Yesterday I walked through the slushy streets of Williamsburg in the morning. It was almost a nice day, warmer than it had been the day before, but still too gray for anyone’s liking. I had to send a fax to the doctor’s office. (I’ll get to that in a minute.) Then I went grocery shopping and bought avocados and brussels sprouts and red leaf lettuce and mushrooms and potatoes and carrots and several boxes of pasta on sale and some pesto and three containers of greek yogurt, also on sale. I came home and made some pasta, and then I texted with Ron a little bit about writing and self-loathing. (Mine, not his.)

In the middle of all this was a general freak-out session because, the day before, my insurance company had informed me they would not be covering my surgery. There was probably about a minute where I had a green level contemplation of suicide. Like, would I have done it? No. But it was one of those roll-it-around-in-your-brain moments. This was going to be a lot of money, on top of all of my other debts which are myriad. And how will I ever get ahead in my life? I will never get ahead. I will never get out of this hole, let alone get ahead. And I have nothing to show for it. It is not like I have this hole and I own a home. Or: it is not like I have this hole and I even have some sort of advanced degree that might one day help me to get a job or something. I am going to be in this hole for ETERNITY.

But it was just a contemplation. Because I know it could be worse. I get it, I know it, I have a luxurious life in comparison to many. I fucking get it, ok?

But I would compare it to this:

The other day I went to a cafe in my neighborhood and I sat at the counter, which I never do because it makes me feel strangely exposed, but there were no tables available, and so there I sat. As I was hanging my coat and bag on the hook beneath the counter, I noticed something shiny on the floor. I leaned down and picked it up: it was a diamond ring, with a platinum silver band and two well-sized diamonds, the carats of which I could not begin to estimate because I am not the kind of girl who knows anything about diamonds. The ring glittered even in the dim light of the cafe. Those were real diamonds, for sure. It was a very pretty ring.

And then I had the same kind of brief contemplation as I did yesterday, although the subject matter was very different. I thought: I could keep this ring. It could be mine and I could wear it or I could sell it for some money. This was just a line of thinking that existed in my brain for a moment.

And then there were two men sitting next to me who saw me pick it up and one of them said, “You should keep it!” This sort of snapped me into reality.

Another line of thinking took over quickly. Someone lost this ring. This is their special ring and right now they are probably worried about it. How could I ever wear someone else’s ring? How could I ever sell someone else’s sentimentally signficant object? I gave the ring to the counter guy who, completely unaware of the EPIC JOURNEY I had just had in my brain, tossed it in a pint glass containing pens which sat next to the cash register, but not before the counter girl said to him, “Maybe I could borrow that and wear it out sometime if no one comes back to pick it up.”

Epic journeys aren’t for everyone.

I keep meaning to go back to the cafe to find out if anyone came and claimed it. Maybe I’ll do that today.

Anyway, at some point yesterday I found out that my doctor had neglected to tell me that he had stopped accepting my insurance two days before I had my surgery. Then there was the aforementioned faxing, and also some phone calls and whatnot. And then finally, late in the day, someone called and admitted that in fact it was the doctor’s fault, and I would not have to pay the exorbitant amount I had been billed for just the day before. So it’s a good thing I didn’t kill myself, huh?

I guess that’s not that funny.

Later I was sent a mean comment from some anonymous person on the internet about yesterday’s post that had something to do with the fact that I should be forced to listen to the stories of cab drivers and rich assholes if I was walking around telling people I was a writer, and I believe there was a subtext that I deserve all the crap I get in this life.

As if I enter taxi cabs and announce I’m a writer. As if I seek out rich assholes, shake their hands and say, “Darlings, the party can start now. The novelist has arrived!” As if I am teasing them and asking them to tell me their stories which I would totally be interested in, as I have said, if they were ever about their mothers and not themselves.

I am now going to tell you the truth, anonymous person on the internet. I feel that you crave it. So I am now going to confess to you my soul.

Most of the time I love talking to my friends about writing, until I get sick of it and cannot speak of it for a while, and then I go through this period where I feel like I really need to get some hobbies, and that goes on for a bit, and then I think, “Fuck hobbies, I love to write,” and then the cycle starts all over again. I also enjoy writing about writing here on this site, and it is nice that it gets read, but I can assure you that no more than 200 people (if that) read this on any given day, which is nothing, the tiniest of amounts in comparison to so many other writers. (It’s probably kind of humiliating to admit that number considering I’ve had this site since 1998 and have never actually managed to pick up any kind of real audience, although I do think the people that read this site are pretty awesome and smart and interesting and if you’re going to have a small audience, this is the one to have.)

So I have a relationship with presenting myself as a writer, but it’s in an extremely limited way, and basically I write on this blog so I can sleep at night and not hate myself all day long. And it works, and you should try it, because I feel like you might need some help in those areas. Or yoga. That’s helped me a lot. Therapy? I don’t know. Not for me, but maybe for you.

Anyway what I really wanted to tell you is that I hate telling strangers I am a writer, but if they ask me what I do for a living I’m not going to lie. I don’t care if they are cab drivers or rich assholes or dudes who like to send anonymous comments to people instead of worrying about their own business. So now please pay very close attention, because I am going to explain why.

The person I have just told I am a writer will always reply, “Oh, have I ever heard of you?”

And I will have to say, “No, you have not.”

Because they have not. I could play the game where I tell them my book titles. But I have played this game a million times. They have not heard of my books.

And thus it is possible to admit failure in the smallest of moments. Humanity is merciless by accident.

Wedding rings in pint glasses, glinting and forgotten.

(01/20/11) | 7 Comments »