Day 89: At least it does when I enter a “zone” or the new buzz word, “flow,” and hours pass like minutes. I visit my blog each day to practice the art of Creative Non-Fiction, the genre to which I lost my heart after reading David Foster Wallace’s essay about cruises. That I’m here proves I believe in myself and/or am mad, but then a bit of madness courses through the veins of artists, good and bad.
In that same “vein,” to remove the stubborn stain of stigma that clings to mental illness with my stories is enough to be getting on with, as the British would say. And yet, now I write legislators, CEOs, and administrators of hospitals, prison systems, the Justice Department, Department of Agriculture, county health departments, school and library systems, animal shelters, and conglomerates that control the majority of our food supply. They rarely respond.
As frustrating as the lack of acknowledgment is, growing passion and determination override any impulse to quit. My imminent move to our nation’s capital only intensifies this intention to be, as I told a favorite English professor, a peaceful rabble rouser. If my Rhetorical Argumentation professor could see me now. I was a hot mess during that class (whew, was I ever), clinging to weak pathos-dripping debates.
And now? I’m a healthier, stronger, passionate, increasingly ethos- and logos-driven hot mess. Hotter, because I’m addicted to the “4 Yoga Poses to Feel Sexier” practice I posted here last week. It works. Too well. I don’t think I can feel any sexier. Why do I do this to myself?
I must be mad.