**FYI, I may be on On the Record with Greta Van Susteren on Friday night, sometime after 10 pm. Will post accordingly early Friday evening that comes through.**
I spend a lot of idle time wishing I were different, wishing I were someone else. Maybe not the pursuit of someone with well-calibrated self-esteem, but I wouldn't know much about that. Like many writers, I spend a lot of time in my own head and view self-recrimination as a form of cardio. I think it's part of the Writer's Package--you have ample skill and affinity for analysis and observation, but turned sideways, it morphs from a life-saving, life-enhancing endeavor into a way to keep looking at yourself (or your work) and going YUCK.
But there's a silver lining: Within that urge to become someone else is the willingness to improve who you are. Those escape-from-myself fantasies point out exactly where I feel I'm lacking. So, rather than beat myself up for it, I'm going to be thankful for it. I'm going to view it as a guidepost of where I'd like to go, and not a sign that I'm really messed up. A human experience that overlaps with countless other people who do the same cruel stunts in their head, and not some singular defect. Lots of writers do this--and lots of women. We just do. It's yet another act of creation, even if it adds up to little more than self-created hell.
We manage to find our way out of the flames eventually.
Because this is the season of gratitude, I've decided to be grateful for even this. Even this. But, in case you were wondering, who would I like to be this week, this month, this blog post? Her. Right here in this video, with the flashing brown eyes and open heart and, jeez, that SMILE. Singing something so impossibly romantic. I don't write like that. Yet. But I might. And I'm thankful for that, too.