I didn’t do my morning pages today. I justify it by whispering to myself “but you didn’t sleep well, its ok to miss today”. But I never sleep well. I keep working late because I like working but then wonder why I am thinking in sales page copy as I try and fall asleep. I make a to do list in my frontal lobe hoping it will make way from sleep: “add feelings wheel to workshop page, call vet, book pilates class, follow up with client in slack”. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, I think I am dehydrated but its sore from tensing. From holding ideas back on my tongue so they don’t interrupt anyone, or myself. I stay seated at my desk hoping that just by being here the magic of work will fall on my shoulders. I wait.
My friend Sierra consntatly tells me I am “the hardest working person” she knows. But I have to work hard, there is only working hard in this human suit.
My boyfriend tells me that he can tell what kind of day I’ve had by the state of the house when he comes home. The position of coffee pot on the burner or coffee pot on other side of the kitchen is a barometer of the fuel required to be the hardest working person in the room.
I feel like I am just meeting myself, always. The constant reminder to remember what lesson I just learned. The vows I’ve taken and the commitments to self or too stacked. I clear room on my left forearm and elbow to tattoo what I remember. A walking woman memento.
I don’t know what I know. Not until I know and even then I am unsure. I don’t want to know anything, really. TO be sure feels foolish and I vow not to be a fool. A quote my writing professor read to me once pings across my minds eye, falling out from deep recess of my brain
I don't know what I think until I write it down
-Joan Didion
I feel like a fool for chaining myself to my desk, hopelessly waiting to become the woman I see in my instagram sotires. I punish myself, this is why they can work from a hammock in Greece and I must sit here and wait to become good woman writer. I feel foolish for spending the 20 minutes walking to my preferred café when there are a dozen closer cafes than this one but I remind myself its for pleasure. My job isn’t output its to translate and I can’t translate if I don’t listen. A lesson learned.
I worry about writing. I write so much that gets tucked into editors inboxes and held in revision hell I wonder about the point of writing like this if I cant just hit send. I wonder if I the urgency I have about hitting send is good. I worry about patholagizing another trait I have of good or bad. I’m tired of the good vs bad.
My mind thinks in binaries, I wrestle in the grey. I want to embrace the grey, I know the grey, the middle, is the answer. Always, actually. But it feels harder when I just want to know what time to arrive to the party and what people really mean when they say they want me, because its never that simple.
My knee clicks. I remember to email my osteopath. I remember to book an xray for a requisition I got last May. The doctor called my knees “prominent” and I pretend that it didn’t hurt my feelings. I remember to stop trying to race with the men in the park. I remember being made fun of for running on the track team, a group of boys standing chanting “PIGEON” at my as I crossed the finish line. I look down at my hands flapping on a run and remember to put the memory together.
I wonder about wondering and I wonder if all women writers in the 21st century have to sound like Carrie Bradshaw or that is a symptom of wondering. I wonder about being a woman. A good woman or a bad woman. A good woman wouldn’t worry if she is bad. I wonder in binaries.
I wonder if I have anything to say again. I wonder if the words will dry up one day leaving me without any knowing. Jacquline reminded everyone (and myself) last night that the most boring thing about you is where we start writing.
I get to the cafe and open my computer to write, I try to figure out what I know.
FINDINGS 🌱
ICYMI replay of PERFORMANCE OF PITCHING available here
Next week in our Open Studio How To Be A Multi-Hyphenate 🫶
My Autistic Barbie sticker that arrived in the mail last week
My news years resolution has been to go to more local galleries and theatre and when i tell you hoe much i CRY 🥹y’all I love art
Did you miss last week’s dispatch?
xx
Phoebe 💕
*typos are left to reflect the fury passion and 3D humaness of being a passionate freak in the world – and you know not a robot *beep boop* I am just a human girlie living on earth with a mortal brain 🤸♀️(and also like, don’t be an ableist freak🥰)
Thanks for reading the Creators Dispatch. A weekly essay about the creative journey! Here I write about being an artist, human, angry woman on the internet and living in the dumpster fire of a world that says not to make your art. If what I say here inspires you (or pisses you off 🥰) share my work with the group chat, or your best friends neighbour. Word of mouth is the most special and radical way of sharing – plus it helps put the Zuck 🏄♂️ out of business 👼
phoebe, this was such a beautifully written post. it's raw and poignant and honest.
a couple of my favourite lines are:
"I clear room on my left forearm and elbow to tattoo what I remember. A walking woman memento."
and "My job isn’t output its to translate and I can’t translate if I don’t listen."
I also relate deeply to what you said about your boyfriend knowing the state of your day by the state of your house. <3
LOVED this one!! I can relate so deeply. To echo Taylor, some of my absolute fave lines from this one:
“I feel like a fool for chaining myself to my desk, hopelessly waiting to become the woman I see in my instagram sotires” YES and
“My mind thinks in binaries, I wrestle in the grey.” OBSESSED 🤩