Bleeding Through The Lines

My black suit is coming out again and I'm getting a tad bit nervous. Here's the thing. I have a 2:00pm appointment with the head of some big deal ad agency tomorrow. Okay, okay, he just so happens to be the FATHER of my younger daughter's friend, AND he's the husband of a good friend of mine...but that's beside the point. Really. Believe me. Because no matter what? He is still the president of some big deal ad agency and I am meeting him tomorrow.

I need to work. On paper (or an keyboard, so to speak) I loved the whole notion of freelance writing, but in reality, I have discovered that I am not disciplined (or maybe not talented?) enough to pull it off. Also, it sort of sucked (pretty word for a writer, but sometimes it works) trying to write creatively and intelligently for pay. Before the whole "freelance writer" gig, (another word I love 'gig') I wrote strictly from the heart, from my soul and then poof, I submitted it, and miraculously, it was published. In fact, everything I submitted...was published. Yeah, it blew me away too. But that's the reality of it.

So when I had the opportunity to write full time, it was like a dream come true. Write? Fulltime? Cool. But then I started. And started. And started. And then? Nothing. Silence. Blocked. I couldn't write. I truly couldn't write. And contrary to popular belief, I tried. I really tried. But everything I wrote sounded so trite. Forced. Silly. And it felt so unnatural to count every word to make sure I didn't exceed the word limit for some publications. For the first time since I started writing, I had nothing. Nothing creative. Nothing intelligent. Nothing sarcastic. Nothing sexy. Nothing.

I was having a writer's block party, that's for use.

Ah, and then the whole Zen-like heartbreak thing happened in February and I thought maybe NOW it was going to be time to really pour myself into my work and allow the emotions to be put to paper. Finally.

Nope. Didn't work. It made it even worse. I was stuck. And the broken heart made it worse. (But let's be serious, a broken heart makes everything worse, even sex.)

But I kept trying.

I read a brilliant line once in an email, someone claimed that I was 'bleeding through the lines' when I was pretending that life was okay when in reality I was really hurting. (Hey, screw you, I pay my therapist lots of money to tell me stuff like that...You can't do it for free.) Damn. Bleeding through the lines? C'mon, Rose. That was a great line. One that usually would get me all hot and bothered to write another story (yeah, kinda weird about me...I usually write the title first and somehow the story follows), but not this time. It didn't motivate me at all. Nothing. Alas, I left Bleeding Through the Lines alone in the email.

After a few more times of that type of writers' frustration I decided that I need to give up the freelance writing and go back to work. Listen, I love writing, I know that it lights me up from within. It gives me something to call my very own. Writing has given me more joy then I ever expected. And next to my daughters, my writing is the best thing I have ever done in my life. I am very proud of it. But here's the thing. I don't want to treat my writing like a bad relationship. I don't want to beat something out of it when there really just isn't anything there. I don't want to try so hard to make it work. So maybe, it's time to let it be for awhile, to give it a rest, and try not to force it. And maybe just maybe the creativity will come back to me. Or not.

So. I am going back to work.

Ah, work. To work outside the home again. Full time. Go. Put the pantyhose on. Run. Get a business card. Find afterschool care. Do the weekly meal plans. Dry cleaning. Briefcases. Back in the game. Blah, blah, blah.

And that's why I am meeting with the President of an ad agency tomorrow.

Hey, what if it's the black suit that makes me so creative? Could be the expensive haircut and black high heels? I don't know for sure. But I have a feeling that once I stop thinking (obsessing, who me?) about how to write creatively, I will start writing creatively again.

Who knows?

Or maybe I will just continue to bleed through the lines.