Everyone has issues they have to deal with. I don't mean like taking out the garbage issues, or doing housework issues or learning lines issues (none of which I have ever dealt with, by the way). I mean deep-down, life-long, holy crap kind of issues.
I will not bore you with what my issues are, because I'm not paying you $120/hour to listen to me kvetch. Also, I adhere to the following truism:
My shit is my shit and no one gives a shit about my shit. (It's kind of the adult version of I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.)
But we also all have Certain Things that help us cope with our Shit Issues. Excluding the escapist therapies, like alcohol, tobacco and ice cream, we all have something we do that takes us out of ourselves long enough to emotionally breathe.
One of my Certain Things is acting. Duh. But writing is another. I get into a zone when I'm writing that pushes my Shit Issues to the back of my psyche. It's nice.
"So, Deb," you say, stroking your mustache and adjusting your toupee, "I guess this means you write on a fairly regular basis, heh?" (I don't know why I assume you all have mustaches, toupees and end sentences with "heh". I could be wrong about this.) But to answer your question, dear reader....no.
I would love to write more. Okay, I tell myself I would love to write more. But the truth is, instead of writing, I tend to fuck off. The idea of writing everyday makes me flummoxed and antsy with a side of heebie-jeebies. That is not nice.
"Discipline!", you cry, tapping your pipe on the ashtray, "Discipline, Debala!!" "Fuck you, mustachioed, toupeed, pipe-smoker!", I retort. Discipline is all well and good but some days I don't have anything to say that's worth writing down. Or even worth verbally expressing, for that matter. So, discipline or not, unless I'm creating instruction manuals for space heaters, daily writing ain't gonna happen.
I have no answer for this conundrum or really any idea why I felt led to share this with you. I guess it's just one of those days where the Shit Issues are looming and the only thing to chase them away is a little literary ice cream.