On the writing life & being tailgated
After purchasing tickets to see Ice Cube in Tucson this September, I had an idea for a piece of writing. Something tidy and coherent. Something with stats and figures and facts and screen shots.
Four hours later, I emerged from the twenty pages I’d written. Some of the most beautiful sentences I’ve yet put to page. This is a long read I’ve been trying to write for a few months now, but just this morning decided to find its shape. The piece is about being a girl in America, a woman in America, and worse yet, a chronic patient in America. The writing is very proper. I’m flexing all my BA & MFA language skillz to tell a story I’ve been wanting to tell for a long time but never really knew how until today.
When I reached a good stopping point, just shy of a conclusion “draft,” I ate a protein bar (they tell me I need to eat) and went to the dispensary for some cannabis. That was the only time I left the house today: to go to The Weed Store. Like, Teen Gruber is so fucking impressed that Adult Gruber can just drive to a weed store and buy weed legally. (I almost never buy “weed.” I buy cannabis tinctures and infused lozenges and shit like that.) But on my way back from the Weed Store, I thought, “I should slap a conclusion on that fucking essay — just for now.” But I stopped myself because I had been working for more than five hours on a text that is actually really difficult for me to write because of the subject matter it exposes.
I have to tell the story I’m telling in this essay, but I can’t do serious anymore today.
So can I tell you about being tailgated?
All my life I have been tailgated. By semis, by Chevys, by
BMWs, pickups, motorcycles, Porsche’s, strange vans, police vehicles. I have been tailgated in many world renowned cities like Los Angeles, Chicago, Milwaukee, New York, London, and Dublin. Everywhere I go, I get tailgated.
I can only conclude there is something about the way I, specifically, operate my motor vehicles that enrages my fellow driver, causing them to ride my ass all the way down freeways, side streets, and alleyways (ever been tailgated in an alley? I have!). But today? Today I was tailgated in Tucson . . .
by an ice cream truck.
I have never been tailgated by an ice cream truck.
I love new experiences.
I must say being tailgated by an ice cream truck is mildly more disconcerting than being tailgated by a regular truck only because it calls to mind clowns and child predators. Maybe that’s just me.
All in all, a fairly good day: woke up early, drank strong coffee, wrote a draft of an extraordinarily strong (if I don’t say so myself) essay, and got lawn tickets for Ice Cube.
Today reminded me that truly strong writing takes care and time. It’s like threading the needle for my mala beads — if I’m going to do it correctly, if I’m going to do it well, if I intend to grab my reader by the collar, then I have to invest the time.
The essay I worked on today will never be on this forum. It’s, well, “too good.” By that I mean it’s for a bigger readership. By that I mean the piece I’m working on is bigger than me. More important than my story alone. And it will get done, and it will be great. For now, I’m off to find the most air conditioned room in our little house on the Sonoran prairie.
