The Writer in Me #writers #friendship #pickleball and #pain

Writers, like me, pretend we're mysterious creatures--deep thinkers, tortured artists, vessels of creativity. Just ask my kids. But anyone who has ever watched me in the wild knows the truth. I can be funny one minute, unintentionally rude the next, and even kind all in the space of 30 seconds.  I am interesting, but boring to the wrong people. I like to think, and I like to have deep conversations. I have a distaste for gossip which makes me REALLY boring to a lot of people. 

I also have a special relationship with procrastination. I'll sit down to write, open my laptop, crack my knuckles, and spend four hours researching childhood trauma--of which I have plenty. I'm still in recovery. Saturday nights, 6:30 pm at the Lutheran Church. Of course this is all research for my next novel. 

And there's the fact that I talk to myself. A lot. Most of the time. Or I sing. Loudly. Frequently. Not sure how the neighbors feel about it. Full conversations happen in the kitchen while making coffee at 6 am. I argue with my characters, negotiate with them, and beg them to do what I want them to do without being overly insensitive to their or my needs. Hence the recovery aspect. Most of my characters have childhood trauma too. If you were on the outside looking in, I cannot image what you would think of me.

I do have a flare for workspace rituals. I have my space heater which looks like a fireplace. A giant dog bed at my feet with both dogs napping makes a perfect scene.  I dress in shifts. First the pants, then the top, socks, and finally whatever sweatshirt is handy for warmth. I have lovely notebooks I've never written in and others, old and ratty, that I keep my shopping list in and a few well-placed ideas or notes to self.  Sometimes I delve into the no man's land of hyperbole where I lay face down on hardwood flooring and whisper, "Every word I've ever written is garbage." Over and again. This lasts for about 8 minutes and reoccurs every few hours. 

Lest I forget--my dramatic reading sessions. I'll say sentences out loud at least 20 times, adjusting the tone, the rhythm, even the breath space between words. I'll shout out things like WHIZ, BUMP, BANG! While pointing my finger gun. Embarrassing, I know.  My latest favorite is OUT! I randomly shout it at my dog, Pico, the puppy. It's a term I picked up playing pickleball. 

Have I mentioned my knee? 

Pickleball has left me many gifts. I have a complete horizonal tear of my meniscus, I tore the cartilage away from my femur AND my ACL is turning to jelly.  I also have a build-up of fluid behind my knee. It's either a humongous Baker's cyst or something is leaking somewhere. My whole leg used to swell but that seems to have subsided. I'm off to UC Davis on the 7th. I will say this; the pain is horrific. I understand why animals chew off their legs when in pain. Which brings me back to writing. Writers are tenacious. For the most part. I know I hate leaving things undone which is why I can complete a novel.  I also still play pickleball. I took a double dose of pain killers Monday night so I could play and it was wonderful. 
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The weirdest thing about me is the chaos angle. I love a messy story, and I love to make order out of chaos. I constantly complain about deadlines, plot holes, and unruly characters who refuse to cooperate. Just like the pickleball person on the other side who won't listen when I tell her to return the ball back to me between my shoulders and waist. They never listen and always aim for my feet. 

After deep self-reflection (recovery again) I discovered the making order out of chaos shadow in me. In physics, energy doesn't die, but what it does do, if left untended, is descend into chaos. Chaos was created just for me.  Writing (and pickleball) is messy, occasionally unhinged, but it is also magical, and full of laughter and friends. Sometimes everything just works. The muse and the pain pills. 

It is the moment I live for. 

​It is the reason I write (and play).