The
Truth about Re-Writes:
and why nobody really gets any
You sit there, and you stare at the paper. You chain smoke and drink whiskey, you stare off into space, looking through some twisted haze, and you hope that the fog lifts soon and the words come back. Of course you try writing anyway because what better time is there, after all, to try and capture the spirit of what you’re trying to say than when it’s right there in front of you. You hate every damn word you write and you feel like you’re committing the most damnable injustice in the history of time. You tear up the paper, turn the music up, and stiffen the drink. That’s what you do.
Then, because you’re a writer and have no real choice but to write if you want to hang onto that title, you try again. Still, you get nowhere and everything becomes a re-write. You re-write it again, and again, and again. Still, you’re not doing it right. More drinks follow and you stare at the city lights against the night sky. You say the things you should have said, you admit that you miss that sense of someone in your life, and wander around in the jungle, just trying to find your rhythm. Nothing seems to work and you feel like you’ve lost it, so, what do you do?
Sensible, perhaps healthy – though I wouldn’t say that – people, would say this is when you just set it down, set it aside, and let the grief work its way through you however it’s going to. “You can’t fight it,” they say, and I don’t believe them. Everyone tells you it will pass, and you know they’re wrong. Things like that don’t pass, they change you. You are not the same as you were with them in your corner, because there’s nothing more than can give you, yet you’re expected to carry on as if nothing’s changed.
So, you sit down to write again. You put a cigarette in your lips and your hands to the paper. That doesn’t work so you try the keyboard again. You’re still deleting everything because the event in front of you is bigger than you even know how to begin capture. You’ve just got to stare at it and re-write it again – and that’s when it hits you: Life doesn’t give you a chance to re-write anything.
That’s the kind of thought that hits like a ten ton truck and leaves you gasping with guilt and a serious lack of oxygen – and it should. It’s one of those jarring epiphanies that you’d almost rather forget as soon as it happens, but the trouble is that you know you can’t. This is one of those things that you’re supposed to hold onto and remember; one of those painful lessons that you’ve been taught over and over again and it’s being retold to you in the most nightmarish way you can possibly imagine.
Nobody gets a re-write. There are no do-overs or Mulligans. There are no rain-checks. There’s no such thing as a snow day, and they won’t reschedule a game just because you’re sick and can’t be there. Life is a one way trip down one way roads with no U-turns, at least not yet. This entire piece is a prime example of this; there are no stops, no re-writes, no second guessing the words. They are what they are, and will stand as they stand. This is dealing with death, on its terms, and I see no other way to do the damn thing justice.
This the last lesson of death, and one we often don’t get to really appreciate – unless you’re one of those people who clings to the feverish hope of reincarnation and another shot at the prize – is that, when it’s over, it’s over. Your life is done. You’ve run your course and it’s left to a jury of your peers to decide the type of life you’ve lived. Have you been the hero they all remember, the kind of person that gets buried in stories told through tears and smiles or, worse yet, have you left behind a room full of strangers who’ve only got snapshots, and not even enough to fill a scrap book?
It occurred to me then, that maybe this is why it is advised one “stop and smell the flowers”, I then thought that such a thing was only partially true. Yeah. You’ve got to make sure you enjoy what’s there, but stopping? That’s an absolutely insane idea. You can’t stop on this road because, when you stop, the ride’s over. Why rush towards such a thing, least of all when there’s so much to get out there and do?
The woman who died, she often lived her life in a way that wasn’t getting out there and doing. I understood it in a lot of respects. She was aging, in failing health, and had been in enough pain to see her properly doped up and drained of all motivation. Even when she wasn’t in the hospital, she was like this, and it seemed to be the way everyone around her was used to seeing her.
She was the constant vigil in the bay windows, looking out over the driveway and waving you goodbye. She was the silhouette in the Christmas lights, and the woman who smelled like candy and cursed like a drunken sailor. She was the woman who rarely went out, but always had money for the kids and Grandchildren when they came over. She was there every time you were sick, making you your favorite food and buying you toys. She was there, always, sitting just on the other side of the windows, waiting for you to come inside and warm up.
She took a lot of flak for these things. Everyone always wanted more for her, and it was understandable. She was a woman who did a lot for everyone around her, and they always wanted her to give to herself. That never really worked out at all. She kept on with it, all the way to the very end, smuggling candy for all her visitors way more than she was for herself.
I spent a lot of time thinking about this the last few months, spending too much time with the God-Awful, southern heat, trying to really figure out what could bring someone to that kind of conclusion. What could make someone really sit there and decide to live for someone else and how could someone who’d been so important in shaping me have a perspective that was so contrary to my own? I’ve finally figured it out. The last lesson of a woman who was more brilliant than she knew is what I’m about to share with you.
Life’s a thing to be lived, and it doesn’t really matter how anyone else thinks you’re doing it. It’s yours to make of it in the way that you think is right, that makes you the happiest. If that’s being a kind person who sacrifices again and again so that those around you can be happy? If that’s really who you are, do it. It’s really that simple.
It doesn’t really matter if anyone approves, or agrees with it – and don’t read into this as a rational for being some selfish fuckwit or serial rapist, there’s no hope at all for you bastards and if you’re miserable? Well, I can’t say you don’t have it coming. Moving on.
It doesn’t matter if anyone approves of your life, so long as you do. Nobody needs to understand it, or even like it, so long as you’re doing what you know to be the right thing. Take your moral ground and defend it to the death, just don’t use it as a staging ground to attack. Be who you are and love the way you love, feel the way you can and share it however you damn well please. Live your fucking life in a way that makes you feel like you’ve accomplished what you’re here to do, and do it every damn day.
If you find something that doesn’t work for you, fucking change it. If you find something that does work for you, fucking hold onto it until it doesn’t. Don’t be afraid to change lanes, but don’t feel like you have to either. If you’re happy with where you are, then you’re where you should be. Even if everyone around you sees you as miserable, sad, and alone, you hold your damn head up and you keep right on going. Keep your eyes open and be ready to shift gears, but only do it because you want to.
Again, and I can’t stress this enough, only because you want to. That’s the key principle in making it work. You’ve got to only change yourself to suit you, regardless of what pressures those around you might throw at you. Hell, even if they’re thing that might be good for you, stick to the fact that you’ll only take the change when you’re good and damn ready. It doesn’t matter if you can’t hear well, those fuckers can shout. You’ll get the hearing aids when you’re ready and the air will be there when you need it.
This is how she lived her life, how she taught me to live mine, and I can’t thank her enough for it. She taught me the importance of not just living life, but living at whatever speed you wanted. She taught me the value of being who you were, no matter what anyone had to say about it, and this, as I see it, is the very essence of the lessons in death.
It’s a time to look back in the rear view mirror, if just for a second, and look at all the turns you could have taken and didn’t – the catch is you’ve got to look back forward again and be happy with where you are too. This won’t always be the case – hindsight is 20/20 after all – and that’s okay too. You’ve just got to keep moving forward and look for somewhere else to take yourself.
You can’t go back and take the other trail, but you can plan another route. You can’t turn it off, but you can change the channel. You can’t stop the music, but you can find a new melody. You can’t stop the words, but you can find a new voice. That’s what it’s all about. You’ve got to just keep going and change course in motion. If you stop, it’s over. Slow down if you’ve got to but, for the love of whatever you worship, do. Not. Stop – at least not unless you’re good and damn ready to get off the ride right where you are.
You’ve got to keep you chin up and, though you sure as Hell don’t have to be calm; it really does pay to get a good look at what you love. Keep a list of it, if that’s what it takes. Find what you love in life and don’t be afraid to change it. Be who you want to be, and love that person too. Hang onto it. Appreciate it. Cherish it, because there’s going to come a day when you’re not around to have it.
Most of all though?
You’ve got to love life, because it’s yours.
However you do it, do it right because, like I’ve said before – nobody gets a re-write.
