I am an Island

I met a guy on Monday who said he tried to make it as a writer until he turned 40. When I asked why he quit, he said he decided he was just bad at it and he was tired of being poor. He now drives a two silver convertible and owns a "successful" Graphics business.

Saturday I sat the eight row of the Hill auditorium listening to David Sedaris read from his latest book, his diary and then just talking impromptu. He stood on stage and answered questions as himself. I want to be him. I want to write about nothing and everything that happens at Meijer. 

I do write, but I don't share myself much. My writing group read my words, but their comments all but crush me into believing that I am incomprehensible.

Can I communicate. Is there a message? A past? A good story up my sleeve? I could tell you about my friends lives, suicide scares, depressed children or the Spring peepers. 

What about me? I could tell you that I fight within myself about being a neighbor. 

I live with 34 other families. The idea is perfection, old fashioned, like Leave it to Beaver or The Wonder Years. People walk across lawns and inside my door almost hourly. Intergenerational is in the literature and pictures feature people smiling around camp fires. There might even be a guitar somewhere in the mix. 

I have talked about fearing judgment and wanting to be liked, but I have recently re-discovered it is impossible to please 34 households. I end up hating myself for even trying to "be helpful." I hate typing community notes instead of short fiction. I hate trying to do something good, only to be criticized for my way of doing it. I hate that being clear about my time feels so offensive. Why can't I tell someone to, "Go Away," or say, "I can't help you." These are real people at my door. They are really loving and really flawed and all of their requests are extremely urgent and 100% distracting. 

I escaped to Roos Roast, my local coffee shop, to sit with real campy types. There are no hair-doos, no neon colors, no make-up masks, and no accessories. A woman comes in with her dog and they sit alone for a 10 minutes, then say thanks and walk out. I do want to be in my community, but as me, a Hermit. How can my words be this coffee shop. 

I ordered a drink and today's roast is terrible. It's called Bali and the sharp smell makes my stomach queasy. A series of twanging slow song play with words that are mublings of sounds. 

I ask You to sit in the old wooden chair and experience yourself for 2 minutes. Start the timer to ensure you do this. Seriously, stop reading me and just experience your own moment. What is happening inside? 

I am telling a story about a mouse named Geronimo. He permits me to slam front doors in nice people's faces. As much as anyone else is great and worthy, so am I and so are you. I want to cry when I tell you that I am saying no (in love). I want to experience life and I can't embody it when I am not there. If I only listen to people's reactions, opinions, desires, and nod yes to a billion tiny little requests, then I am a bodiless shell. So "NO." "Thanks for asking, but that just wown't work for me right now."