Alright. I admit it.
I haven’t done a whole helluva lot of writing in two days. Well, more like one. But it feels like it’s been a bloody week that’s how hefty the guilt tracker is. Go Catholic upbringing!
A couple of days ago, I hit a real writer’s wall. I knew what I had to write, I had an idea of how I should start, but I had been working on it so much that every time I looked at the next chapter of the book I wanted to cough up a lung. That used to be my clue to stop when I was on a roll. I know it well.
I remember taking all of spring break to work on the book. My goal was to pull together three months of information into something that might resemble something that I might actually want to finish because it now had teeth instead of gums. So while some people over the break were sunning in Cuba smoking cigars and drinking Mai Tais, (and others were doing the same at home), I was givin’ er every day from morning ‘til night until there was no room left in my brain to jot another word down. I stopped at the end of every day when I literally felt like puking.
It reminded me of when my boys were little and I used to drop them off at Ponderosa every Wednesday when their all-you-can-eat buffet was only $1.99 (including soft drink) and then picked them up three hours later when they rolled out the door. Those were the days when I worked for minimum wage and realized I could never afford in my kitchen what this surrogate franchise mom was pulling off.
I would drop them off at the door and say:
“Don’t call me to pick you up until either you can’t move or they kick you out. I mean it.”
That’s what the writing was like. I only stopped at the end of every day when I literally felt like throwing up. It was great. That’s when I knew I had reached my limit. Every day was like going to an all-you-can-write buffet knowing this might be my only chance to grind it out because once that break was over I was back to juggling my time.
That was the wall I hit two days ago.
So when a friend of mine called to meet for a drink, I went gladly.
But what I thought was going to be a couple of hours on a patio turned out to be a helluva lot more.
By the end of the night, I had had a variety of drinks, smoked a stogie with hockey legend Thomas Steen and talked about ‘the good old days’ with Bobby Hull back when I knew his oldest kid. I still don’t think he remembers giving me a ride home at the age of fifteen and calling me “Frenchie” but he did kiss me on the cheek and told me in so many words that Bobby should have paid closer attention when we were kids because I turned out all right.
Needless to say, it was a good time.
Steen’s girlfriend was the bomb and although I didn’t know it then, I had engaged in conversations about love and life with some hockey greats as I floated around the room, always with a drink in my hand.
I still don’t know who half of them were and I’ll be damned if I’ll ever remember their names but I do know they were people just like me, with opinions and experiences, hopes and dreams - some fulfilled and more in progress.
It never really ends.
But there was one difference...
They had experienced the satisfaction of fulfilling a big part of their destiny because they had used their talents to the fullest - being great athletes.
And that underlying satisfaction, even though they don’t know it, permeated the room. It’s what draws people to them. Its energy is infectious.
Erma Bombeck once wrote:
When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me".
That’s what I’m aiming for. That’s what the Six Month Experiment is really all about. And that night was a good reminder.
I woke up the next morning with a hangover, wondering how in the hell I was suppose to get any writing done today, suffused with the guilt of a looming deadline. But then I paused mid-thought to track down some god awful smell and the source of my oncoming nausea.
And there it was in my purse.
An oversized half-smoked Cuban cigar.
Fuck it.
It was worth it. Thanks Schindler.
