Ideas pitch themselves at me like groupies trying to get backstage for a concert.
“Hold up, hold up,” I say, hands pumping them back. “Nobody’s getting let in tonight.”
Some protest, others sulkily turn away, and a portion questions my authority and calls me names.
But so you know, I heard you:
Idea: Talk about how much you love your parents.
Idea: Tell them no part of me wants to die; I love life.
Idea: Mention your houseplants.
Along these same lines, I recall a comment my cousin made (who’s also an author – Kaya McLaren, if you’re interested in feel good fiction) on a podcast I did regarding art. I don’t remember what she said exactly, but the gist was, “Some people vomit and call it art. They say, look at my art. And I say, no, that’s vomit.”
I guess what I’m saying is I try my best to clean up the vomit for you and spray a little Febreze in the air before you show up.
I also want to respect your time. That you’re reading this instead of doing anything else is no trivial thing to me.
I learned the importance of time from a man with little left. A man with a terminal illness. He told me, “I spent years of my life valuing money and getting enough for retirement. But now, all I want is more time.”
He taught me how time is a commodity, that it’s exchanged and spent just like money. And how ultimately it’s a gift.
So thank you for giving me your time.