This is a Lie - Julie Farrar

This morning I put my head in a vise grip and squeezed until a tiny idea popped out of the top. Other days I take a rusty, jagged straight razor and hack away at my wrists until some words splatter out onto my computer screen. On good days I flagellate myself only at the beginning as an impetus to getting started; on bad days I feel like I should hire someone else to flagellate me all morning to get me to stay in my chair and type.

My physical therapist says he’s done all he can for me right now. So I have to get to the gym to stretch and strengthen all the muscles it takes to sit at my desk and work because writing really is a pain in the butt. Deciding at the age of 50 that writing is what I want to do and what I really should have been doing all along is like deciding after half a century that I really should get up off the couch and climb a mountain next week (there are some days that seems like a better prospect).

I read about the 20-somethings who just had their third novel or book of poetry published, or who took a minor savings account and launched a journal. They knew what they wanted and where they belonged and could start down that path unencumbered so that by the time they are where I am, they can have a lifetime of words on which to look back. So I’m playing catch-up and trying to learn on the fly.

My older sisters think that I have it easy because I don’t have to work for a paycheck anymore like they do. But that’s a lie. There is nothing easy about writing all day, never knowing if the words will ever be read or if I’ll ever again know the satisfaction of earning a dollar from my own labor – or to legitimately be able to put down on IRS and other forms “writer” when they ask for occupation. It’s never easy to get out of bed on a warm spring morning and close a door to that day and close my mind to all that needs to be accomplished everywhere except in this little room at this little desk in the corner. It’s never easy being responsible only to yourself for what you accomplish. Now please excuse me . . . I have work to do.