I wrote an email to my husband and my oldest daughter-child explaining that I need to unplug. I sent it in an email that included a link to a video featuring Steven Pressfield and his conversation with the cult of personality, Oprah. I did my redundant best to explain why I must unplug from social networking, from TV, from News, from the phone calls when they ask ( or I ask) “how are you?” It is the obligatory question one must ask before embarking on a litany of one’s own complaints. I do not want to talk on the phone at all unless they have good news or important news to share. I cannot chit-chat or commiserate. I need to unplug from guilt. I wrote that I cannot engage in long conversations that further drain me from the ONE thing I need to do.
An excerpt: “… There is no time left for me to get anything done. I am exhausted and cranky and sad. Period. The ONLY thing that will lift me out of that is to finish my scripts and SELL a script or win a contest — etc. Get it? That’s it. That’s the only thing that’s going to make me feel better.”
This morning, I checked my email — no response from either of them. I suspect they are trying to respect my point. I checked my Facebook, just to see if they wrote a status update or something that showed as evidence that they read my email and that it had an affect. Nothing. I noticed that already I was not heeding my own new rule: No more Facebook. I logged out.
I promised Jon that I would not forward one more email, inspirational website or information about filmmaking. I acknowledged he can do his own research and he will find what matters to him. But for me, sending out the emails is just another lie I tell myself. The lie is that I am working. I am not. My lack of finished, polished, winning scripts is proof that I’ve been lying to myself.
I turned on the TV and let my youngest turn to the channel of her choice. Right now, the three youngest are watching a cute animal show. I am not watching. I am writing this. It is not art. It is not a script, but at least it is typing some words. I am aware, that if I am not careful, writing and posting here will be yet another method to distract from my goal. I can’t allow it to win.
Reminding myself what I said to my dears who live too far away from me:
I wrote: “…I love you both. But I have to get to work. YOU have to get to work, too. Don’t make me feel guilty for not “being there” for you. It is my opinion, that I have sacrificed plenty as both a wife and a mother. Guilt on top of the fact I am still using Food stamps is just a bit too hurtful.”
I am suffering the dark effects of what happens to a person when she doesn’t get her creative work done.
My house is a mess. My yard is a mess. My mind is a mess. My soul is weak from begging me to move from this place.
Inside and outside, everything is cluttered with meaningless piles of paper, clothes, knick-knacks, boxes and boxes of things I’ve started, notes and research. I’ve got nothing to show for my angst except dust on my shelves, half-written scripts and wrinkles on my worried face.
I’ve got to fight my fears, my laziness. I cannot let fear win. Not one more day.