Once upon a time, awaking after an all-day 4th of July drinkfest, I had two thoughts: Damn, I'm hungover and, damn, I gotta stop being such a fucking hack. The first part was predicated on the drinkfest part of the celebration. Though I had dedicated great care and attention to the avoidance of all the factors that might contribute to a hangover--sugary mixers, mixing alcohols, dehydration--but somehow, someway, the hours upon hours of drinking rum caught up with my thirtysomething self. I just can't rebound the way I used to. Hey, back in the Chico State days, I could down three or four Long Islands before my boyfriend got off work at 1:30, but be at school, in teacher-clothes and coherent by 9. Years later, it was different. I lost my magic. After my friend's wedding, I was hungover for three days. That's champagne.
I awoke this morning with those vague memories of doing embarassing things. Nothing terrible, just stupid. I didn't pee on anyone, sink ships with my loose lips, grab anyone's genitals. It was tame. No bruises. No apologies. No court dates.
But, more importantly, I had this feeling that I had become a huge poseur-hack with no imagination. No art. No freedom. Just sellin' my soul to the man. Yeah, yeah, teaching isn't really selling your soul to the man the way a good capitalist might, but it was a day job. I have become a working stiff. Selling my time, my life, to a company, in this case, the state of California, and even though I was doing something I considered absolutely crucial to the improvement of society, I still had a safe and sane day job.
Bruce Springsteen never had a job. Sang about work all the time but never actually worked. Well, actually, for a very short time he did. When he was 19, he worked as a gardener for a few weeks. Other than that, he would crash at buddies' houses, in the surfboard factory, in the backseat of a borrowed car. Sacrificing for what he believed in. Sometimes that's what it takes to really be great, that courage to abandon all else. To place all your bets on yourself. Giving up the back-up plan, the safe route. To dedicate yourself to any craft, don't you have to make yourself vulnerable, hang your panties out for all to see, gamble big and risk even more?
Let me just cut through the bullshit--so, I'm chatting with an old friend from high school yesterday about the friends we once hung out with, and she starts to tell me that this one girl I was on dance team with has become a professional writer. Not hugely successful or financially lucrative (yet?!?), not that I would have any respect for her if she went "commercial," but a full-time, paying-the-bills type of writer. She sent me the link this morning and I went apeshit. Her voice was so palpable, such a distinct and memorable character. I got really jealous really quick.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not quitting my day job anytime soon, but I figured I could start with a blog. Someplace for my words to marinate, dancing along the page, being public, being personal. It is a place to start.
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