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This evening, I am writing the chapter on procrastination. It says so right there on my color-coded, time sensitive Excel chart. Note: Please refer to the chapter entitled ‘Outlandish Outlining’ located in this book. See? Right there. Job, water aerobics, write chapter on procrastination under the column titled ‘next chapter’. But first I have to go fix dinner. I’m always starving after a swim. I’ll be right back.
There’s that’s better. Two burger patties with cheese and tomato. No bread, no mayo. Those aerobics classes are too expensive to blow. I also put the dishes in to soak and started a load of laundry. Now what was I writing about? Oh yeah, procrastination.
I don’t know why the universe gives writers the talent to create whole worlds in their heads and transfer those worlds through words onto the page (or screen) then puts obstacles in our way. Wait. I have to go move the laundry into the rinse cycle (hand washing my delicates saves on trips to the coin laundry, giving me more time to write).
Okay, I’m back. I really hate cold dish water with hamburger grease floating on top. So once the universe shows us our talents and shows us a way to use those talents for good, it turns evil and addicts us to writing. Because if we don’t write (and when we’re not writing, we’re worrying about not writing and writer’s block), the worlds inside our heads expand until we think we’ll explode if we don’t get them out (I once found a whole cabin on my pillow where it had leaked out of my ear, talk about a hard stain to wash out by hand) but just as the flow gets going … the phone rings.
Sorry. Mom. We all have one but I did hang up … the laundry. Back to expanding heads (not to be confused with the vainglorious (conceited) actions of finally being a published author). For those non-writers out there, think of the urge to write like the urge to have sex. You’re not going to die if you don’t get some but you’ll feel like you want to. If you haven’t had really-good-get-naked-roll-in-the-mud-sex for awhile, your body knows you need it, knows it’s good for you and fun to do. So your body is going to keep putting the pressure on until you’re so horny even the guy downstairs is starting to look good. Ah … the mailman is here.
Now, here’s another problem. The mailman (wonder if he’s married, in a relationship or gay) just delivered three Netflix discs of a television show I’m trying to catch up to the current episode of. That’s nine hours of viewing or nine hours of writing. I might have been able to do my homework in front of the television (Hi Dad) years (decades) ago but I no longer have the attention span to watch television and write at the same time. If I try, it overloads some of the circuits in my brain, the written story doesn’t make sense and I have no idea what’s going on in the show. (And the guy downstairs was getting his mail. Forget what I said about him looking good. Anyone who still reads ‘Happy Hippy Gardening at its Best Magazine’ while living in an apartment with no garden let alone a yard isn’t datable material. Oh, shit. Wonder if he ever checks out my … mail.)
See what I did right there? I procrastinated from my writing by writing something completely off subject. It’s still writing but it doesn’t release the pressure like writing the story does. Equate it with a hand-job orgasm versus naked-sex-in-the-floor-with-a-real-person-while-watching-porn orgasm.
Another great distraction of mine is creating schedules and lists and spread sheets of what I’m supposed to be writing instead of creating schedules and lists and spread sheets. Yet all the-best-way-to-overcome-procrastination-advice suggests you should be organized and keep to a schedule. They never tell you, you have to schedule time and have the motivation to create the schedule that’s going to stop you from procrastinating.
What? Sorry, I was changing all the screen savers and desktop pictures. Speaking of schedules, another way I goof off is by trying to pick a project (all of which are listed, alphabetized, grouped and color-coded). I can’t write the third book in the series until I go back and read the first two and take notes (and wonder what the hell that editor was thinking). I can’t write the second one of another series because nobody understood the first one so I’m sure to lose them completely if I try another one. On and on it goes until I am the one lost. I will confess I have dropped slips of paper with project ideas written (does that count as writing?) on them in a bowl and swear whatever one I pull out will be the one I work on until I finish or die. Shut eyes, reach in, stir, pick, unroll paper and peek. Good. Do that one right there before anything else no matter what … except … first I have to do the research into why the mallard ducks of the Shenandoah Valley no longer migrate because that subject might come up between the two main characters for a whole paragraph halfway through the book. And trust me, research always leads to procrastination. Like the Mallard duck page mentions mating rituals which once again reminds how long it’s been since I had … wow … look at that painting of a duck. My dad would love that for his birthday. Wonder if the artist has a web page?
Weekends are the worst for me. Friday evening, I look out and see forty-eight glorious hours to be creative. Just me and the laptop and a big bowl of popcorn but that popcorn sure would go down nice while watching that movie I’ve been putting off seeing until Netflix sent me a sympathy email. And it is only Friday. I have all of Saturday and Sunday to write. After that one more movie, one more book (because its due date is up and it’s not sympathy cards the library sends) or one more computer game, I come back to consciousness find the weekend has disappeared.
But not this time. This time I’m going to knuckle down (whatever that means … (Hi Mom) … my knuckles are up when I’m typing) and get some real work done. Television, cable, DVD player and VCR remotes (yes, I still have one) are all hidden in four separate hard to reach locations? Check. Phone off? Check. Chores done? Check. Snacks, beverage, cigarettes, lighter and ashtray? All present, loaded and accounted for. Laptop up and running and Internet off? Check. Notes, folders, pens and writing-companion-teddy-bear named Timothy (I don’t know, he just looks like a Timothy) all within reach? Check. Then hop to it.
But it’s too quiet. It’s so quiet I can hear the ice melting in my drink and the fan running in the laptop. It’s so quiet I can hear myself breathing and the thumps and bumps from downstairs (I don’t even want to think about what he could possibly be doing down there to make those noises). So I turn on some rock music. No … too fast and I can’t think for singing along. Maybe some classical. No … too slow and I’m falling asleep (and sounding like Goldilocks). Light rock renditions with no vocals (elevator music)? Perfect except some part of my brain is still singing along but not as loudly as before. (Where the hell did this CD come from anyway?) Now to write … but it’s too hot. So I turn in my chair and open the window. Ah much better but … wait … what is this? I stick my head out the window to find the guy downstairs has driven his beat-up pickup through what tiny yard we do have right up to his dining room window (directly below mine) and he’s unloading bags of potting soil in through the window. Oh cool, a real crime to investigate and think what a great story it will make (if I ever get around to writing it). I lower the laptop lid, switch off the lights, turn off the music and grab my digital camera (that takes videos if I can figure out the right button), wedge myself in the window frame, point the camera and at the last second hope I remembered to turn the flash off.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Health Insurance
I recently reviewed my options on my health insurance and no, damn it, they won’t pay for counseling so I get to continue to live with all these characters in my head until I take the time to write them out in stories instead of messing around on the blog. But wait … what is this farther down the page? My insurance company will pay up to $250 for an ambulance. That’s cool and good information to have but … after I read the fine print I find out they will only pay $100 of an emergency room visit. Now think about this. If I’m in an ambulance, guess where they’re taking me and they’re going to make out better than the emergency room. It’s not as if the guy taking my pulse is really cute and I can suggest stopping by the local coffee shop for a latté. And by the way … my local rescue squad is volunteer-based and doesn’t charge.
Dating Websites
A view of a profile is like:
A sensual smile across a smoky bar that evaporates into the night.
A brush of the hand across the back of the shoulder while passing behind.
The lingering scent of cologne in an empty hall.
Being added as a favorite is like:
Sitting on the bench, you've made the team but might not get to see any action.
Being part of the harem. Was that every third Thursday or every other fourth Friday?
Making it to the front lot of the car dealership, closer but that other one over there has bigger headlights and lower mileage.
Getting one of those cute little Gifs:
Okay, I confess, I think they’re cute, romantic and fun.
Being rated is like:
Just rude.
Adding as a friend is like:
He likes me but not as a potential mate?
Friendship is an important part of any relationship.
You can never have enough friends.
Receiving a wink is like: Confusing
Is that like a wink from across a crowded room and he would like to meet me?
Hubba hubba or come hither?
He’s agreeing with something written in the profile?
Does winking back mean joining some unwritten mating ritual or just open the door to conversation?
There’s something in his eye?
Getting an email is like:
Oh wait … I wouldn’t know.
A sensual smile across a smoky bar that evaporates into the night.
A brush of the hand across the back of the shoulder while passing behind.
The lingering scent of cologne in an empty hall.
Being added as a favorite is like:
Sitting on the bench, you've made the team but might not get to see any action.
Being part of the harem. Was that every third Thursday or every other fourth Friday?
Making it to the front lot of the car dealership, closer but that other one over there has bigger headlights and lower mileage.
Getting one of those cute little Gifs:
Okay, I confess, I think they’re cute, romantic and fun.
Being rated is like:
Just rude.
Adding as a friend is like:
He likes me but not as a potential mate?
Friendship is an important part of any relationship.
You can never have enough friends.
Receiving a wink is like: Confusing
Is that like a wink from across a crowded room and he would like to meet me?
Hubba hubba or come hither?
He’s agreeing with something written in the profile?
Does winking back mean joining some unwritten mating ritual or just open the door to conversation?
There’s something in his eye?
Getting an email is like:
Oh wait … I wouldn’t know.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Write Way
I’ve discovered through years of trying that I write in two very different ways. Rarely, (like two percent of the time … ah damn it … math) stories come through my head and fingers as if I just sat down and read the book. Word follows word to form sentences and paragraphs and chapters. I can put it down and walk away (and it leaves me alone while I’m gone) then come right back and pick it up on the word I stopped at and go on from there. There’s no frustration or turmoil and these stories are a joy to write. I say rarely because it is uncommon for a story to come to me in this structure.
Normally, (ninety-seven percent of the rest of the time, leaving a whole percentage missing) there is a nugget of an idea (an independently wealthy detective who secretly runs a halfway house out of an old motor court motel for unsuccessful prostitutes) then scenes, settings, dialogues, characters and plot twists all start crowding into my head at the same time. Sometimes I can’t write fast enough to get it all down before I lose it and trust me, once I forget it, it never comes back. (Maybe that’s where my New York Times Bestseller List novel went.) Note: Please refer to the chapter titled ‘Outlandish Outlining’ located in this book. And it doesn’t stop when I need it to. I can be driving home from work in traffic when a voice will speak up from the backseat. (Just for the record, I’m alone in the car.)
“Don’t you think I’d look better dressed in jeans, boots and a really tight sweater instead of this three-piece suit? I don’t think suits are really my thing.”
“Look, I made you up and then dressed you in a very nice, very expensive suit that I really couldn’t afford, that shows you have money even though you’re working as a detective so how can suits not be your thing?”
“Do you know how many times the rich-guy-works-at-menial-job-to-make-the-world-better has been done? I just think I’d look better … and sexier (bribery) … in jeans that show off my butt. I could be the maverick that goes against the norm.”
“Being a detective is not a menial job. They work long hours dealing with the worst human beings can do for little pay and no respect and … okay, it is a menial job. And this is not a western. I don’t do westerns because I don’t know enough about them to do them and the research (and hours of watching Bonanza) would take too long. I haven’t written your butt so it does not exist … yet.”
Then from the front passenger seat a blond responds (I can’t see her but she sounds blond) voice. “I’ve done him and I’ve seen his butt and you always write men with cute butts and I hope you see that tractor and trailer. It would look much nicer in jeans.”
“The tractor and trailer would look much nicer in jeans and who the hell are you?” (I am not buying a bigger car for all these people.)
“His ex-girlfriend and I think …”
I answer and I’m pretty sure I sound stressed. “I don’t have a storyline (or room) for an ex and once past a certain age girlfriend just sounds high schoolish.
“Spell check says ‘schoolish’ isn’t a word,” he points out.
(Yeah, I can see that big red line.) “Well, it should be. You have exes?”
“Oh honey, everybody has exes.” Now he’s bragging. “If I didn’t have exes I wouldn’t be so good in bed. He’s signaling he wants over. If you didn’t drive so slowly, tractor and trailers wouldn’t pass you.”
“If I didn’t have imaginary non-existent whiny people in the car distracting me, I would drive faster. Don’t call me honey and there is no proof you are good in bed.”
“No, she wouldn’t. I’ve ridden with her before and she always drives this slow.” I hear sounds of popping and finally identify it as bubblegum. I’m wondering just how far in the past she’s his ex. “He wasn’t that great in bed until I taught him a thing or two.” A loud silence comes from the backseat. “And there is no good word for girlfriend. Lover makes it sound too strong, partner makes it sound too gay, fiancée (how do you make a computer type that little thing over the e?) makes it sound like slavery, soul mate makes it sound too wishy-washy spiritual (and permanent), life partner is just hokey and domestic partner means he didn’t wash the laundry. I think you could work me in, in a flashback.”
“I hate flashbacks and why would you be riding with me if he didn’t exist before you came along to be his ex in the past in the first place.” I’m getting a headache. Time warps and flashbacks always give me headaches.
“They give you headaches because you don’t know how to use them properly.” He jumps back into the conversation after the blow to his sexual prowess just to be criticizing and I think he’s reading my mind.
“Of course, I’m reading your mind. I live in your mind. A good flashback can …” he stops talking as another truck blows the cigarette ashes off my side view mirror (don’t ask).
This is the end of the end. A character is giving me writing advice.
“Sort a like you and condoms,” says bubblegum blonde.
“What?” he asks, expecting another shot at his manhood and he would be right.
“You didn’t use them right,” she accuses.
“You’re the one that put it on me that night at the bowling alley. You’re the one who pretended to be pregnant.”
“I wasn’t pretending.” Now she offended. “I was mistaken. You couldn’t detect your way out of a …”
“No, you were wrong. Anyone who trusts the pregnancy test they bought at a dollar store.”
“Is that where the condoms came from?”
“Excuse me.” That’s me trying to regain control. “What does any of this have to do with my story? Bowling alley? Even I’m not kinky enough to imagine having sex in a bowling alley. They sell pregnancy tests at the dollar store?” I shop there but haven’t had need of one of those for awhile, emergency or otherwise (and that’s not because of my age).
“Speed up. That light’s about to change and you can make it.” Him again being a man and a backseat driver.
I stop at the yellow light, turn the music up loud to drown them out, hope no one in the car beside me heard the conversation through the open window and if they did they thought the reason my mouth was moving is because I am singing along with the song.
*
“Can she hear us?”
“No, but keep the emotion down or she will pick up on that and she’s about to get on the interstate and you know how much she hates to merge.”
“I hate rock. Can’t you get her to switch to country?”
“No.”
“Is all you can say is ‘no’.”
“No.”
“Wait. You run a what?”
“What?”
“Back up there on the first page of this blog …”
“Essay. Chapter. Installment. Think piece.”
“… Blog. It says you run a halfway house in an old motor court motel for unsuccessful prostitutes in parentheses.”
“Before moving from Vice to Homicide, I got drawn in with women trying to escape from that way of life. I bought them the motor court where they live and run a custodial company where I am a silent partner and my ladies don’t do parentheses.”
“The one writing this does. I’ve never seen so many. Maybe she’s trying to separate herself from us with little miniature fences.”
“Little and miniature mean the same thing. She’s trying to let the reader hear the writer’s hidden thoughts.”
“This whole book is her hidden thoughts so why hide them. Probably won’t sell. You took women away from sex for money and gave them cleaning toilets for money? Yuck.”
*
Normally, (ninety-seven percent of the rest of the time, leaving a whole percentage missing) there is a nugget of an idea (an independently wealthy detective who secretly runs a halfway house out of an old motor court motel for unsuccessful prostitutes) then scenes, settings, dialogues, characters and plot twists all start crowding into my head at the same time. Sometimes I can’t write fast enough to get it all down before I lose it and trust me, once I forget it, it never comes back. (Maybe that’s where my New York Times Bestseller List novel went.) Note: Please refer to the chapter titled ‘Outlandish Outlining’ located in this book. And it doesn’t stop when I need it to. I can be driving home from work in traffic when a voice will speak up from the backseat. (Just for the record, I’m alone in the car.)
“Don’t you think I’d look better dressed in jeans, boots and a really tight sweater instead of this three-piece suit? I don’t think suits are really my thing.”
“Look, I made you up and then dressed you in a very nice, very expensive suit that I really couldn’t afford, that shows you have money even though you’re working as a detective so how can suits not be your thing?”
“Do you know how many times the rich-guy-works-at-menial-job-to-make-the-world-better has been done? I just think I’d look better … and sexier (bribery) … in jeans that show off my butt. I could be the maverick that goes against the norm.”
“Being a detective is not a menial job. They work long hours dealing with the worst human beings can do for little pay and no respect and … okay, it is a menial job. And this is not a western. I don’t do westerns because I don’t know enough about them to do them and the research (and hours of watching Bonanza) would take too long. I haven’t written your butt so it does not exist … yet.”
Then from the front passenger seat a blond responds (I can’t see her but she sounds blond) voice. “I’ve done him and I’ve seen his butt and you always write men with cute butts and I hope you see that tractor and trailer. It would look much nicer in jeans.”
“The tractor and trailer would look much nicer in jeans and who the hell are you?” (I am not buying a bigger car for all these people.)
“His ex-girlfriend and I think …”
I answer and I’m pretty sure I sound stressed. “I don’t have a storyline (or room) for an ex and once past a certain age girlfriend just sounds high schoolish.
“Spell check says ‘schoolish’ isn’t a word,” he points out.
(Yeah, I can see that big red line.) “Well, it should be. You have exes?”
“Oh honey, everybody has exes.” Now he’s bragging. “If I didn’t have exes I wouldn’t be so good in bed. He’s signaling he wants over. If you didn’t drive so slowly, tractor and trailers wouldn’t pass you.”
“If I didn’t have imaginary non-existent whiny people in the car distracting me, I would drive faster. Don’t call me honey and there is no proof you are good in bed.”
“No, she wouldn’t. I’ve ridden with her before and she always drives this slow.” I hear sounds of popping and finally identify it as bubblegum. I’m wondering just how far in the past she’s his ex. “He wasn’t that great in bed until I taught him a thing or two.” A loud silence comes from the backseat. “And there is no good word for girlfriend. Lover makes it sound too strong, partner makes it sound too gay, fiancée (how do you make a computer type that little thing over the e?) makes it sound like slavery, soul mate makes it sound too wishy-washy spiritual (and permanent), life partner is just hokey and domestic partner means he didn’t wash the laundry. I think you could work me in, in a flashback.”
“I hate flashbacks and why would you be riding with me if he didn’t exist before you came along to be his ex in the past in the first place.” I’m getting a headache. Time warps and flashbacks always give me headaches.
“They give you headaches because you don’t know how to use them properly.” He jumps back into the conversation after the blow to his sexual prowess just to be criticizing and I think he’s reading my mind.
“Of course, I’m reading your mind. I live in your mind. A good flashback can …” he stops talking as another truck blows the cigarette ashes off my side view mirror (don’t ask).
This is the end of the end. A character is giving me writing advice.
“Sort a like you and condoms,” says bubblegum blonde.
“What?” he asks, expecting another shot at his manhood and he would be right.
“You didn’t use them right,” she accuses.
“You’re the one that put it on me that night at the bowling alley. You’re the one who pretended to be pregnant.”
“I wasn’t pretending.” Now she offended. “I was mistaken. You couldn’t detect your way out of a …”
“No, you were wrong. Anyone who trusts the pregnancy test they bought at a dollar store.”
“Is that where the condoms came from?”
“Excuse me.” That’s me trying to regain control. “What does any of this have to do with my story? Bowling alley? Even I’m not kinky enough to imagine having sex in a bowling alley. They sell pregnancy tests at the dollar store?” I shop there but haven’t had need of one of those for awhile, emergency or otherwise (and that’s not because of my age).
“Speed up. That light’s about to change and you can make it.” Him again being a man and a backseat driver.
I stop at the yellow light, turn the music up loud to drown them out, hope no one in the car beside me heard the conversation through the open window and if they did they thought the reason my mouth was moving is because I am singing along with the song.
*
“Can she hear us?”
“No, but keep the emotion down or she will pick up on that and she’s about to get on the interstate and you know how much she hates to merge.”
“I hate rock. Can’t you get her to switch to country?”
“No.”
“Is all you can say is ‘no’.”
“No.”
“Wait. You run a what?”
“What?”
“Back up there on the first page of this blog …”
“Essay. Chapter. Installment. Think piece.”
“… Blog. It says you run a halfway house in an old motor court motel for unsuccessful prostitutes in parentheses.”
“Before moving from Vice to Homicide, I got drawn in with women trying to escape from that way of life. I bought them the motor court where they live and run a custodial company where I am a silent partner and my ladies don’t do parentheses.”
“The one writing this does. I’ve never seen so many. Maybe she’s trying to separate herself from us with little miniature fences.”
“Little and miniature mean the same thing. She’s trying to let the reader hear the writer’s hidden thoughts.”
“This whole book is her hidden thoughts so why hide them. Probably won’t sell. You took women away from sex for money and gave them cleaning toilets for money? Yuck.”
*
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