There is a little-known secret I’m dying to share with you: all the best ideas happen in the bathroom. John Michael Kohler figured out an indoor bathtub could pull double duty as a vessel for cleaning and year-round kiddie pool. Albert Einstein knew light would travel faster than the invention of a reliable frizz-controlling pomade to tame his mane. And, I’m pretty sure Louis Pasteur had a bad experience with a bowl of Le Crunch Capitaine, which resulted in the advent of pasteurization. Bathrooms are one of the last bastions for the thinking person, a place where one’s mind can wander and ponder the mysteries of the universe (and finish War and Peace). It just so happens to be the only place I ever receive any insight on how to navigate my life. So, here’s the tale of how I learned to stop fighting the inevitable and become a writer.
As an only child whose parents had demanding careers, our four-story brick home became my fortress of solitude. A bout with petit mal seizures and people in my community ostracizing me, when they figured out I was Black, made life even lonelier. Reading, watching old movies and drawing were ways for me to cope with my personal Hell. I made a children’s book for a class project in third grade. My mother was, and still is, proud of my small feat, fashioned out of pink construction paper and 8-year-old tenacity. The story, however, wasn’t the thing that made me proud; it was the illustrations. If you had told me then that I would want to be a writer someday, I’d have laughed in your face. Precious time in my carpeted, steamy bathroom was spent imagining a different life. Awards speeches deserving of an Oscar were practiced, the opening scene from Mommy Dearest was reenacted with great precision (and ice!) and Calgon steered the S.S YOU WON’T DIE IN SUBURBAN INDIANA. I thought it was my divine birthright to become a Fortune 500 CEO/actress/sullen artist/wife of Fred Savage. Nothing or no one could put that promise from God asunder. Well, as it turns out, the previous statement isn’t correct. Parents divorcing can. Remember to wear heavy shoes when you’re being led, Bataan Death March-style, down the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”.
My teen years were filled with shaky stints of writing, but no real belief that I could make a career out of it. With the help of mind-altering substances such as marijuana, it at least made the hobby interesting. I used to hit the local Barnes and Noble for their weekly poetry readings. Looking back, the stuff I wrote was trite, but it kept the crowd enthused. My ‘hood gal pals couldn’t grasp why I cracked open a book or put pen to paper without being forced by a teacher. Misery loves company, or so the saying goes. I sank further into depression and made my first (and only) attempt at suicide. Now, there’s a kicker here in what I’ve just shared: the “note”. It harkened back to the days of Emily Dickenson. Flowery, dramatic, haunting. I even used the phrase, “cocoa apothecary”, to describe my means of self-execution. Fortunately for my mother and the rest of the world, herbal sleep aids, combined hot chocolate, make you take a cat nap and not the dirt variety. I woke to find myself confused, pissed off and in deep trouble. At my urging, the sweet lady who gave birth to me drove us both to the hospital where she worked at for a voluntary psych admission. The on-call therapist told me I wasn’t crazy enough for a “trip to the spa” and should just try to reduce my stress. And so, I went back home not “ill” and still adrift in a sea of what the hell to do with my life. A year after the incident, I was slated to graduate high school. On the last day, my art teacher (who I’m certain is Satan’s wife) told me the way of Picasso wasn’t to be, but I should try writing. “Your critiques”, she said, “are great. They’re full of information and a joy to read. But, you suck as an artist.” At the time, I wasn’t trying to hear her. It’s taken over a decade to understand the she-devil was right.
God has a crazy habit of moving you in the direction He wishes your life to be. He’ll even surround you with folks for the expressed purpose of fulfilling your hopes and dreams. Destined for the firefighter brotherhood? Guess the task of putting out blazes at Uncle Ray-Ray’s cookouts is yours. Shall you bear the staff of Asclepius upon your body? I don’t know. Sit down to a Grey’s Anatomy marathon and see if you feel like cutting people open. Jaime, my BFF, is a published author of paranormal Y.A. fiction. Is she rich? No, ‘cause I always buy dinner. But, is she happy in her “chosen” profession? Absolutely! She works hard at not letting anything or anyone get in the way of aiming for success. I, on the other hand, have been distracted by a dead-end job, fears of failure and sex with emotionally unavailable men.
This past summer, I (again) became a single lady. My ex-boyfriend left me devastated and unsure of how I could go on without him. Then, God stepped in. His fail-safe for reaching me? My delicate stomach and voracious appetite for take-out Chinese. The power of those two entities combined led me into the “Thinking Room”. As I cried on the toilet, a wave of calm embraced me like Linus’ blanket. Then, a voice popped in my head and exclaimed, “Profit from the pain.” Profit from the pain. What the hell does that mean? Wait… I got it! Write away the sadness! But, what should I write about? The voice came back and said, “Check to see if Real Simple is still doing that essay contest thing.” I checked; it was still going on. I had under a month to prove that I wouldn’t be broken again by the world around me. That other people’s choices won’t be my undoing. That if I want to be an honest-to-goodness author, it’s up to ME to make it happen. So, I did it. Yours Truly was up to the wee hours of the morning creating…something! It had been so long since I’ve felt alive. In 2013, I had an article posted in a local magazine; it wasn’t half bad. The editor of the zine let me know he’d throw more pieces my way, if I wanted to contribute again. Did I? Hell no! Of course, I self-destructed. Boys, vacations, boys, work, boys; they were all more important than taking care of my business. Did Carrie let Big distract her from making a deadline? Would Ernest Hemingway forget to finish a novel because of some crazy bull run? We all know the answer to that.
Jaime told me God knows the desires of your heart, because he helped put them there. My whole life has been impacted by stories, whether on paper or celluloid. I’ve spent many years trying to run from my fate, but let’s face it; everything below the waist is kaput! Now is the time to stop messing about. The new dream is to be a writer/mother/homeowner/wife of a Capitol Hill titan. I have faith it’ll happen; letter by letter, word by word. And, should writer’s block rear its ugly head, at least I know where the bathroom is.
The Mental Lists 