1.00. Growing beets and broccoli. Washing in creek water. I'm ready to drag up on this town. Any town. Anywhere where people congregate and spit hatred at each other. I want out of the tribe. I want to belong to no tribe.Speaking of tribes, my sister and I Skype weekly. (I like my sister, so for her I will make an exception and let her into my tribe. Or maybe I should beg her to let me into her tribe, she's way cooler than I am.) My sister travels to Europe almost every year. These days she's in Munich, nine hours ahead of Portland. Her day winds down as mine begins.
We usually discuss our progress on our current research and writing projects. I have a long backlog of ideas, some half-started, many of them suggested by my sister. She's a dynamo when it comes to brainstorming writing projects. Today she suggested I write an illustrated memoir about our mother. When she said it, my heart skipped a little, possibly because my heart is old, but more likely because the thought of writing such a book crowds too close to my heart. Mom disintegrates daily into a stranger.
I was born to write and illustrate books. I've known this since I was nine. The thought of actually fulfilling my destiny terrifies me. The financial logistics of living my purpose are baffling. I don't know how to live in the world of money. After we ended our call, I went back into frenetic cleaning mode. I'm trying to ignore the images in my mind. I can see them so clearly I want to weep. The book is practically written. All I need are some drawings. And the ending.
