I was telling my friend that all I needed was to sell my gay lewis and clark series, I had done everything else, I had had the kids I wanted, raised the family and I had the horses and I'd done all that I was put here to do except sell my gay musical that was all I needed.
And she was saying wait a minute. You were here to be a mother. You wanted to be a mother more than anything. You did this huge job. Your last one is about to be done with high school. She's about to start her life as a grown up ish.
You don't have to do more. You CAN do more, you can make this show or publish a book or put all your writing into one big pot and save it for the rest of the world maybe your family at a later date. You have your blog and your novella and some scripts and some other scripts and some plays and some scenes and some poetry and some novels. You have it all, you wrote it all, you felt it all. It's all there, it's not going anywhere. What's the POINT of it, that is true. If the point was mothering, then the writing what is all that? Just the ice floe I'm floating around on?
I guess part of the point of writing is to take all the feelings and fling them out so they don't whirlpool me into their vast suction and suck me down and kill me. Like there is not enough booze or pills in the world to shut off all that noise. That's why I never even started with that shit. Too expensive and the upkeep is too boring. I don't want to waste all my time driving to liquor stores. I do like to drive to feed stores. So I do use horses to try and quell the feelings, and that helps. 1200 pound furry creatures that are intimidating at times unless you have a crop and not sore hips which I do have. But at core they are big blocks of peace. Peaceful and quiet. They are my peace and quiet, and I can see them and touch them.
Writing has helped me get mad and fling pain at people who molested me or people who left me or people who didn't understand me. But more than that writing has made me laugh at what I think I control, who I think I am, what goes through my mind and leaks out as funny
Writing proves to me that life is ridiculous, that life is hilarious, that life is deeply touching, that life is tender, that life is soft, and life is thick and confusing. Life is a corn maze. It's so green in there and there's bits of yellow that taste good if you boil them, but when you're in the middle of it all you can see is confusion unless you look up and there's a blue sky. You are rarely ever going to know where you're going so you might as well go with good people so you can laugh while you're in there. Because there's really no chance you're going to find your way out by nightfall without a map and we're always always holding it upside down.
But later we see the map is shaped like a pumpkin and someone planted it that way, so the corn would grow a certain way, and they tractored it so it would be smiling. See people are funny. They know life is funny and crowded and full of sprouting corn. Under your feet.
I wish I had a whole farm for my feelings. Acres of land empty just so I could stop writing and pour myself out onto the land instead, the land that feels me and that I feel as well as these words.
I am so grateful for the space and the green and the words. Even in this congested world series winning Los Angeles where somehow I have made my own little farm and child filled life.
I'm just saying writing and mothering and loving and horsing around is I guess all one thing, aside from success or money or whatever, it's all jumbled into the corn maze called the life of Juliet Myfanwy. I guess I wish more people talked about it or wrote about it or bared themselves so I could paint them on my skin and feel like a tribe earth. I need all of us to feel whole. I am always searching.
But maybe now I can search knowing it's okay if I want to wear pioneer clothes and carry a lantern. And maybe a truckload of Mel Brooks movies, Van Gogh's paintings, all of LM Montgomery's books and some women comedians who explain the universe as undeniably vast, funny and in the palm of my hand.
