Apologizing to the Little Fat Kid Inside

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but today I woke up with a new perspective on my eating and life habits. I suddenly thought of the unhealthy side of me as a separate person. As a little fat kid who wants to be healthy but I just won’t let her.

Some typical conversations came to mind:

Chubby Me: Please can we go out for a walk? You promised when the warm weather came we’d walk. My legs are getting yucky and flubbery.

Bad Me: Not now, here let’s sit on the couch and write. I made cookies for us.

Chubby Me: Can we have a salad? When we were on the Atkins kick and ate only veggies and meat, I felt great. My confidence came back and I had a lot of energy.

Bad Me: I’m too tired to make all that stuff. Let’s just eat Ramen noodles or a potato chip sandwich. Here’s an espresso. That will give you energy.

Chubby Me: Can we go to the gym? Last year I was starting to feel good about myself but then you said we couldn’t go anymore.

Bad Me: No. Now I’m too self-conscious to go there. We’ll just go for long walks. It’s just as good.

Chubby Me: When? We never go anywhere and I’m getting fatter. I want to be pretty again, like that girl in the picture from before.

Bad Me: Let’s just sit on the couch and write. Tomorrow we’ll go for a walk and exercise and eat healthy. Come on, let’s make brownies. It’ll stave off the insecurity and loneliness.

Chubby Me: Okay. But really tomorrow, you have to take me out. My heart is beating funny and I’m of breath. My clothes hurt my tummy.

And that’s when I look at Chubby Me and realize how much I’ve neglected and disappointed her. Why do I keep her chained up, under-exercised and overfed when clearly she doesn’t like being that way? She’s got confidence and wants to breathe fresh air and hike and listen to her iPod while she exercises. She insists that if we keep doing this, we really could hurt our bodies and reach a point where there’s no going back. She’s right.

I’m not going to launch into another promise to eat healthy and exercise but I really ought to, for her. For Chubby Me. For  Pretty Me who is hiding underneath, trapped there against her will.

Sorry Body. I promise to start treating you better.

Visit Tracy’s AMAZON PAGE  to see her fiction.

Drinking and Writing

I come from a background where alcoholism and drug addiction were rampant. I saw a lot of lives ruined, some quickly, some gradually over the course of decades. As such, I always get a little paranoid if I drink. I  wonder if it’s too much, or too often. For anyone who knows me, I hardly ever drink. Sometimes at Cons, always at NECon, but not much in between. I get tipsy pretty quickly, usually after one drink.

In the last several months, I’ve noticed I really haven’t had anything to drink. I’ve also noticed my writing has just about dropped off entirely. There have been bursts of creativity but mostly I’m down for the count. I’ve also put on weight so I  feel like a sloth slugging along staring at a blank page. munching leaves and willing words to appear.

Maybe I need to lighten up, accept that a drink here and there won’t hurt me and it really does kind of go hand in hand with writing. If you ever go to a writers’ conference you will see that. Everyone doesn’t abuse it and there are some who abstain entirely, but for the most part, it’s part of the process, even if only a small part. Maybe it helps calm a person so all the random creative thoughts can be compartmentalized into chapters or characters.  Hemingway and Fitzgerald were examples of what not to do in terms of imbibing, but damn if they didn’t produce some amazing fiction.

There’s something to be said for using a supplement to move the creative process along I think, within reason. Sure, people can get carried away and an occasional glass of wine can spiral into gallons but hell, people can choke to death on sandwiches, or OD on Nutella or warm chocolate brownies.

Liquor has been used for centuries to plod writers and artists along. Without it, our libraries (except for the non-fiction sections) would be barren.  I like Lucid Absinthe a lot and even in small quantities (half a shot) it alters my perception a bit. That’s all well and good but it also puts me to sleep in a matter of minutes. That’s certainly not going to up my word count.

Lots to consider as I face most of the weekend alone in my house with my MAC taunting me, begging for some keyboard activity that doesn’t involve Facebook news feeds and comments.

I will be in Foxboro all day tomorrow 9am-3pm with members of the NEHW if anyone wants to stop by. For details, click HERE. I’ll have books, bread and butter pickles and strawberry jam for sale.

Have a great weekend all and here’s to perpetuating the stereotype.

-Tracy

To see all the work Tracy currently has for sale, please go to her AMAZON PAGE.

Drug Poetry

I have a collection of old poetry in a journal that will likely never see the light of day unless I post it somewhere online. This one holds a special place in my heart for a very old and dear friend, who, sadly,  is mostly lost to drugs now.  If even one person reads this and is touched, or reaches out to someone who needs help, then I’ve done my part.

All Is Well

by Tracy L. Carbone

Hey there, old friend,

Look at this End

You’ve come to.

“I’m clean,” you say,

Clean as Methadone screams

Through you,

Screams,

Till you wish you were dead.

Mumbling as you walk,

We all hear you talk,

Like a schizophrenic homeless man,

Jesus, how did this happen?

Long, dirty hair and soiled clothes,

Long since Coke went up that nose,

Or Crack inside your veins,

Or Heroin or Pot,

But too late now,

Look what you’ve got,

Swiss Cheese Mind.

Utter joy in our one room place,

Wrinkles on your face,

Free Methadone for all!

Abundant opiates!

Stand in Line!

Be on Time!

Or get so sick

You’re back on the street

Begging for money to get your fix,

Got to get it quick,

Quick, quick,

Don’t want to get sick.

Now you’re done.

Another day at the clinic and all is well,

Death knell…

But you’re legally clean

As Methadone screams

Through you

And you grow one day older.

All is well.