Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
As I woke up this morning I could feel the cool, sticky dampness of my hair. The result of a feverish sleep induced by too many alcoholic drinks the night before. Then the storm troopers came stomping through, wielding their weapons through my head. Battering my memory cells into submission. Until the images of the night before began to run through my mind, like a movie I’d been dragged along to watch. I’d told everyone I was going to a writers workshop today, this year was the end of the goner I thought I’d become. I wasn’t even going to be a gunna, I was going to be a doer. The trouble was, after two red wines I’d convinced myself that I could handle anything. And the Hemmingway’s cocktails had been made especially for me.
I got up, still panicking about how I was going to find the time to sort out my straw like mop, whilst scolding myself for not going home earlier. I needed to look like a writer, whatever that was. Terrified that even if I rolled around in Barbara Cartland’s powder puff the seediness from the night before would still be leering through the pink clouds. I dragged myself into the shower, praying the lavender shower gel would cleanse my mind as well as my grubby enclosures. A good scrub of my cave parts would surely make me feel like the respectable human I am, worthy of sitting amongst other gunnas, or at least help me to fake it through the day.
The remnants of late night poker were scattered all over the lounge room. The closed blinds with a small chink of light leaving a musty impression over the room. I reached into the cupboard for my organic muesli and green vanilla tea. Transfusing the good girl intellectual thinker back into myself. I traipsed back to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My mouth felt like it had been on suction with a vacuum cleaner so powerful, it could suck up gum trodden in the carpet ten years ago. Teeth so gritty when my tongue rolled over them it received a free exfoliation. Teeth like ancient ruins. The toothpaste felt glorious, like a fluoride Taser gun.
I finally made my way to the workshop on the tram, leaving just enough time to make it. Reading The Age newspaper on the way, the last step in my cleansing ritual. With a shake of each page the aura of seediness became dimmer and dimmer. Getting closer to the venue the nerves started to take hold, questioning my belonging. I passed a sex worker standing in an eerie looking alley. It would be ok, I didn’t have to have sex with strangers.
On the journey home I reflected on the messages from the workshop. The fascinating and supportive participants, authentic and curious about each other. Not being perfect was the order of the day. And it was ok, I didn’t want to kill anyone…just entertain people. To be a doer might mean that I would have to ‘fail by daring greatly’ (Theodore Roosevelt). And, if I don’t get my arse out of this seat, I might just die before I make it. Metabolism grinding to a full stop. Found at my desk in my secret Dolly Parton ensemble, I’d be a goner, not a gunna.