I’ve spent 20 painful hours writing a speech for someone. Although I’m getting paid to do it, it’s kicking my ass. Why does something you love become something you loathe when it becomes, “Work?”
I miss the crass corners of my brain where everything is known, where there’s nothing to seek out other than what’s inside me. I miss my honesty and willingness to write about things others dare speak of, especially when they’re self-deprecating.
However, what painful work writing a speech taught me is how to stretch my writing fingers. They’ve worked so hard doing research and reading god awful construction bullshit- stab me in the eye with a hot poker.
I’ve learned how to be patient with my own process and how to trust myself.
I realize how much I enjoy writing about myself (shocking.) The brighter side of that, aside from my vanity, is that I do enjoy being in my own head, and that’s a good thing. If I don’t like myself, and my own thoughts, then how can I expect anyone else to enjoy me as well? And furthermore, I’ll never be lonely in this head-case of mine.
I went to visit a good friend in the hospital today, and she said, “It’s hard knowing the world is still going on around me even though I’m sick in bed.” I said to her, “It’s a reminder of how alone we really are in the world.”
It’s true, we’re all alone, so why not revel in our own company? Writing the King’s speech was painful, but at least I was in there a little. (Ah, it’s nice to be back just to write about me, and my narcissism., of course.)