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September 07, 2004 6:28 PM- sing it Sarah

Cue background music, Sarah Vaughn cd "Crazy and Mixed Up."

We know that all writers are alcoholics but are they all fat addicts, too?

For god's sake, am I completely incapable of writing without chips, beer and cigarettes? Witness the beer and bowl of corn chips to my left, the half empty pack of Marlboro Lights to my right. I think not.

For the past few weeks, I kept thinking this is an abberation. When in fact, I am coming slowly (and most unwillingly) to grips with the reality: I can't write without nicotine, alcohol and additives coursing through my bloodstream.

What the hell. Blame it on my formative writing years when I was a fucked up kid, I suppose. But what the hell. I was so sure I was a calm, cool, collected adult now. So very different than that creature I once was. Can you tell I'm bumming out about this? Hang on, my chip bowl is empty--gotta refill, be right back.

Damn, one sec-- need another beer.

Okay. I'm back. What was I rattling on about? Oh yeah, this "light" copyediting? Yeah, right. I'm 8 hours into it and easily have another 10 left before I can get this back in the mail on Friday. I think this must be akin to pushing out the placenta. After all you've just gone through, this last little bit should be no big freaking deal, but you know what? I'm tired and so done with it and really have nothing good to bring to it.

But mostly? I am feeling caught between two sides of myself. On the one hand I am this uber uptight professional who gets paid to bring her Psyche sorting skills* to bear on a most disorganized corporation. And I should lighten up, alot. But on the other hand, I am a recovering creative who went wayyyyyy too far to the very woolly edge of the wild side.

The simple answer: balance. Not too controlled, not too out of control-- but you know what? That just doesn't work for me. And I guess that is what is underneath all of this. When I create I want to shake it all out. I don't want to be all wrapped up in some careful cocoon. And, as long as I spend the majority of my waking hours as Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass, I'm not going to find it too easy to tap into Mlle. Left Bank. And there it is.

So for the time being, I'm gonna be drinking, smoking, and eating all the crap that I know isn't good for me without a personal trainer in sight. There's nothing to be done. I am so happy to be writing. So thrilled that my writing life has come into being despite my self-destructive tendencies that I'm just gonna fucking be with it.

Now how zen is that?

*If you recall in the myth of Psyche and Amor (The Golden Ass, Apuleius) one of Psyche's tasks was to sort out a pile of beans, lentils, etc. by morning.

Of course, come to think of it, Psyche was helped by a bunch of helpful ants. So the question really is, where are my fucking ants?

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