Little Dulcie from the New Hampshire.
I’m sitting by a pool with a ciggy in my hand, typing funny as a result but no less here and no less thoughtless and thoughtful in this sitting. I’m in Spain.
Nancy is on a couch out here by the pool and she’s reading something and I’m tap tap tapping away like this is what I do. I sit by pools on the Costa Brava typing like I belong here, like a rich girl.
But I’m still Dulcie farm girl only now I travel and run writing retreats and live to tell of them and me and what comes of growing up like a bumpkin with a mother who got around and a father who worked like a dog. I am both of them. I carry them with me, her blue eyes and snappy tongue and lust for more, his weighty call to earn what you receive. They could not make a go of it together but they did instill their values in the progeny of their lengthy union. My brothers and my sister and I can no more condone slovenliness than we can envision when enough is enough. There is always more to be done whether it is words to be written or money to be made, drawers to be cleaned out or borders to cross.
Limits were not built into our double helix strands.
As for me, I am hoping to smooth out a bit now. The retreat is over, the coast is right over there with us able to walk much of it. We have a plan going forward that takes into account the weather being a bit sparky. So now where does this put me?
I envision writing and what is it that I envision? I have this idea of pulling together a bunch of short pieces and making them into something. I also think about what it would take to publish my own book and would that be the best way for me to go
I wonder. I don’t want to suffer from Underachievement Personality Disorder. I also would like to feel like my writing is good enough to put out there and my own approval does not seem to be enough for me. I don’t know how big a YES it would take in order for me to believe myself.
I guess there is a fraud police in all of us. That’s why some people like Trump – because he acts so grossly right out in public. We all want to hang our freak out there and have it be okay. We don’t want to have to make believe but we do it rather than risk ridicule.
If I were to write just like me what would it be?
I have this character who struts across the catwalk in front of me. Tina may be her name. And the thing about Tina? She wears a leather garter up high, tight and out of sight, it reminds her of who she really is. She is a street girl that found some glam for a while, strutted her stuff, got taken up in her own delusions of success, only to end up back in the street.
I am a farm girl that hangs out on the Costa Brava sometimes. But am I still a farm girl? Perhaps I am. I do believe in hard work. In earning what we receive. I think we’re better for it when we do. Not to decry gifts, they’ve been life saving to me and to others but they are not what makes us whole on the inside. Except for the accepting and acknowledging of them. Seeing that to be true is what helps us be in there with everyone else. No better. No worse.
But there’s something essential in the doing part of things. That’s what I’m here with this morning. A farm girl on the Costa Brava. Seeing if I am also a writer.