You know, the one that runs you down before you have a chance to fix all those problems in your crappy rough draft. The one that leaves you with a tombstone that reads:
(Thought)
she was a writer
she was a writer
Not to mention the obit that says:
"A sad, wrinkled manuscript
was found decaying on her desk.
There were massive doses of
literary Botox in her system."
Oh, Robin, now I'm going to have nightmares about that bus. Does it go by my street? What color is it? Are there terrifying ads on the side of it, like:
BAD WRITER, BAD.
YOU SHOULD NOT BE TRYING TO CATCH THIS BUS. YOU SHOULD BE HOME, REVISING THAT CRAPPY DRAFT.
YOU SHOULD NOT BE TRYING TO CATCH THIS BUS. YOU SHOULD BE HOME, REVISING THAT CRAPPY DRAFT.
Do you think school did this to us? Made us not want to show our messy assignments as if they were the literary equivalent of tattered underwear?
Robin also mentions gold stars. Oh, man! I can see the shiny little things now. How they poke your tongue with their sharp points when you lick them! How they twinkle when placed in a wobbly row!
It was one of the hardest things I had to face in writing my first book. No one cared if I finished it or not. There was no Gold Star Giver. Nope, there wasn't even a box of "Good Job" stickers to console me for a less than stellar try.
What finally got me writing was the thought of another powerful bus. The End of the Line Bus. When I reached the end of the line, where did I want to be? What destination would make me content to give up my seat?
The only answer, for me, was to have written a book. Okay, yes, I wanted to have loved, and been loved, a lot. But besides that? Nope. Nothing else but a book with my name on it felt like a Big Gold Star destination to me.
At that moment, I knew I was toast. I didn't want to live the rest of my life knowing that I could have made myself happy, but didn't. That I could have given myself a Gold Star, but didn't.
P.S. Look both ways before you cross the street this week. I'm thinking of learning to drive a bus.
