“I have no filter,” I said to Kristin gleefully at work today.

I really do not.

I care, but I do not care.

I do not wish to offend, but I just cannot take it all that seriously anymore.

Nothing, none of it, it is just not serious.

Despite having attended two sit down meetings today to figure out how the shop will move forward in my absence and how things will need to change and what systems have to be implemented before I go.

Ah, sure, yeah, ok.

As Tanya pointed out, “they need to be paying you for that.”

I did train some one today and I did not even think about it.  The pay off was not having to invoice a $4,500 line item bill.  Though, I would like some other kinds of compensation, it is very doubtful the company is going to have anything to give.

Tanya seems more excited for me than I do.

So does Jasper.

And Bill.

And Jennifer.

And John.

And Steve.

And why, the list goes on.

I am excited but I am also nervous and the two can become mixed at times to the point where I just get a little anxious.  There is a large part of me that is just ready to go, go, go.

But that is not happening yet.

Tanya also pointed out to me that I have done five years worth of work in this last year and that I really do deserve to be where I am at with the entire thing.

I do not know if that is true or not, but I have done a lot of work to get where I am at.  I can acknowledge that.  I can. I will.  I do.

I have worked my ass off.

The work has also really paid off.  And I am feeling no longer worked over, but worked on.  As though the Universe is working through me and for me rather than I struggling against it, trying to force my own solution, my own ideas, my own way.

My own way sucks.

I have to admit I am still at quite a loss as to what I will do in Paris.

I mean I know I will write.  I write here.  I will write there.

But there is another leap to be made, there is another flight to be had.  I do not necessarily mean that I am going to be moving all over Europe or the world, though that may happen.

I would love to go to Africa, I blame literature, damn you English literature BA.  I feel as though I am forever trying to replicate those experiences that most resonated with me in reading.

“Out of Africa,” Isaak Dinensen.

I can see it.

I would love to go.

I have never had much of a desire to see Asia, but Africa and France, yes please.

I feel a book.

Tanya also said that I have to write about this, about the journey toward this decision, this moment in my life where I decided to jump ship, San Francisco, nanny, bike shop girl, and be woman of the world.

I do not know how that would go.

However, I can admit that I feel another writing project in me.  I do not know what that will be.  I do not know if it is fiction or fact or memoir or poetry.  But there is another book in there.

Of course, I can continue to argue about the one in here–the one on my blog, the one in my computer, the one I have not published for really reals.

I need a template.

I need some one to say, do it like this.

I need some direction.

I need to stop procrastinating.

The book, the book, the book.  The bullshit angst over the book.


What if I just let it go?

What if I just try writing something else and seeing what happens?

What if the book was just a sophomore effort that really is not supposed to see further light?

What if it was just a tool to get me to go where I needed to go next?

What if I do not have to know what to do with it?

Can I be alright with that?

Fact.  I wrote it.

Is not the writing the point?

Can I be satisfied with that?  The writing is enough.  My company is enough.  The words that come are enough.

Yes, I crave the idea of holding onto something solid and real and page turning.

I was thinking, I have been thinking, it continues to swim across my brain soup, of something I read of Pat Rothfuss recently.

Pat and I went to middle school and high school together.  I will always think of him as a sweet pumpkin who drank a lot of Mountain Dew and danced awkwardly with me at Home Coming and dated Dana Chrysler in middle school.

Pat is a renowned writer.  He is successful, he is published, he goes on book tour.

We are Facecrack friends and a bit of a blog post of his popped up on my newsfeed about how he read and re-read his first book.

I have never done that.

I have never sat down with the entire piece and just read it.

That, ack, that gave me goosebumps of horror, which means, I am totally on the correct path.

I can actually hear the argument in my head right now, “you can’t print that off, that would be too expensive and where are you going to get that kind of money.”

What the fuck is that?

That kind of money?

What does an ink cartridge  cost?  A sheaf of paper?  Shit, I could go out right now and do that.  That is what I will do.

There it is.

Read your fucking book, Martines, read it and see what needs to be done with it.  Go forward from there, get re-familiarized with the work.  Read it.

It aint’ gonna eat you.

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