It’s late and I just feel like writing. A funny thing happens when you end up doing the thing you love for a living. Most of the time you don’t love it. You tolerate it because you know that without it you’d have to find another way to make a living. So tonight it’s just old school writing from that place of pure love. Like when you meet your baby for the first time or you dust off a sleeve of Oreo cookies double stuffed.
It’s kinda funny when you start to think that someone may read it because you immediately start to feel self-conscious. Like, what’s in it for them? A writer’s worst nightmare is to be self-indulgent. I read stuff all the time where people take you on a long road and mid-way through you’re praying that there will be a payoff. But nah, someone was just blowing off steam, getting some shit off their chest, just talking shit. Sometimes all you wanna do is talk. To yourself. To someone else. It don’t matter. It feels like company. I used to talk on the phone for hours on end with friends before I got married and had kids. Now those times are few and far between. Most nights I’m writing for money, totally stressing myself out, hoping that I’m capturing the essence of something that I hope exist. Sometimes it takes me days to catch it, maybe even a week, but when you’re on the clock time moves and you have to move with it.
Tonight, I’m thinking about Sherman Oaks. How I used to live just a stone’s throw away from a swimming pool in a courtyard and the best thing about that place was nights when I used to look out at the water, then up above the top of the apartments into the sky, dreaming about nights like this when I would be far away from there. Sometimes I wondered if I was crazy because my dream life and the one I was living was so drastically different. I was reminded of it the other day when I was complaining about some writing deadlines to one of my Cali friends. She said, “I remember when you weren’t busy at all.” Which was code word for, “Bitch, just a few years ago you weren’t doing shit so stop your complaining.” She was right. The bulk of my life was spent taking care of my two kids, trying my best to be a good wife, and dreaming of nights like this when I would be free. Free to write. Free to make a living from it. But when I got what I wanted it put me in chains. And this is the first time I’m writing freely in longer than I can remember. I look at somebody like Kanye and I wonder if he still has fun. It doesn’t look like it. Dude looks miserable. I wonder if his biggest wish is to rap like no one will ever see it, tucked away in some dark little room where he can really let loose and be free.
Tonight, I tasted freedom and so in that spirit I’m going to let this be. Was there a destination? A payoff? There was for me. Freedom is its own reward.