My apologies for a quiet week of blogging. I’m closing in on my book deadline, or, rather, my book deadline is closing in on me, and my brain can only handle so much. On Monday, for example, my car was towed, nearly causing me to miss teaching my morning yoga class. A mere 24-hours after his first marathon, my boyfriend had to run to get his car and haul me to the studio in the nick of time. After class, no tow lots in the City of Boston could find my car, nor the police. Over the phone, a perfectly accented officer’s voice, as if an extra in a movie played by one of Mark Wahlberg’s childhood friends, told me to report it stolen. I cried.
My speedier half, who co-owns the running store and, subsequently, the window in which I was now slumped and forlorn on the phone, thought to himself, ‘A crying woman slumped in my store window probably isn’t good for business.’ He let me carry on anyway, a version of love I wish for everyone who’s lost their mind or car.
Only my car wasn’t actually stolen, I just forgot where I parked it. See… my brain can only manage so much right now.
Truth be told, I had another minor meltdown yesterday. I scrapped a blog post that took hours and was generally convinced that I’d contracted a rare case of writer’s amnesia, meaning I’d forgotten how to do it completely. By the time I arrived at a book signing party in Cambridge for Lacy Crawford last night, a college friend of my literary agent who’s debut novel Early Decision about the salacious side of the college admissions process came out last week and will be featured on Inside Edition tonight, I thought perhaps I’d made my own bad decision. I worried I should be home writing (or at least engaging in the postures of writing while actually checking Facebook).
But it felt good to be there, among other writers, agents, and bookish types who seemed to understand that writing a book can cause malfunctioning parts of the brain, which otherwise control knowing where you left your car. After a brief reading from her funny, sharp, and buzzworthy book, Lacy answered questions, and for some reason, I piped up.
“What do you wish you knew while writing your first book that you didn’t– but know now?”
“Whew…” Lacy paused, “We should go out for drinks to talk about that one!”
And, with that, I laughed, which felt good. I sipped a glass of wine. I found a little relief and a sense that maybe I wasn’t melting down, nor my brain short-circuiting, but instead working through something normal and difficult, like high school. It’s hard and harrowing sometimes. There’s just no way around it.
May your book fly, Lacy inscribed in my copy of her book, which I didn’t read until later–after holding it under my arm, as I walked out to find my car.