I made the mistake of telling Margaret about my dating life.
Margaret is a professor which is not at all relevant to this story; I just think it’s cool. She has earrings that are anatomically correct seggsual organs disguised as fancy jewelry, and whenever people compliment her she gives them a lecture on anatomy. I adore Margaret.
We cowrite together on Fridays and on this particular Friday I was complaining about ImNotSureBecauseItWasntImportant, all I know is I said something about my real life and how this wasn’t it. My current life, which consisted only of triage and single parenting, was not indicative of my real life.
She looked at me sideways and said, “No, Margo, this is your real life. All that stuff – that is your REAL life.”
I paused.
In my mind, my real life was the good one. The one that wasn’t full of constant interruptions and terror. The life I had before all the bad things happened. The life I’d have after my book (which I hadn’t finished) was selling like hot cakes. THAT was my real life. This was just the dress rehearsal.
“This is it,” she said. “This is your real life. The one you’re living, right now.”
I hate Margaret.
I was walking around thinking my life would get back to normal. I hadn’t considered that I had a new normal. That there wasn’t anything to go back to.
There’s a difference between being in survival mode, when you cannot physically or emotionally get to the page, and the low-grade waiting we do when life is hard but manageable.
The first one is real and deserves grace.
The second one is dangerous.
If we stay there too long, we postpone living in exchange for the waiting. Waiting to feel motivated enough to write, waiting to be in “the mood” to tackle that chapter, waiting for the wherewithal to endure the discomfort of sitting with the blank page.
I was waiting for a time when I wouldn’t disappoint myself.
In my mind, I was still the person who could tackle big projects at warp speed because I hustled, didn’t sleep, and would outwork everyone on the team. I could bite off more than I could chew, and pull it off. I was the person who could say something brilliant off-the-cuff on no sleep and a lotta coffee.
But I couldn’t.
It’s not that the person was gone, it’s that her life was different.
I watched myself perform on no sleep, the results were bad. No amount of hustle could make up for the exhaustion. When I bit off more than I could chew, like in the good ole days, I didn’t overdeliver and impress my team – I disappointed them.
I couldn’t get away with the immature antics of the person who had no boundaries and copious amounts of optimism, and youth.
The way I worked had to change.
If I couldn’t do three handwritten morning pages, I could do one. If I couldn’t write an email, I could send a text. If I couldn’t come up with a good opener, I entertained a silly one.
Every day, I chose to do something.
Not the whole thing, not everything, just something.
I will never tell Margaret that she was right, even though she is seated next to me as I type this. I have too much pride to let her have that win.
But she was right.
The dress rehearsal is the show.
This, is it.
Work With Margo
I’m piloting something new for those who want out of the dress rehearsal, called Book in Progress.
It’s 8-weeks of personalized writing accountability, built around your specific book and your specific life. Every week I assign you one achievable writing goal. You do the work, submit what you did, and tell me how it went. Rinse and repeat for 8 weeks.
A personal trainer for your writing habit.
It’s $800.
