Sometimes he finishes my sentences and gets it right. Sometimes he finishes my sentences and I want to throw something at him. And I've been known to throw things. Fits. Unopened cans of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup. Cellphones. The bathwater out and that damned baby, too.
"The thing that drives me crazy about this..." that was me. My line. My mistake is trying to reduce it, whatever it is, to just one thing. The thing that drives me crazy. As if.
I know, I know, on top of writing, you're the one doing all the housework. That was him.
True, but that wasn't what I was going to say. I may have snarled. I didn't throw anything. "Yes, but..."
He tried again. I know the money worries me, too.
Wrong again. Well, I mean, he was right. Of course the money stuff is worrying me to no end. I swear that at least 50% of my excess body fat is due to that fucking stress hormone, but no, I was going to say something more specific about money.
"Listen to me!" Now there's a universal cry if ever there was one. "What makes it so hard to focus sometimes is that when I had a job, I showed up, I did my job, I got paid. It was a given. Now! Now, there's a very real possibility that I'll do all this work - the writing, the editing, the fretting over finding an agent - all this time spent on this and there's no guarantee that I'll ever be paid a cent for it."
Saying it didn't make it better. I felt flattened, defeated, over it. Why can't I just find a real job? A job with a paycheck? How did I go from being capable of managing an organization to being unemployable?
"There's one sure fire way to guarantee that you don't get paid for it," he said quickly so I couldn't cut in. It was my turn to finish his sentence. I must have had that look in my eye. "Don't finish it. Don't put it out there. Don't try to find an agent or to publish it on your own. There's your guaranteed failure right there."
There's nothing left to say. I turn back to the computer and get back to work.
What throws you?