Do you guys know how much I love baseball. I’m not including a question mark at the end of that sentence because it should be obvious. I get choked up when I think about how it is so hard to not feel romantic about the game. I just wanted to say that I am having a really great time being a fan this season. I was worried that I would not because last year, my ex and I would talk about baseball all.the.time.
In fact, “Who’s your team?” was one of the first things I ever said to him, and when he said “Baseball is my team”, I was smitten. We bonded over it; it was one of my favorite things about our relationship. We broke up a couple of weeks before the World Series, and I thought the new normal - him not being around to talk baseball with anymore - would really suck. And it did suck for the first few games, but now the new normal is just Normal and I am grateful. Go baseball. Go me.
Confession: I don’t feel supported by my peers (fellow writers) and I am envious of their support of one another. It makes me feel like they are trying to tell me something lol. This, coupled with the overwhelming realization that I’m basically 30 and have not achieved anything resembling success in my career as a writer, has me feeling bad for myself. Feeling bad for myself is a grave error and not conducive to good mental health. I realize. And yet. The thing is, even if I really DID want to quit writing, I could not. I can’t be anything other than a writer. It is the only healthy, productive thing I have done with any sort of consistently in my entire life. I struggle to express myself verbally in an eloquent or meaningful way sometimes, and writing has been there — always — acting as a conduit between my inner life and my outer life.
It feels lonely to root for myself and feel forgotten by people whose work I look up to. I was worried about this when I left New York, but I’m not naive enough to believe that a city makes a writer. That is bullshit mentality. Adulation is great, and we all like to think that the reward is in the work itself. It is, I’m a firm believer in the hard work of sitting down in front of a blank page and bleeding. Pats on the back from people who know how tough it can be is great too. But if it’s just me on the sidelines, holding up a handmade sign with encouraging words scribbled in marker, this is the time to learn to be okay with that.
It skeeves me out when my dad calls me “baby”. For starters, no, I am not. Second, I know he’s just trying to be the nice guy, and I guess it’s never too late for reconciliation but at this point, it needs to happen when *I* am ready and on *my* terms. And I’m not ready, sorry, man. Hey I heard from my dad today, you guys!