Even though I’m nowhere near Catholic, yesterday I briefly considered fasting Facebook and my blog for Lent. This was while I was happily and slowly doing the dishes, and sweeping the kitchen, and straightening this and that, and it was sunny outside, and I was humming absently as my thoughts meandered where they would and little singing birdies flew around my head, helping me with the housework. I figured that fasting social networks would give me oodles and kaboodles of extra time in which to work on my book, and while this is undoubtedly true, I sat down at my computer and thought, well, Fuck It. I’m so glad I did. Right after that, I checked Facebook and found an incredibly loving and unexpected message from a friend, when I didn’t deserve it. Being loved is good, but being loved when you don’t deserve it is like magic.
I approve of fasting. It’s possibly the one religious form, apart from meditation, lighting candles, and the Church of Elvis, that I consider worthwhile, having had some experience of it in my past life as a church girl. One time I lived on only clear broth and fresh veggie juice for 40 days. Obviously, I lost about a million pounds, a nice plus (or subtraction), but even in other ways the experience was great. After the first week I wasn’t really hungry anymore, or distracted by hunger. I felt clear and attuned to my surroundings, and had vivid dreams. Near the end of the 40 days I began feeling a bit scattered and knew it was time to start eating again, before my body began cannibalizing itself, but overall, I’m very glad I did it. And now I’m thoroughly bored with the subject and can’t even remember why I brought it up. Oh yeah, Lent, which doesn’t pertain to me! Let’s move on.
So, the past few days I’ve been working diligently on my book, and as a result, am once again developing a sense of purpose and my depression is abating. I was worried about myself for awhile there because I felt that I might never, ever, find anything meaningful to do — meaningful for me, of course. I just had no idea. But writing feels meaningful, and the very nicest part of all is that suddenly it’s no longer a burden but a pleasure. I’ve been waking up excited to get to my book. Another wonderful and encouraging realization I’ve had is that there have been, and still are, many many oddballs like me out there in the world. I’ve been reading about them. Right now I’m in the middle of a Charlotte Bronte biography, and have on the docket biographies on (or about?) Lewis Carroll and Tennessee Williams. These people were weird people, people, but I think they’re my tribe, and knowing even a little bit about them is helping me love myself, which is saving my everlovin bacon. Writing in one form or another has always been my buffer against life, which for the most part seems impossible to navigate through. It feels good to direct my words into an avenue that could eventually, and hopefully, yield a little cash. But even if I’m a failure as a novelist, I’ll still die happy knowing I tried. My first goal is to finish writing this kids’ book! And that’s what I’m going to get back to right now. Have a great weekend, all. Love! xo