My birthday caps the first week of every new year and though it’s incredibly self-absorbed of me, I never truly feel like I’ve begun a new year till I’ve survived, ahem, celebrated another birthday. Life just doesn’t begin to settle from the insane rush of ChristmasNewYearbirthday till after the 7th has transmuted itself into the 8th.
It was a hard birthday this year, for many reasons both incredibly personal and larger than me. Wondering why The Book isn’t finished yet, already, though I’ve written it twice since 2004. Among other things.
I have two tattoos. I’ve gotten both on odd number birthdays and they both relate to finding balance in my life and my psyche. I needed a third this year, but because of financial issues and my own Rules of Tattoo (perhaps I will illuminate these at a later date), I decided to hold off till next year. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t receive some amazing birthday gifts this year:
– a photo album, lunch at Slice (yum) and Just 10 Minutes (Becks, who knows I’m trying to cook more this year)
– a Ganesh statue for my writing desk (from Rachel, who knows I have obstacles to be removed, xoxoxo)
– his old leather coat and some serious day-of-birthday sympathy and consoling (from Papa Bear)
– a classic Ringling Bros Barnum & Bailey circus poster (Grandma, from her basement!) framed (Mamma Mia!)
– a hard core phone session (with Sis), as well as shop talk (which I’m increasingly grateful we’re doing again)
– lip gloss, hand cream, lunch at Juan’s (yum) and Wishcraft: How to Get What You Really Want (Jamey, Guru Extraordinaire)
– cupcakes, company and Jennifer’s Body (S.)
– a birthday steak and daiquiri to end the day on a great note and the oh-so-rare pleasure of his company off our front porch (W., xoxoxo and besos)
– scores of well wishes and mini reunions throughout the day via Facebook and text and phone calls
The day after my birthday, my scheduled debauch/celebration was necessarily postponed because I got called in for a movie. Ended up working on set again the next night. It was definitely great to work again, to catch up with old friends from FD4, but it sucked to miss out drunken tomfoolery with other friends. I’m sure it’ll be great when it does happen (hope it’s soon!).
And now it’s back to work on the novel. The anguish and agony have helped me realize one very important thing. Or remember it. I have about 75% of the life I want. I am writing. Sure, I’d like more stability, a home I can really make my own, one with a guest room (my new icon of successful adulthood), a husband and children, a dog (and the lifestyle to support one). I’d like to travel more, take better care of myself, wear better clothes, spoil my friends and family, etc. But I’m writing. If not everyday, pretty dern close.
I am writing. In New Orleans. The equation looks like this:
Writing + Nola = 75% of Emilie’s Ideal Life
When you look at it like that, all mathematically, I have an abundance to be thankful for.
You know I never like to leave you without some presents. So here you go:
Resolved: Writing is a job. (from me via Jamey via Ann Patchett)
Strange Sleep of the Six-Legged (Ronlyn’s uber-zen newest on The Nervous Breakdown)
Respecting the Writer That Was (Stephanie’s started blogging! And the first post is astounding)
Lhasa de Sela died, unfortunately, but she left behind gorgeous music, like the song below.
I love Angus & Julia Stone, so I could watch these videos all day: