I woke up this morning annoyed. Like seriously, missed my bus, spilled my coffee, got micromanaged at the office, and came home to cat shit annoyed.
Because I have to write the book.
I mean, it’s obvious, right? This past year is the book. I’ve ignored “the book” for years… lazed around a manuscript of short stories submitted to an equally disinterested editor. Because THIS is the book. Depression, chronic illness and pain, navigating being African American and a woman here and abroad. My therapy. Grief. Harry, my unofficial support animal. My friends, sorors, church family. Brooklyn.
I’m not excited. I’m weary. Because once you know something you can’t unknow it. My brain doesn’t offer that luxury. Not one cell in my body believes ignorance is bliss. And denying your creative destiny corrodes your soul. And I’ve sat and sat and said “Maybe later” for years. My soul can’t take any more denial. I’ve crippled her for too long.
I’m not writing this book today. Only because I believe I’ve been writing, snapping, and painting it since January.
My head buzzes with the weight of knowledge, the burden of intelligence, the enormity of self awareness. And I know I can’t be at peace without writing this book.