You know, I'm a good sport, generally, but man...
My life is not normal anymore, I get that. Off and on, I get pains that run up and down my spine like I'm being shocked with electricity (or maybe that's from being forced to listen to Justin Bieber's latest single over and over. Yeah, okay, so I'm not going to make the mistake of picking up my 10-year-old's iPod again). And because of my many, many medicines, pizza now tastes like wet paper towels and the Kmart women's bathroom floor (which, considering what some of the casinos' pizza places offer up, it could actually be wet paper towels). No, no, it couldn't end there. No, I got a cherry on the cake of my day when for seemingly no reason I started villainously spewing sickness everywhere, and I do mean everywhere.
Here's the kicker, it had absolutely nothing to do with my illness, my many medicines, or anything related to it.
No, no... the reprobate in this case? A smug vending machine at my office.
I've never been a big fan of vending machines, mind you, but dude, when I'm working late, I'm not bundling myself up in scarves, coats, gloves, and a jaunty little hat just to go grab some heat-'em-up burrito from the nearest AM/PM - which "nearest" in my case is still an unpleasant hike - and especially not in this uncharacteristic Las Vegas weather. (We get all the bad indicators of impending snow, but none of the delightful actual product. I get to spend 15 minutes in the morning shaving ice off my car windows with an over-the-limit credit card [do you think they'll give me a percentage off my monthly bill because their flaky card wouldn't hold up?] only to get a fever from exposure and a clear blue sky.)
Back to the vending machine.
I'm no fan of this particular vending machine because the dudes filling it are trying to get it taken away - I really believe this. Not only do they stock it with crap food, but it's crap food that's near its expiration date. Proof in point, I go down one morning to buy milk for my coffee, which I shouldn't be doing anyway because with all these new meds, I've gone from simply getting "the vapors" from drinking a glass of milk to being able to rehearse full orchestral pieces from my arse just from a nip of a Cheez-it. Be that as it may, I went down to grab me a carton and I find all but one container of the white stuff marked with expiration dates that are just two days down the road - both days of which are on the weekend.
Now let's all do that math in our heads quickly, shall we?
Two days....carry the one...take an undisturbed Friday... that's right, every single carton was due to expire while we were away for the weekend.
Nice...
Anyway, the whole office has been getting emails recently, telling us of the great demise of this vending machine. The chick sending the emails is channelling Sally Struthers with a small African boy on her lap staring greedily at the mayonnaise left over on her upper lip.
Well, today, I come in and realize my hoarded stock that I keep in my overhead cabinet is sorely depleted, so what little is in my empty tummy starts scratching messages on my stomach lining for me to send down neighbors. Hungry and with guilt ringing in my ears (I'm nothing if not a properly raised Southern girl with a dash of Southern Baptist), I be-bop it down to said vending machine.
Okay, so this is the part in the movie where the girl talking on the telephone starts saying, "What do you mean 'the call is coming from inside the house'?' as she starts walking up the stairs, into the killer's lair, and the entire audience starts screaming for her to turn back.
Yep....
I didn't turn back.
Instead, I heated then ingested some depressing Dale Earnhardt, Jr. chicken sandwich which was like a sad little backwoods knockoff of a Chick-fil-a sandwich, complete with equally sad little pickle.
(Just repeating this description makes me want to repeat what occurred just an hour later)
That's right, before an hour had even passed, I was trotting back to the women's bathroom because "I wasn't feeling right". And while I was trying to release some chocolate hostages, as my ever-eloquent husband is wont to say, I inexplicably began projectile vomiting.
Seriously.
In the middle of everything and with no warning. It was like they had put up a bull's eye on the back of my stall door and I was practicing for our new Olympic team.
So, of course, after the activities finally came to a halt, I packed everything up and started for home. This was due less to the fact of the vomiting than it was to the fact that my pants' legs were now delicately decorated in the loveliness that was now a wafting, yet haunting smell of my later afternoon activities.
Yeah, I reeked.
So, I left to come home and change and try to finish some work here.
Driving home, though, I got more and more pissed the more I careened down the streets. Why, pray tell? Why? Why get mad?
Because, as aforementioned...ain't I got enough? This disease... these medicines... these side effects.. what, that's not enough?
....apparently not.
But that's the way it is with us normal people, right? Every time you think this is all you can handle, another truck pulls up and dumps cement on your brand new car.
Not that I'm signing up for that....
So, for tonight, maybe I am just a little normal. A little. Or at least I get to pretend.
So, see, there is an upside. At least, that's my story... for now.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
F**ked Up Days Happen All The Time
Writing today seems nearly impossible. I don't know that I have it in me to even look at the pages. I've spent my day, buried in someone else's work, fixing it so it's readable. They appreciate my work, so it makes it easier to take in the fact that I'm tearing down and rebuilding someone else's words rather than creating my own.
I wrote an entirely different post that I gave a few moments pause to posting, but I decided against it.
It was neither funny nor inspirational. It was just sad. Deeply, deeply sad. And there's enough sadness. Just take a look at the news. Or inside Lindsay Lohan's house.
Chalk it up to a sucky, fuc*y day, and let it slide on down.
I leave it with this - I wish there were more people in my life who could look at me and believe in me, believe in what I had to say, rather than to disregard the truth and believe something that has no proof and no weight.
It broke my heart today to have no benefit, that loveliest of benefits, the one of doubt.
Benefit of doubt.
It is, isn't it? A great benefit.
Anyway, I have to get this finished or I will be stuck doing this work for the rest of my life.
THAT should be motivation enough. But it isn't. Oooh, look, the laundry's backing up again.
I wrote an entirely different post that I gave a few moments pause to posting, but I decided against it.
It was neither funny nor inspirational. It was just sad. Deeply, deeply sad. And there's enough sadness. Just take a look at the news. Or inside Lindsay Lohan's house.
Chalk it up to a sucky, fuc*y day, and let it slide on down.
I leave it with this - I wish there were more people in my life who could look at me and believe in me, believe in what I had to say, rather than to disregard the truth and believe something that has no proof and no weight.
It broke my heart today to have no benefit, that loveliest of benefits, the one of doubt.
Benefit of doubt.
It is, isn't it? A great benefit.
Anyway, I have to get this finished or I will be stuck doing this work for the rest of my life.
THAT should be motivation enough. But it isn't. Oooh, look, the laundry's backing up again.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Twilight did what...?
(This was supposed to be posted 2 days ago... yeah, this blogging this is already a flaming success...grr...)
For the last few days, Olivia (my ten-year-old daughter) and I have been sick with the latest round of the loveliness that is The Flu. I stayed home originally to take care of her and then to take her to the doctor, but by the time we made it in, she and I were vomiting in complete synchronization. There was such clarity to it, I thought we might suggest an event to the Olympic committee, however that would have meant tearing myself out of bed, which by 4pm was impossible.
Instead, we laid in bed, sleeping while the tv played random HBO and Showtime movies throughout the day. I woke up around 4 am on one of these mornings to New Moon from the Twilight - The Emo Years series.
For those who haven't seen it, it's this very moody misty gray to-doing about very moody misty gray teenagers and a few people posing as teenagers. I watched with my eyes half-caked with sick crust and a haziness to the world around me. Funnily enough, between where my little sicky head was and what was being projected, everything felt like it melded together in this druggy melted collage. In this dreamy state, I let myself listen and experience all things that are Twilight without pooh-poohing it, as I might have done if fully awake. And as much I want to hang myself for now being forced to say so, I found the answer to one of my problems in my novel.
I have had difficulty getting the actual story line of my book written out. Partly, I've had this problem because I've forgotten what it's like to be 17. So much happened in my life since then - not to mention there's a lot that I don't want to actually remember - that I haven't been able to grasp what it was like not to have to work, to wake up and only worry about how I was going to wear my hair (and making sure I wasn't repeating myself over the last 2 weeks), to be excited about seeing that guy near my lockers, that guy that laughed the way that made me want to dance and vomit all at the same time. I just forgot the simplicity and the complexity of it all.
One of the things I also started with was an old trick of mine - writing backwards. This isn't where you go all Beautiful Mind on the world and start writing gibberish that only makes sense to farm animals and Hawking's nurse.
Basically, I start with the event where I wanted to end up, then I go backwards to the chapter before it and write that. Then the one before that and on and on. It's a trick my uncle taught me about mazes. He said, "Start at the Finish Line. Know where you want to go and then figure out how to get there by going backwards." It works every time - in mazes and in writing. I'm not kidding. Seriously, never challenge me to a maze race on a restaurant placemap - I'm that good.
Anyway, so it's a start. A good starts...
Oh, wait, I have to go. Pretty in Pink is on I have to wash my brain...and I love me some Duckie.
For the last few days, Olivia (my ten-year-old daughter) and I have been sick with the latest round of the loveliness that is The Flu. I stayed home originally to take care of her and then to take her to the doctor, but by the time we made it in, she and I were vomiting in complete synchronization. There was such clarity to it, I thought we might suggest an event to the Olympic committee, however that would have meant tearing myself out of bed, which by 4pm was impossible.
Instead, we laid in bed, sleeping while the tv played random HBO and Showtime movies throughout the day. I woke up around 4 am on one of these mornings to New Moon from the Twilight - The Emo Years series.
For those who haven't seen it, it's this very moody misty gray to-doing about very moody misty gray teenagers and a few people posing as teenagers. I watched with my eyes half-caked with sick crust and a haziness to the world around me. Funnily enough, between where my little sicky head was and what was being projected, everything felt like it melded together in this druggy melted collage. In this dreamy state, I let myself listen and experience all things that are Twilight without pooh-poohing it, as I might have done if fully awake. And as much I want to hang myself for now being forced to say so, I found the answer to one of my problems in my novel.
I have had difficulty getting the actual story line of my book written out. Partly, I've had this problem because I've forgotten what it's like to be 17. So much happened in my life since then - not to mention there's a lot that I don't want to actually remember - that I haven't been able to grasp what it was like not to have to work, to wake up and only worry about how I was going to wear my hair (and making sure I wasn't repeating myself over the last 2 weeks), to be excited about seeing that guy near my lockers, that guy that laughed the way that made me want to dance and vomit all at the same time. I just forgot the simplicity and the complexity of it all.
One of the things I also started with was an old trick of mine - writing backwards. This isn't where you go all Beautiful Mind on the world and start writing gibberish that only makes sense to farm animals and Hawking's nurse.
Basically, I start with the event where I wanted to end up, then I go backwards to the chapter before it and write that. Then the one before that and on and on. It's a trick my uncle taught me about mazes. He said, "Start at the Finish Line. Know where you want to go and then figure out how to get there by going backwards." It works every time - in mazes and in writing. I'm not kidding. Seriously, never challenge me to a maze race on a restaurant placemap - I'm that good.
Anyway, so it's a start. A good starts...
Oh, wait, I have to go. Pretty in Pink is on I have to wash my brain...and I love me some Duckie.
The Technical Writer (originally posted on 01-30-11)
Blogs...
bluh....
I've never been a big fan.
Seriously.
But, I got frustrated one night. For years, I've been calling myself a writer - and technically, I am. I am a technical writer. And I'm good at it. I've won awards. I've been hired at phenomenal rates. I've been courted by some of the most amazing places while I'm still working at an amazing place. There's art and creativity to what I do and generally, I'm given a lot of leeway.
But, the kind of writing that calls to me, is not this kind of writing. Instead, it's the same kind of writing that, even though I adore it, I generally run from it.
It's true. Stupid, but true. I have no idea why. I can sit down to 4 hours of nothing but lovely silence, a house, dripping in solitude. Construction stopped for miles around, children in school or in some playground where the Quiet Game is all the rage, and the animals even in our house are sleeping like they've pulling all-nighters at the Quad with their fraternity brothers and are sleeping one off.
Bliss.
This is what it looks like.
But no.
Suddenly, a yellow light seeps from under a door to my right. It twinkles and beacons. It wiggles its hips and gyrates like I've got a hundred bucks worth of ones in my pocket and it's gotta make rent by morning. That's right. It's my laundry.
Within second, my laundry becomes the most magical and delightful thing in the world and I must go to it instantly.
And don't kind yourselves into thinking, well, ya wench, why don't you just do the friggin' laundry and get on with your work. It doesn't work that way. No, everything - ANYTHING - is a distraction. I get this idea in my head that absolutely everything in the house must be perfect before I can sit down and allow myself to write. Clothes must be cleaned (as previously mentioned), rooms must be neat, beds must be made, walls must be painted, photos must be hung, drawers must be neatly arranged, the pantry must be labelled (and yes, I did stop typing mid-title to go tackle that very project, which ended up not only usurping my 4 hour window, but the following 3 days).
I've asked around to my other writer friends and apparently, I'm no different. We all do this on one level or another.
So, since this is not a mental disease or device that I can just wash away with two tablets of the latest drug and some water - at least that I'm aware of - I decided to start searching for ways to solve this problem. If nothing else, the search in and of itself would be yet another distraction.
One of the first things I did was to hop on the National Novel Writing Month project. I think it goes by a different name, but I'm way too lazy to look it up. (Okay, I looked it up anyway. That took at least 3 minutes, at least, the way I went about it. http://www.nanowrimo.org/. Suffice it to say, I was so competitive, I did my required 50,000 words way before the deadline, and rather than use the rest of the time to write more or to edit what I did, I just sat back and made plans about shellacking the kitchen cabinets. I didn't actually do the shellacking, I just made the plans.
Anyway, since I did actually get product from the process, I thought, you know there's something twisted about this but it might just work if I started framing my writing around self-imposed deadlines. Now, I don't know if competing against myself is going to work, but we'll find out.
Still, I'm not convinced. I mean, it did take me another 2 months to finally do this (though I had been planning with my friend, Val, to create a professional website for my writing career for the past year - yes, year - and still hadn't gotten further than 1 meeting into the project. [completely not his fault]).
So... now I start this.
Here are the parameters:
I've given myself until the end of 2011 to take my original 50,000+ words and all the scribblings I've done and put them all together and create a viable, solid first draft to send to my agent - the lovely and patient, Amy Rennert; who may actually not even remember my name by this point, considering the roller coaster I've taken her on.
If you want to know why I've given myself so long, I'll start all this by being completely honest.
I have two rare diseases (likely I will talk about them at various points, and by talk, I mean I will whine about them. I'll try not to, but it's hard sometimes. I'll try to edit my whining to a bare minimum, unless it adds to the story.).
I have Wegener's Vasculitus and some rheumatoid arthritis variation that interferes with, you guessed it, my writing.
I have to be realistic. There are going to be days when I won't be physically able to write. But I want to succeed and not make me want to crack my own head open with a iron pan, so I have to be reasonable.
So... journey along with me if you like.
I'm happy to read comments, especially those that are encouraging and even more so, those with questions. If you think I'm lame, please, don't write that. I'm already well aware of that and listen to that internal radio station every day of my life. I think Anne Lammott calls it KFKD, I don't need it in stereo, If it's constructive, I take that back. Ah, crap, I take that back, too. Write what you like. Maybe it'll get you started.
So... here we go. Wanna?
bluh....
I've never been a big fan.
Seriously.
But, I got frustrated one night. For years, I've been calling myself a writer - and technically, I am. I am a technical writer. And I'm good at it. I've won awards. I've been hired at phenomenal rates. I've been courted by some of the most amazing places while I'm still working at an amazing place. There's art and creativity to what I do and generally, I'm given a lot of leeway.
But, the kind of writing that calls to me, is not this kind of writing. Instead, it's the same kind of writing that, even though I adore it, I generally run from it.
It's true. Stupid, but true. I have no idea why. I can sit down to 4 hours of nothing but lovely silence, a house, dripping in solitude. Construction stopped for miles around, children in school or in some playground where the Quiet Game is all the rage, and the animals even in our house are sleeping like they've pulling all-nighters at the Quad with their fraternity brothers and are sleeping one off.
Bliss.
This is what it looks like.
But no.
Suddenly, a yellow light seeps from under a door to my right. It twinkles and beacons. It wiggles its hips and gyrates like I've got a hundred bucks worth of ones in my pocket and it's gotta make rent by morning. That's right. It's my laundry.
Within second, my laundry becomes the most magical and delightful thing in the world and I must go to it instantly.
And don't kind yourselves into thinking, well, ya wench, why don't you just do the friggin' laundry and get on with your work. It doesn't work that way. No, everything - ANYTHING - is a distraction. I get this idea in my head that absolutely everything in the house must be perfect before I can sit down and allow myself to write. Clothes must be cleaned (as previously mentioned), rooms must be neat, beds must be made, walls must be painted, photos must be hung, drawers must be neatly arranged, the pantry must be labelled (and yes, I did stop typing mid-title to go tackle that very project, which ended up not only usurping my 4 hour window, but the following 3 days).
I've asked around to my other writer friends and apparently, I'm no different. We all do this on one level or another.
So, since this is not a mental disease or device that I can just wash away with two tablets of the latest drug and some water - at least that I'm aware of - I decided to start searching for ways to solve this problem. If nothing else, the search in and of itself would be yet another distraction.
One of the first things I did was to hop on the National Novel Writing Month project. I think it goes by a different name, but I'm way too lazy to look it up. (Okay, I looked it up anyway. That took at least 3 minutes, at least, the way I went about it. http://www.nanowrimo.org/. Suffice it to say, I was so competitive, I did my required 50,000 words way before the deadline, and rather than use the rest of the time to write more or to edit what I did, I just sat back and made plans about shellacking the kitchen cabinets. I didn't actually do the shellacking, I just made the plans.
Anyway, since I did actually get product from the process, I thought, you know there's something twisted about this but it might just work if I started framing my writing around self-imposed deadlines. Now, I don't know if competing against myself is going to work, but we'll find out.
Still, I'm not convinced. I mean, it did take me another 2 months to finally do this (though I had been planning with my friend, Val, to create a professional website for my writing career for the past year - yes, year - and still hadn't gotten further than 1 meeting into the project. [completely not his fault]).
So... now I start this.
Here are the parameters:
I've given myself until the end of 2011 to take my original 50,000+ words and all the scribblings I've done and put them all together and create a viable, solid first draft to send to my agent - the lovely and patient, Amy Rennert; who may actually not even remember my name by this point, considering the roller coaster I've taken her on.
If you want to know why I've given myself so long, I'll start all this by being completely honest.
I have two rare diseases (likely I will talk about them at various points, and by talk, I mean I will whine about them. I'll try not to, but it's hard sometimes. I'll try to edit my whining to a bare minimum, unless it adds to the story.).
I have Wegener's Vasculitus and some rheumatoid arthritis variation that interferes with, you guessed it, my writing.
I have to be realistic. There are going to be days when I won't be physically able to write. But I want to succeed and not make me want to crack my own head open with a iron pan, so I have to be reasonable.
So... journey along with me if you like.
I'm happy to read comments, especially those that are encouraging and even more so, those with questions. If you think I'm lame, please, don't write that. I'm already well aware of that and listen to that internal radio station every day of my life. I think Anne Lammott calls it KFKD, I don't need it in stereo, If it's constructive, I take that back. Ah, crap, I take that back, too. Write what you like. Maybe it'll get you started.
So... here we go. Wanna?
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