There is a tug of war taking place within me. It is painful and flattering, unnecessary yet essential to my existence. I serve two masters…the writer and the socialite.
The writer within is bare knuckled, fierce, unmoved by my need for human contact. She is selfish and creative. She’s talented and driven and consistent. She’s been hunting me for twelve years, begging me to be with her…to belong to her. The writer is like a butterfly, an escaped prisoner. When I was a girl, she lived in me as a caterpillar-a story lover. Stories would linger just beyond my mind like a halo…like a hint. I’ve always heard my own voice narrating my life and the lives of others. I always knew I’d write. But write what? Write where? For who? Now that narrator within says “write for yourself.”
The socialite holds dear to the “rope of fate” with leather driving gloves on…pink, manicured nails exposed. She’s sassy. She’s an asshole and doesn’t apologize for it. Her temper is volatile and her demands are specific. All she wants is the city at her feet. No more sweet tea, no more country roads to meander. The socialite wants cocktails, designer bags, and painful heels. I feel her hyper-ventilating with excitement when I replace flip-flops with pumps. Her excitement is unmistakable. Sex & the City, the movie, gave her hope. She isn’t intimidated by the unfamiliar street signs or the loud honking taxis. Change doesn’t make her nervous…change ignites her libido.
Who will win this war? Who will own me? Will I spend the majority of my life in t-shirts and basketball shorts…avoiding mirrors? Or will I start brainstorming with heels on like Carrie Bradshaw? The major point here is-I don’t want to be “like” anyone else. I don’t want to pick one career or the other. I am a powerhouse at heart. The struggle within me excites me. I am hungry…like a wolf. Okay, that was ridiculously unnecessary to write, but it is so true. Doing any 1thing for the rest of my life invites nausea to my body. I am in love with the writer within. She’s brilliant and unstoppable. She lives within me regardless of what I’m enduring at any given time. We are inseparable. She’s kept me alive and I love how private she is. There’s no need to be entertained or surrounded by a crowd when she’s with me. Quite simply, she fills me up.
The socialite, on the other hand, is moody. She only loves me when I’m flawless. Or maybe…the truth is…I don’t know how to love her when I’m not. She begs me not to forget that the mojo is just as essential as the mind. She’s impatiently waiting for me to stop being afraid to be the best. “We belong in Manhattan,” she tells me. “We belong among the best in the business.”
They’ll both tug, and cause a wave of uncertainty within me constantly, if I don’t give them both the attention they need. They won’t leave. Because they seem to know (better than I) that we all belong together.
3 comments:
Balance of the parts of me...it's something that I struggle with, too!
We are all of many parts In the end we are in charge of puttint it together any way we wish and changing it once in awhile. Life is theater, we play the parts we must play to get where we want and to prevent tedium. All the parts are our us.
Noice writing by the way. I stopped over from 20 something I do't get a round to 20 something blogs that often. I'm glad I stopped by.
Beautifully written! The funny thing about possessing so many gifts is that we often feel like we need to choose. I'm on that journey of balance to do it all; simply and the in the best way possible.
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