What’s Wrong With Me
The subject line is stolen from my f-list. I have been thinking a lot about what’s “wrong” with me. Of course, as a writer concerned with characterization, I sometimes make the mistake of thinking humans out here in the real world can fall into the neatly-analyzable characterizations one finds inside books. One doesn’t often find real people on the page because, well, real people are messy and it’s impossible to know everything about them. Understanding breeds compassion, as Johnny always used to say (usually followed up by, and compassion’s a real bitch that stops you from getting the job done…) and understanding Real Flesh And Blood People is hard.
I suppose every spring, when the plum tree in the back yard blooms, I get a little introspective. The year starts in the dead of winter for me, at Halloween, but spring is when I start thinking about how to make myself a Better Person. It’s a slow process, and each step needs to be built on the step before it. Having a clear vision of what and who one wants to be is not encouraged by our society–the television is supposed to tell you who to be, what to want.
The best couple years of my life for self-growth were the two years we lived in an apartment in Edmonds and had no television. None. At all. For two years.
Some guy called trying to sell us cable. The Muffin, in all his Japanese sangfroid, said, “We don’t even have a television. Haven’t for years.”
To which the cable salesman replied, shocked, “That’s just…that’s UN-AMERICAN!”
You can imagine the hysterical McCarthy jokes roaming around the house for weeks afterward. Have you a television, sir? Why no, and I have no sense of decency either! Heh.
So I’ve been thinking lately, as the plum tree blooms, of what’s wrong with me. My health hasn’t been the best–personal stress and overwork causing breakdowns in the body, and my habit of taking care of everyone before myself doesn’t help. The nervousness attendant whenever a book goes live or a signing happens also crashes me out for weeks. I should probably learn how to deal with all that and take a little more time for myself. I can’t take care of everyone else when my engines are running on fumes.
Then there’s my nastiness, which I pretty much keep under control. I try to balance out profound personal cynicism with redemption in my art. This is married, in true Gemini fashion, with my absolute inability sometimes to set boundaries for those I love and trust. I will literally drain myself down to transparency for someone I love–and there have been those who would use all that and more, despite the cost.
Then there’s my temper. Most of my limited stock of patience goes for the people I love. I need to be careful who I unleash the sharp edge of my tongue on. I know better than most how verbal sparring draws blood, and I need to speak softly.
The question is, which thing do I work on next? Part of living and being an adult is realizing life is a constant process of change. It is the process that matters–the process of trying to be a good human being, of refining one’s idea of what a good human being is, constantly striving.
By the time the plum tree finishes blooming I should have some sort of answer. That’s usually how it works. I’ll be able to see the fallen blossoms before they vanish into the grass forever. And then it’ll be time to dye my hair again–I hate being a blonde; I’m going to keep dyeing it until it goes gray. That can’t happen soon enough.
It’s raining, and the sun is shining. I just got up and looked out the back window. There is a rainbow, and the tree is in full bloom. It looks like a pink cloud.
One can’t ask for a better omen.
