Killing Your Parents

Now that my first draft is complete, I need to let it stew...to let (as my friend Dulcy says) the 'flavour bond' form. Although, you have to say 'flavour bond' with a Jersey accent...flavah baaaaand.

So while the flavah baaaaand forms, I want to fill in the hows and whys. How Charlie, Claire, Albert and The Undertaker emerged and why their stories came to life the way they did. The how of actually writing. Why I'm blogging this process in the first place. Let's start there, shall we?

I know from experience that creativity can seem a scary place. That it's much more comfortable to call yourself an engineer or a researcher or a graphic designer and not bother with the possibility that you could be a painter, a baker, a photographer or a novelist. I get that.

So I wanted to document this process, its inevitable ups and downs, anxieties and triumphs, in the hopes that it could help others on the journey or on the verge. So in some ways this is a service to the collective creativity of the world, and a service to those of you trapped in lives you really didn't imagine for yourself. Those who woke up one day and said, "What?! I'm pushing forty/fifty/sixty and I'm the father of how many?! I work where?! Doing what?! How did this happen?"

And it's not that our lives or bad or wrong, it's just that there is a dream life. A life you think other people get to live, but not you...and I think that's crap. I think we should all live our dream lives and be our dream selves. That happiness is our birthright and not a retreating horizon.

I wanted to make stepping outside of that comfort zone okay. I want to show you that, yes, it's hard and scary, but the good stuff is on the other side. Someone offered me a Tennessee Williams quote the other day, which is apropos: "Security is a kind of death." Your comfort zone can kill you. How comfortable is that?

The other, big reason why I am putting all of this up on the world wide interweb is because it scared the poop out me to do just that. To say exactly what I think, to tell my truth, out loud and in public. This process has been about speaking the truth, being authentic, escaping the Censor. So, I'm practicing. I'm practicing telling the truth out loud. Not couched in platitudes. Not edited for TV.

This is not easy. I think we all have the feeling that someone is watching...God, our parents, our peers. And if you write (paint, sing, compose) like someone is watching, you are editing yourself. You are censoring. You are cutting the legs off of something that could be groundbreaking, courageous and great.

Dana the Artist said something last night: "You have to kill your parents." And she didn't mean literally (don't worry Mom and Pop). She meant in your head and psyche.

I know that I'm just about to start writing things my parents won't like. I already have. I wrote an entire one-woman show about God coming from a family where everyone either laughs nervously or clears their throat when the G-word is spoken out loud. Hell, I wrote nine blog posts on the subject. And I have a feeling this is just the beginning.

So writing a blog – writing my truth out loud – is me moving out of my own comfort zone. The people pleasing place. The 'isn't she clever and funny and non-offensive' place. The place where making art is okay as long as you have matching throw pillows and area rugs and decorative vases in your home. As long as you fit the mold.

Connecting to what I wrote about habits, hiding my truth is a habit. Editing myself for the sake of others is a habit. Trying not to offend.

How boring. Honestly. And how presumptuous.

There is a chance that my parents are happy that I write about God and spirituality. They always said, after all, that they wanted us to choose. We were raised without religion and told to find our own way. Well, here I am. Finding my way. Rather publicly, actually. They could be reading this, leaning back in their chairs and looking at each other with parental satisfaction. 'We did a good job, Kid. A damn fine job.' Or. They could be sitting in their chairs, cringing and wishing I would just. shut. up. There is also the distinct possibility that they (gasp) don't even care – that they, like all of us, are really quite busy playing the starring role in their own personal movies, thank you, and don't have time to bother with low-paying bit parts in mine.

Who am I to assume what will offend and what won't? It's all in my head. Most things are. And as Dana the Wyse bestowed upon me today: You're really not that important. None of us are.

So, Mom and Dad...uh...bang bang. (And as soon as I wrote that, I wanted to shrink it back. Delete. Delete. Delete.) I offer the world an evolved version of your daughter. One who speaks the truth in the name of art and love and higher consciousness and the collective heart. Who speaks the truth bravely but imperfectly – who is human, after all. And who will probably need some more practice until she gets it right.