I am not a big believer in happy mediums. You can ask my dad or mom, who are both reading this at some point and shaking their heads, either laughing to themselves with pride and thinking "That's my daughter," or wishing the other were within a hundred miles so they could say, "She's YOUR daughter." No matter how they feel, and no matter how little they agree on, they will both tell you the same thing; I suck at happy mediums.
A few days ago I had to google myself into a corner before I could convince myself to begin to work on my portfolio so I could BEGIN my freelance writng career. That night, I started working on my first novel. Yeahhhhhhhhh. About that.
It's just who I am. When I work out I run 5-6 miles as fast as I can stand, and I'm constantly and creepily looking at the screen of the person next to me at the gym, making sure I'm pushing myself harder, running longer, faster, and at a higher intensity. Not because I need to feel superior to them, but because I need to know if I'm just a lazy dork who THINKS she is doing a good job, or whether or not I'm actually doing a good job in the scheme of things. (Although I'm sure my ego doesn't mind seeing higher numbers.)
When I bake a cake? It's a four teir masterpiece with alternating layers of chocolate and white cake whipped up from scratch, with layers of homemade ganache in between and entirely coated in my freshly whipped cream and topped with slivered toasted almonds. I'm just weird.
When I cook? Chicken pot pie, with both the crust and cream sauce from scratch with real butter and cream and veggies sliced a la me. Served wheatfield golden and steaming.
I'm such a creeper. I waited a month to buy new boots, even though my old ones were nearly intolerably stinkerific, simply because I could not find the perfect boots at the perfect price. But I found them eventually. When I tried photography the first time? If every single photo wasn't gallery worthy it was hidden instantaneously, like the crazy uncle in the attic.
When it comes to people in my life though, I'm like a cat with a cardboard box. It's all good. The horrible Las Vegas t-shirt my boss brough back for me from Vegas? Exalted profusely and worn with pride, because ugly or not, he thought of me. If anyone else cooks, hamburger helpber is gourmet and if one of my friends writes "i like cheese," and wants to know my poetic opinion, I swear to you I will find something to like.
So what's my obsession with being the master of all things? I know I can't be the only one. There have to be other obnoxious perfectionists out there. So why can't I just make myself understand that nothing has to be perfect. And it definitely doesn't all have to be perfect the first time!
What this boils down to? I am stuck at the first paragraph of Chapter 2 andwondering if anyone knows hypnosis and can make me understand my own damn words. I just wish sometime I would give myself a chance to just do something. I want to bake an ugly confetti sheetcake and put storebough frosting on it, and know that it will be loved just as much. I want to go for a walk and say, "Oh, man, I worked out today! Pizza time!"
But instead, I don't work out. I cook and no one eats it, because really? Who can eat real cream and butter these days and not feel like they should go see the cardiologist the next day? And I write the first chapter of the first book of my writing career, and then I play on facebook all day because I can't find the perfect transition into what I need to say next. Because what if this story that is so beautiful and original and alive in my head falls flat because oh I don't know...I've never written a book before?
I need to be nice to me. Because expecting to change the world right this very instant, expecting to have a pullitzer winning novel by the end of the first chapter in the very first draft ever is getting me precisely squat.
....ugh..anyway. I gotta go see a cup of tea about Chapter 2.
(also..sorry there are no pictures lately. my internet disagrees.)
A few days ago I had to google myself into a corner before I could convince myself to begin to work on my portfolio so I could BEGIN my freelance writng career. That night, I started working on my first novel. Yeahhhhhhhhh. About that.
It's just who I am. When I work out I run 5-6 miles as fast as I can stand, and I'm constantly and creepily looking at the screen of the person next to me at the gym, making sure I'm pushing myself harder, running longer, faster, and at a higher intensity. Not because I need to feel superior to them, but because I need to know if I'm just a lazy dork who THINKS she is doing a good job, or whether or not I'm actually doing a good job in the scheme of things. (Although I'm sure my ego doesn't mind seeing higher numbers.)
When I bake a cake? It's a four teir masterpiece with alternating layers of chocolate and white cake whipped up from scratch, with layers of homemade ganache in between and entirely coated in my freshly whipped cream and topped with slivered toasted almonds. I'm just weird.
When I cook? Chicken pot pie, with both the crust and cream sauce from scratch with real butter and cream and veggies sliced a la me. Served wheatfield golden and steaming.
I'm such a creeper. I waited a month to buy new boots, even though my old ones were nearly intolerably stinkerific, simply because I could not find the perfect boots at the perfect price. But I found them eventually. When I tried photography the first time? If every single photo wasn't gallery worthy it was hidden instantaneously, like the crazy uncle in the attic.
When it comes to people in my life though, I'm like a cat with a cardboard box. It's all good. The horrible Las Vegas t-shirt my boss brough back for me from Vegas? Exalted profusely and worn with pride, because ugly or not, he thought of me. If anyone else cooks, hamburger helpber is gourmet and if one of my friends writes "i like cheese," and wants to know my poetic opinion, I swear to you I will find something to like.
So what's my obsession with being the master of all things? I know I can't be the only one. There have to be other obnoxious perfectionists out there. So why can't I just make myself understand that nothing has to be perfect. And it definitely doesn't all have to be perfect the first time!
What this boils down to? I am stuck at the first paragraph of Chapter 2 andwondering if anyone knows hypnosis and can make me understand my own damn words. I just wish sometime I would give myself a chance to just do something. I want to bake an ugly confetti sheetcake and put storebough frosting on it, and know that it will be loved just as much. I want to go for a walk and say, "Oh, man, I worked out today! Pizza time!"
But instead, I don't work out. I cook and no one eats it, because really? Who can eat real cream and butter these days and not feel like they should go see the cardiologist the next day? And I write the first chapter of the first book of my writing career, and then I play on facebook all day because I can't find the perfect transition into what I need to say next. Because what if this story that is so beautiful and original and alive in my head falls flat because oh I don't know...I've never written a book before?
I need to be nice to me. Because expecting to change the world right this very instant, expecting to have a pullitzer winning novel by the end of the first chapter in the very first draft ever is getting me precisely squat.
....ugh..anyway. I gotta go see a cup of tea about Chapter 2.
(also..sorry there are no pictures lately. my internet disagrees.)
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