W R I T E R
An extra memorable way to end one of the finest, most exciting days of this writer's life (thus far -- hang tight, my peeps). π€© Mad props to my Ty (@mr.cleland ) for the rad scissorwork.
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#writer #transformation #spontaneous #writeon #abbeyclelandlopez #littlevictories #bigideas #writerslife #womanwriter #writinglife #ilovela
Yaaay! NYC-bound. Today marks the first writer woman adventure since my becoming a mommy. I'll keep y'all posted. πβπ #writerwomanabroad #writersofinstagram #herewego #starbucks #abbeyclelandlopez #editingduringtakeoff
Seventeen years ago today, during an also damp, unseasonably warm February, we fell in love. ("Fell" implies it was unintentional; "fell" is accurate.)
We had been very good friends for two years, happy roommates for three months, and roommates with ricocheting sexual tension for several torturous weeks. Those days, every time our eyes locked, in the kitchen, on the couch, after your quick shower, before my long shower, you had me biting my lip. Literally.
It occurred to me that we were in love in the early afternoon. I felt defeated (which is also to say that I was a novice writer). When you returned home from Prior Library, you took one look at me, grabbed your keys, and drove me to a playground to swing. It's hard to feel defeated on a swing, but especially if you're talking to a boy who studies relentlessly, turns beautiful double plays, and cares deeply about your (often fictional) obstacles.
I think it occurred to you that we were in love later that evening. It was an even safer setting -- also public, chaperoned by all of our friends -- but I'm very flirty in bowling alleys. I always expect I'll be a much better bowler than I've ever been. There are never enough seats. Had there been enough seats, I would've still found your knee.
Like most of life's very best, purest things, it began that wholesomely. A soggy playground, a smoky bowling alley, but the tension.... The tension landed us in a fantastic, and fantastically distressing predicament.
I had big sparkly plans. You had heavy serious anchors. We'd live 2,300 miles apart for years, until finally, thank God, thank you, thank me, we wouldn't.
The best, most satisfying stretch happens at 5:40am when you're at your desk downstairs and you're pulled from the page by the sound of his alarm upstairs.
In a moment, he blindly pats his nightstand, hushing it, then discovers you never joined him.
If you were going to sleep, you would've shown up, but showing up there means not showing up here.
(You did consider waking him, you were so awake around 2:45, and there are such lovely things to do when you two are so awake and the children are so asleep, but he has a Real Job. Let the man sleep.)
The wee hours go by quickly whether you work or sleep or (a)rouse a man who needs sleep. Besides, you talked such a big talk earlier.
"I'm going to wrestle it into submission," you said as you found your slippers. He was brushing his teeth as you doubled-down, "I bet it's shiny and brilliant by 2."
But it wasn't. How could it? You didn't begin properly until 10:40. (That wasn't your fault. You have children, and 66 unread emails. You should've waited until the sludge reached 666. That's what it is, anyway.)
Around 1, you thought about disarming the house alarm in order to break out the good ice cream from the garage freezer.
Too much work.
Just do The Work. How is this not a Real Job? OF COURSE it is.
So you do it, the work. You even finish the fucking thing! (Yes. Again. No one told you that writing meant finishing the same thing several times, but now it's REAL and GREAT, so who cares?!)
You hit "send" fifteen seconds before his alarm sounds, then, and only then, you stretch.
You like how "stretch" works for a vague duration of time, and to extend one's self.
Keep extending yourself, you think. Keep stretching.
It never feels this good after something easy.
A high school boy once told me, "Your eyes are so navy, they're almost black, except when you've been crying. Then they're pretty." I've thought of this random, throw-away comment EVERY TIME I've gone out in public post-crying for twenty years. (So not thaaat often; I'm not much of a crier. I'm more apt to grab a pen or a baseball bat than a tissue, but nonetheless, EVERY TIME it applies, I hear it.) We're all walking around with these long-ago-spoken, unsolicited remarks, whether we're aware of them or not -- the compliments, insults, back-handed-something-or-others that burrow in our brain, crafting one brick in the complex building of Moi. In early story development, writers are tasked with creating characters' unique lists. What did someone say about her voice, her hair, her height, the way she ate, the way she laughed, the way she walked, the way she didn't hesitate to speak her mind... until she did? What remarks -- lovely, encouraging, innocuous, seemingly innocuous, confusing, annoying, hurtful, detrimental, dangerous, cruel, trajectory-changing -- does she still hear? Do we still hear? Do we still serve up like a pastry or a poison to the characters in our lives? As writers, we're most interested in the slippery, conflicted, strange ones. The ones that linger, in part, because they're puzzling. (Did he want me to cry?) #amwriting #writinglife #abbeyclelandlopez #writeon
Every time I finish a story's outline I feel an incredible sense of accomplishment, immediately followed by the heavy acknowledgment that the real work is about to begin. People are about to inhabit the house I built, and I know only some of the faucets and light switches and fireplaces will work. If my premise doesn't hold up, they'll find water in the basement. And that charming scalloped chair molding? That will have to go. It's too cute, too clever to survive these rowdy tenants. I've learned all you can do is pray you built a pretty good house, and have the skills and stamina to make her truly livable. Welcome home, weirdos. πππ
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