You didn’t really know this, but I promised to be completely honest with you on this trip. It can’t just be la-la-la-la Chicken Soup for the Highway, Tales of Inspiration and Joy From the Construction Zone Across America.
Shit’s rough sometimes. Now, I hesitate to bring this up, because, let’s face it, I did this on my own volition. It makes it that much harder to face feeling like a fool. This was a conscious decision, a “moral imperative” said I, so pointedly in my first post. It’s not like I didn’t really feel that way, I did, but with 3,000 miles behind me and 5,000 more to go, a gal can get scared, ridden with self-doubt, second guessing, worried sick about how I’ll get an income flowing again once I’m back home.
Home. My God, how I miss it.
It hit me like a Mack truck this morning in the shower. It was like that scene from The Big Chill when Glenn Close is sobbing all the way up from her toes, heaving wracking sobs in the shower, with a house full of mourners, who knew not the depths of her grief. The steamy flow of water drowning out the sound of her tears, as she mourns the suicide of the man she was in love with, or perhaps had been her lover, it certainly wasn’t Kevin Kline her husband, whom she willingly rented to Mary Kay Place to be a sperm donor — and not the technique where they deposit it into a Petri dish. I digress.
I cried like a baby in the shower this morning, overcome with guilt over the neglect of responsibilities — my two kids ( a.k.a. young adults) back home, my garden, my hydrangeas, my little house. I am petrified of losing it. Talk about betting the ranch, this is what happens when a girl plays high-stakes poker. I have nobody to blame but myself. I have actually been downsized three times and always managed to land on my feet, but I quit this job. I did this. And if I don’t attract the attention of a literary agent in this process, (my quest for many years, but I will write this book no matter what) and if I’m not able to get my foot back on the rung of money coming in when I get back, I could be in trouble in a hurry.
I apologize for being so blunt — I do not tell these stories to engender sympathy, which I don’t deserve considering, I did this to myself. But every writer has her moment.
It was the bathroom tile that did me in. I’m in Fort Worth, staying with a friend, and just like in Chicago, and Philly and Winston-Salem, where I’ve stayed with normal people, who don’t go off on wild-ass road trips with their dogs to capture an elusive dream, they have tidy bathrooms with nice ceramic tile and fresh towels and normalcy. They’re normal people taking care of normal responsibilities and I’m just kinda out here, literally and figuratively, with my shower moments.