I was having brunch yesterday. It was an “Oops, let’s have brunch because we both forgot each other’s birthdays” kind of brunch. I jokingly said I would still be crying once I got there because my ex’s birthday would be that day, and I’m still processing it. Like a hangover (see what I’m doing here?). And he’s like sure we can talk about it.
But then he says you can invite your BF over too. So I say sure. Which means I can’t talk about the ex. Without it sounding weird. And this is why you have friends.
I waited in the lobby of this doorman building, thinking that doorman buildings seem weird, but I also want that life. Which would require me to, Um…
Brunch was great. Two or three glasses of champagne later, I was giggling at YouTube videos. I drank rum like a shot when it was meant to be savored. I was laughed at by the more experienced drinkers. I kept thinking about Hemingway and how I’d downed 10 glasses of champagne at a NYE party years ago, then had a mint whiskey and two glasses of red wine (on the sly) . And then swearing myself off the naughty water. Until next time. I wondered how people could create when their head was all watery.
We left. My BF had to work and I was going to do some grocery shopping. I’d been fiending for some chocolate cheesecake for weeks. He kissed me and left. I realized I didn’t think about my ex’s birthday at all. Silent fist pump while maintaining quasi sobriety.
I went home, Hess full of stuff. Watched TV. Drifted off to sleep. The BF came back after midnight, to find me with my head on the radiator (it barely works).
So then I just keep thinking about writing and drinking and how they somehow become intertwined. I tried it. Once. I set myself up for failure. You can’t do that and think about great alcoholic writers. People have this weird thing where they think we just vomit our souls on paper and get it right the first time. Some do, but most don’t. And I hate the rewriting phase.
But I’m wondering if my latest project will require me to drink. It’s a novella, because I don’t think I can write a novel, when I’m rewriting one and working on its sequel. It’s the baby I don’t want, yet when I see it it’s like oh but you’re such a cute little baby! I can’t quit you!
So I have this nasty habit of writing male characters based on the loves of my life. And when things go sour, he also becomes sour and I think about giving up on writing. It’s very black and white thinking, it is. And this is one of my projects, though I don’t think I’ve ever put off one for so long. It’s been three years. Three years! It won’t write itself, but maybe it isn’t meant to be written?
The curious thing is that this garbage could be written in less than a month. Everything plays out so wonderfully in my head. I actually know how it will end. It’s the perfect mix of “drawing from the well of experience”
(Fuck you, Jenny Schecter) and crazy ruminations from my head. She is me, and is not. I don’t want to run the risk of “Muse Abuse,” but so what?
Ugh. I’m thinking maybe the “realism” is putting me off from writing. Or maybe I’m being pretentious. Or a super huge procrastinator. Yup. Definitely the realism.
I think what I’ll do is just write it. Push through it. Like, maybe how a woman wants labor to be over so she can see this monster that’s been growing inside of her for most of the year.
And that is the cure for the hangover.