It’s my Duty

So I am writing this today not because it is my art or my passion or my craft practice or for any other reason than it is my duty. Duty and honour. Things that, according to many men to whom I’ve put the question (usually, but not always after plying them with alcohol), two concepts which most women of their acquaintance cannot grasp. Now mind you most men think that I think like a man, and, not entirely sure, but they intend it as a compliment ladies. However, as I am decidedly not a man, they also get very confused and then can’t decide whether to take what I just said as coming from a buddy or from a woman. Of course I revel in their confusion, in fact, it is on such things that my entire mystique is founded.

Not that they are correct, women deeply understand both the concepts of duty and honour but generally from the lens of love and family first. Strangely, it is the extremes of the human condition, status and survival around which women are most finely tuned. For example, a woman has a hard time understanding a spouse who puts himself in harms way for a buddy who, let’s face it, is an alcoholic wife-abusing asshole. She cannot understand that he owes that buddy a debt, and that the fact the she and the three kids currently rely on him for support should trump some past experience in which she had no part. In truth, he knows at a level deep and true, that she, as his wife, and they as his kids, will not only go on without him, but will grow and thrive. And so he must – honour and duty.

Man, the places that your head goes when you are tired.

So I wasn’t going to write. I am tired and cranky and feeling a bit unappreciated. And I had this idea that this Blog would be all sunshiny and happy and positive go-fight-win! Rah! About writing. But, since the reason that I am tired and cranky is that I have been fulfilling my duty and honour as a writer, I thought, “Hey, better share that”. Funny that I should give a rat’s ass about presenting a balanced account of a writer’s life – because who the hell am I to judge Balance! Hah!

And so, I have been kicking it hard all weekend on the PhD handbook, and I am very cognizant of having every UBC thing in the very best shape possible before I depart for my week of C and W (cruising and writing). But my brain is a bit adrift. Making a hundred decisions a minute can do that to you.

There are so very many things in this life that I am not good at; I am not the person to call when your cat is sick, grammar is really not my thing, I am not the person to send your kid’s book manuscript to if all you want is a “It’s brilliant”. I am not the person to call when moving house or landscaping the backyard (unless you want me to be the one to bring snacks). While I am an amazing lover, I suck wildly at being the traditional girlfriend. I am better at spending money than saving it, and during every single housekeeping task I mourn for the books that I am not reading, the stories I’m not writing and the guitar I’m not playing, not to mention the handsome young men I am not kissing.

But as a Writer do I give value for money. You bet your rat’s ass I do. I have neither beauty nor riches nor love – but I have my work ethic God Damn It. So there, you have all been warned. Cast aspersions on my ethic at your peril. Ole’ Bill says that hell “hath no fury like a woman scorned”. Honey, I will forgive you a dozen slights and hundreds of lovers-but never, never imply by word or deed that I don’t earn my $1.50. For you see, I have nothing else. Nothing. Who I am as a writer, a valued and loyal employee, is everything. I am nothing else. Lover, dancer, friend, daughter, sister, aunt, actor, athlete, Francophile, chef, musician, painter, baseball fan, intellectual, philanthropist, beloved. These are aspirations, people, not facts. But what is, what is ever and always true, is that I’m a great writer and a loyal employee. Wow, that sounds weak when I type it out. But in truth, I have nothing else. Not even a gold fish. Christ, the orchids are even on borrowed time.

And so, I am, tired, cranky as hell and lucky as all get out. I have an awesome job situation, superlative friends, supportive family, intriguing and challenging colleagues. And now, most precious of all, time – time to re-coop, eat Whole Foods take out with Tuscan bread and New Zealand wine, play my guitar and watch back episodes of Hung before playing on-line poker and saying “lights out!” before 10 p. m.

Ohhhh, Followers...

And suddenly. There are followers. Okay no pressure to be entertaining now. Nooo. Especially since I believe my two, count 'em two, fans are themselves uncertain as to whether they read my posts for some insight into one artist's search for complete self expression, or for the more lascivious bits. Well, in truth I will strive not to disappoint on either account. (Frack I hate the possessive apostrophe - can't I just skip em and you guys can consider them as read)

I did have a rather amusing conversation with Sweet Potato today where I posited (your word for the day) that writing a book with a certain person (not The Producer mind) might be worth the 1000 hours without fiduciary recompense if he was willing to write into the contract 4 hours every Tuesday for a 6 month period wherein said person interacted with me in a manner completely to my specification. Oh, and the 50% of promised profits of course. I think I actually managed to shock poor Sweet Potato with that. Not to mention the co-worker who, micro-waving in the background attempted to ignore my thinly veiled attempts to incite outraged comment. That woman has some kinda self control people, because I was trying to provoke at least a muffed gasp.

Sigh. Not that I would ever propose such a clause. Not really. But a girl really does have to dream. Other wise the round of meetings that go no where and daily superficial conversations with people you don't give a rat's ass about and the hurt wondering why those you do give a rat's ass about can't be bothered to hit the reply button on the email even if just to type out a message shorter than a twitter post. Sigh. That isn't a complaint. No complaints here. I won 48,000 fake dollars on one Texas Holdem hand the other day - 4 Kings - after a hand like that kids you say "thank you" play one token conciliatory hand then WALK AWAY.

Frack, I guess now I have to look up how to spell conciliatory. Oh, look, I just did. Thank you.

And so much to be thankful for. For all those that didn't reply, I did make the top of two very important peoples call list. Having dinner with the Empress tomorrow - so there is a demo of how by trying to do something nice for Wicked (which totally tanked) instead I get a nice opportunity for me. And having drinks with the long lost Master of 3D on Friday. Gosh how I've missed him. Talk about mis-matched friends - he as cool and reserved and taciturn as they come and me, well, me. I'm only cool when I'm really really mad. Not like I'm going to punch you mad, but in the I'm going to kill all of your family and make you watch kind of mad. Thinkin few of you have ever seen me that mad and those of you who have, whisper when you repeat the tale. Or blanch and excuse yourselves to the restroom to splash water on your face.

More to say on the topic of burning bridges, but that for another day. Sleepy now. Going to try and win another 100,000 fake money before bed. But here's a thought. The very few bridges I feel that I've burned I couldn't give a rat's ass about so I guess really if I think about it, those who've burnt their bridges with me likely lose zero sleep over that. And so humbled by understanding my insignificance in the eyes of a small handful of those I respect, and kind of awestruck that if they are so stupid as to under value my regard (see even when crushed my ego is like a memory foam matress) okay maybe they are right since I can't spell matress - I will sign off counting my fans and my blessings. I love you all and promise to fete you, each and every one every chance I get.