Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Confessions

I am trying to get back to basics.
Meditation.
Yoga.
Eating the way I tell everyone I eat.
Up by 7 a.m.
At my computer by 9 a.m.
No more checking the internet or email
or what the market is doing.
Just sitting down to write,
like I did when I lived in Santa Monica.
There,
every day was the same.
At my computer by 10 a.m.
after an hour and a half walk on the beach.
Writing for two hours,
a break for lunch,
and back at my desk till 5 p.m.
I liked my little schedule.
The consistency of it.
The formality of it.
It was always the same
day after day,
like the sun in L.A.
I rarely veered from it
or got bored by the tediousness of it,
or wished for a different life.
I was content being a writer.
I didn’t want to spend the day in Malibu,
star gazing.
Or wish for weeks at the beach in Cabo San Lucas.
I didn’t want a job where I had to deal with other people
or make small talk.
I didn’t want to be a doctor,
like my mother wanted.
Or a lawyer,
like everyone said I should be.
Or any other JOB.
Writing wasn’t a job,
it was part of who I was,
like breathing.
Without it,
I was dead.