Two For One Me

I keep telling myself to just hold it together for one more day. Not in a weeping/flailing way but in a may-i-please-swill-a-bottle-of-vino way. Because I seriously want to get drunk and drunk post. I enjoy it so much. You guys are aware that it's pretty much the only time I post personal stuff anymore, right? You guys have become my happy hour :)

Tomorrow night I'm leading a big class. Not huge, and maybe not as huge as I think it's gonna be, but large for the space we'll be in, and large in terms of usual class size the past year for me. 15 people so far. Though two are tentative. And several folks usually call last minute to sign up. And sometimes people just sort of show up without calling or registering. The room will hold 20 people if we all get snuggly. And I have a friend coming along as my Assistant. She's my new writing/brunching/wine drinking friend I met when she came to one of my classes a couple of months ago and I'm psyched that she's going to Assist me tomorrow night by collecting class fees and giving out packets and generally Assisting me :)

So the class is "Psychic Skills and Techniques" and yes, I'll be posting the handout, so gird your loins for incoming mind blowers over the weekend . . .

But I want to have some more wine. I've already had some, and want some more, and a part of me says don't have more, but a louder part says: F*ck It. And why haven't I been imbibing? Way too much that I've needed to be clear for, for many many many days now. In being clear for holistic sessions with people. And I've been downright rigid about writing. In that I do everything in my power to get myself into my righteous mind so that the writing is as clean and true as possible. Though truth be told that sometime I write true stuff when I'm all cranky and over-caffeinated and verklempt and very, very sad. Sometimes lots of sleep does it for me. Sometimes not enough. Sometimes exercise helps. Sometimes it hurts. But I do my dangdest to set things ups as optimally as possible. Turn off the phones. Close the email program. Turn away from the mishuguna of living. And write.

I finished another draft last week. And began digging into a new one this week. Now I'm working on larger themes, how all of the characters' stories and perspectives feed into them. What do they want? What do they believe? What does it mean for the larger picture? How do they play off each other? And what of all of this do I personally believe? This book carries a message, statements about true love, right-minded work, psychic ability, the healing power of sex, the responsibility of wealth, and a few other things I haven't sorted out yet. And I'm really happy with the flow of the book itself, the results of the previous drafts. Now I need to take it higher. When this is done, I need to be able to take a very deep breath and say, yes, this is true.

When I sat with my editor back in June I told her that I wanted to write a good book, that I wasn't fooling myself into thinking that I could write a great one. And she got furious with me. Hollered about how it was my job to shoot for greatness, even if I fell short. And so after sitting with it for a while I got that I really, really need to shoot for greatness. (Because really, this may be my only chance, may be my only golden moment, although really I've had many golden moments, and they have been a dang good time, but maybe this is my last one and we never know when it's the last one, do we?) and so, here I've been. Peeling back the layers to get at whatever pinatas of greatness I may possibly be able to get at. I search heart and mind for what I know to be true, for what the current traps are, for what sort of info I can pass on. I look for how I can illuminate things that seem to be in shadow, but from my phreak granolahead/egghead hybrid stance, seem perfectly lit up and obvious.

But really, may I be honest? I have no real frakkin idea what I'm doing. I'm just writing, writing and rewriting, looking for a sort of perfect "hummmmmmmmmmmmmm" sound. That's it. Keep writing until I reach that sound.

This is my second book, but the first one was atrocious. Really. Weird and wild and strange and unique and just plain stinky. But I found a groove with it, it unfolded, and I discovered how to write it as I wrote it. And this one unfolds too. Each week brings a new piece to the puzzle. Picked up from a movie, a dvd, a conversation, or some sort of thing that just sort of shows up in my brain as: oh, yeah, this is what needs to be worked on next.

I fly by the seat of my pants. But I have this ferocious trust going on that herds me: onward!

I took myself out for beef and red wine tonight after a day of holistic sessions. The bartender was cute, with sad eyes. He said to me: I have no life, I work six days a week, and when I'm not working I'm decompressing from here (drinking) or preparing to come here (recovering from drinking). He looked to be about mid-thirties and I said to him: you have a choice in all this, you can just put down your apron now and say f*ck this and choose a better life, one that still remembers what it feels like to do things you enjoy and laugh your fool head off. But he went off to make margaritas and only did these long glances at me until I left. I could feel the hundred and one ways he wanted to talk more to me about it, but was also afraid to talk more about it. I hope I freaked his beak. I hope I ruined everything for him. Because dang he was cute. Way too cute to offer up his life into the time killing machine without so much as a fight.

So as I watched him run around making drinks, I thought: that used to be me. I tended bar for years. And in fact, bartending is a setting for much of my book. So to see this beautiful man in such pointless misery added to the pyre that is my book. To see how certain he was that he was stuck. And then to see how easily he could be jostled to at least think: maybe I don't get the real crux of what is occurring. But alas, he made no instantaneous breakthrough, and I received no complimentary vino, and I walked out into the breezy Carolina night laughing at just how silly it all is.

And on a totally different tangent, which I'm allowed as it's my happy hour, have you guys ever noticed how Hollywood female stars/starlets get the shaft when they split with their husbands/lovers/boyfriends? Of course, I am taking all of my info from the tabloids, be they print or online (and it's the tone I'm speaking to, not the reality).

Seriously, think about these women are portrayed. Justin Timberlake breaks up with Britney because supposedly she cheated on him. And with Cameron Diaz because she was possessive/needy. John Mayer broke up with Jessica Simpson because she was crazy or some such stuff. And he broke up with Jennifer Anniston supposedly because of her neediness. Ben Affleck dumped Jennifer Lopez because she was a controlling crazy woman. Billy Bob left Angelina because of her instability and for adopting a son and then getting all absorbed and ignoring him (Billy Bob). Lance Armstrong broke up with Kate Hudson because she was too needy and demanding and moved too fast.

But now look at the women who did the leaving: Drew Barrymore broke up with Justin Long because she's a flakey fickle guru worshiper. Jennifer Garner left her husband because she had an affair with her costar who she then dumped for Ben Affleck. Katie Holmes heartlessly deserted her fiance Chris Klein, only to become Tom Cruise's robot bride.

Can you see a theme? Why is this? When the women break up with the men, it's because the women are wack jobs. And the men break up with the women because they believe the women to be wack jobs. Isn't this an incredibly clear picture of what it's like to be a woman in our culture at this time?

Which is simply one of the reasons I am so very glad that I am single. Did you know that it is possible to be single and curious and turned on and ecstatic and giggly and stimulated and just plain Yes?

I don't like what is happening with women in the love/romantic scene. I don't like how I feel when I come into contact with it. I'm not against connecting with a guy, but they seem to be so covered in the Goo of Illusion. (and you guys free of The Goo, don't even bother to protest, because you are all snug in your marriages and whatnot and aren't truly partaking of this weird scene out here so don't even TRY to protest that you aren't Goo-ed, unless YOU ARE in which case send us a postcard from the abyss and we'll set off to rescue you with flares and cupcakes and organic red wine and very high quality valerian based bath salts :)

I met this really cute guy a few weeks ago. Poet, artist. Fuzzy hair, buddha belly. Dark skin and eyes. Light heart and hand. Hilarious and smart and spiritual. But dang he was lost. I watched him run "seductive program #9" and my mouth fell open. Does that really work on women, I thought. Maybe I should have stuck around to see if it would get better. But I didn't. All I could think of was: what will he do when I admit that I know that neither of us is real?

And so it is after 9 pm and I need for happy hour to be over. But chances are really good that come tomorrow night after class, when I am all strung out, I'll come here again to chat. Is that okay with you? That I just come here to have a glass and chat these days? With any luck, when you read the book, you'll pee your pants and squeal: oh kate, your ignoring of us blog readers has been soooooooooooooo worth it.

Big smooches . . . oh yes :)

Comments

[Kathryn]

I do enjoy when you write like this!

I hated dating. I have some terrible memories of degrading, depressing interactions with men who So Don't Get It. I wish, I dearly wish, that your beautiful self could find some enjoyment in whatever capacity you want. I am so glad, though, that you are centered in this, and that you don't compromise who you are for some moments of fleeting pleasure.

[kelly]

that was like hanging out on the couch, sister. I miss you!

[Melissa K]

We love it when you come to chat! Have a great class! :)

[Mouse]

Pass the corkscrew please Katie

[bella]

Hope I'm not too late for happy hour! Brought a nice pitcher of Sangria...