Today I watched another play in Fayetteville, ate seventy-five percent of a large chicken and pineapple pizza all by myself, walked for two hours while listening to a book about narcissists and a lecture about consciousness, and read a third of a book called Blessed Are the Weird: A Manifesto for Creatives. So it was a pretty busy day, but–you know–no one proposed. And even though a lot happened, including the fact that the waxing crescent moon, which I like to call God’s Fingernail, appeared out of nowhere in the sky, I’m currently thinking that I have NOTHING to write about.

So–for now–let’s talk about my hair. (I’m currently picturing my therapist throwing her hands up like an Italian grandmother and saying, “Just admit it. You. Are. Vain.” Fine. I’m vain.) Anyway, I took the above picture a few minutes ago. Currently I’m propped up in bed, which is where I usually blog, and I’m loving that swoopy-do thing my hair is doing. Although if it gets any longer, I’m going to look like Peg, that somewhat-trashy-but-probably-fun-at-parties dog played by Peggy Lee in Lady and the Tramp.

The play I saw this afternoon was Visible from Four States, written by Barbara Hammond. It told the story of a man whose hilltop land is coveted by both a cellphone company (for a tower) and a local pastor (for a giant cross). The man’s best friend is a prison warden who’s befriended a young inmate on death row for committing murder. So in addition to covering whether or not God is real, the play also covered the death penalty, forgiveness, and redemption. You know, light-hearted stuff like that.

Having attended several plays over the last two weekends, I’ve been thinking a lot about the process of writing–why some stories are better than others, what works and what doesn’t. My conclusion has been that if the audience is laughing or crying or gets all caught up in the story, that doesn’t happen by accident. Somewhere, I’m sure an author has blood on his keyboard. But I trust that even the stories that don’t work so well were written by authors who were also trying, also bleeding.

Based on my experience with this blog, writing (or any creative endeavor) is partly a crapshoot. You sit down every damn day, almost always thinking there’s nothing to talk about, but there usually is, even if it’s way down there at the bottom of the creative well. You just have to bring it up, which is often done by pulling your hair out, banging your head against a wall, or saying, “Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, fuck.” Sometimes, like a miracle, what comes out of the well is pretty fantastic. But plenty of times it sucks.

The more I think about it, I guess good writing is a lot like a good hair day–it’s something you can hope for, something you can work on, but it’s never a guarantee. (I hate that.) Some days the creative well is simply–dry.

But back to my hair. I really think the secret to the swoopy-do is the fact that I wore a sock cap for a few hours, which straightened out most of my curls, except the ones that were sticking out in the front. (Warning–we’ve re-entered the stream-of-consciousness section of the blog. Grab your inner tube and enjoy the ride. This is also part of the creative process. Don’t you feel–uh–involved?)

Earlier today I read a Buddhist slogan (on the toilet, if I’m being honest) that said, “Don’t make gods into demons.” In other words, don’t take something that’s meant to be a good thing and make it a bad thing. I guess I’ve been thinking about it most of the day because I have a tendency to do just that. Often in the name of overachieving, I’ll start a diet or exercise program and be so hardcore about it for two months that I’ll burn myself out. Then I’ll spend the next six months using the lack of diet or exercise as a reason to beat myself up. I’ve done this same thing with more than one type of meditation. As we speak, I have a book on cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) that my therapist gave me three years ago that I haven’t finished and feel bad about. (My therapist says I have a hangup on completion. Maybe one day I should end a blog mid-sentence.) Anyway, it’s just a book, but I’ve essentially turned it into a demon, something to taunt myself with.

I know that if I let it, this blog could become a demon too. Having set a goal of writing every day (for a year, it’s been suggested), it’s already its own kind of monster. Since I hold myself to a pretty high standard of perfection, nights like tonight–when it doesn’t seem like I’m getting any water out of the well–are difficult for me. There was line in the play today that basically said you’re not the worst or even the best thing you did. Of course, it was talking about murder, but I think it could also be talking about writing. So I’m telling myself, “I am not my worst writing. I am not my best writing. I am not my hair.”

Because the moon has been new (dark) for the last few days, when I saw God’s fingernail in the sky tonight, it seemed to have come out of nowhere. And I guess if I didn’t know about the phases of the moon, looking at it each night would seem like a crapshoot. But obviously the heavens have a process. As for writing, I’m finding it has a process too. If I want something to come OUT of the creative well, I have to put something IN it first, which is part of the reason I’ve been going to plays, reading books, and eating pizza. (Okay, the pizza was about carbohydrates, not creativity.) But just because you’re well has water in it, doesn’t mean it’s easy to bring the water up. Sometimes you really do have to bang your head against the wall and wait for an idea to come, just like sometimes you have to put a sock cap on your hair and wait–and wait–for the swoopy-do.

I have to remind myself that hair is just hair. Some days it’s glorious, some days it ain’t. In the same manner, a blog is just a blog. But the point for me is to write, to be honest, to bleed on the keyboard–to dip into the well and see what comes out. (Today, this is it–you’re lookin’ at it.) As long as I’m doing that, this is a god–this is a good thing. As soon as I start demanding perfection or judging myself for not meeting a certain standard every damn day, it’s become a demon, and ain’t nobody got time for demons.

As it turns out, I did have something to write about–writing–although I suppose the thoughts about creativity and not being the worst or best thing you’ve ever done could apply to many other subjects as well. (In the comments below, I invite you to complete this sentence: “I am not my worst/best __________.” For example: “I am not my worst outfit or boyfriend. I am not my best test score.”)

And as for that part about being hung up on completion,