Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Obsession is A Writer's Best Friend

When all else fails, obsess.

The heart of the matter is all else. I've bargained with myself. Reframed. Thrown fluffy pillows on the "writing" chair. Switched laptops (not purchased a new one, mind you; just shuffled a few around from underneath couches and such). Bought a new pencil and notebook. Recommitted. But I can't seem to finish the last damn book in my series. So, I have to obsess.

An incentive? Book cover mockup.
Writers who obsess get shit written.

Writers who obsess don't do the dishes (see last post).

Writers who obsess toss out every social invitation, forgo family obligations, lose a few bills, banish the 13-yr-old Golden Retriever to the backyard, ignore text messages, and don't see people for weeks on end. They grow hair where it's not supposed to. They drink too much wine and wear stinky socks (because y'all know I hate sorting them, and I may already do these things regardless of my word count). They forget they have kids to feed. They certainly don't check Facebook. They also don't blog about writer's block. For the obsessed, nothing gets done but the writing.

I NEED to obsess.

Okay, so I wrote 350 words on an airplane using my smartphone's "notepad" app while the folks next to me thought I was a little touched, trying to type a novel into a tiny damn screen on a smartphone with my index fingers. 350 words doesn't count. 350 words is paltry. I need 30,000.

I NEED to push this book out of my brain. Out of my life.

I NEED to obsess.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

Hello, Dishes

Thank god I waited until this morning to start a new post. Writing after drinking wine on a weekend night when the most exciting thing on the agenda is emptying the dishwasher probably isn't a good idea. Those are the times the f-bombs lob liberally from the ol' noggin. My goal here isn't to f-bomb you. We have enough violence in the world without me adding to it.

Ironically, I'm reading "The Book of Joy," a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu. The book is based on a week-long conversation between the two friends facilitated by a writer, who wrote a book about their discussion. A friend suggested it to me. Though it may sound ludicrous, these guys would make a good morning show. The Lama/Tutu Coffee Hour. Reset your life with advice from the enlightened.

Far from it, I can't claim to be enlightened yet. And, generally speaking, my thoughts assume bad patterns. Negative outcomes. Dwellings on the past. Doggy downers. Basically, a rewinding shitshow (sorry about the vulgarity, couldn't get through this post without one). The Lama/Tutu duo advise that in order to overcome the negativity: think more of others than yourself. And meditate (if you're a lama/Buddhist) or pray (if you're an archibishop/Christian). One main focus should be on compassion. And, in a chemical combo of these two -- caring and compassion -- you'll be a better, happier person.

I'll buy that. Let me take an ohm break. Ah, there, now on with the post.
Do you have enough?

Back to the mundane dishes. To reframe, the Lama/Tutu way would reconsider the dishes as a representation of abundance. I may have a pile of dirties, but in reality, the dishes show that I've been able to feed myself, my kids, the occasional doe-eyed pet. The dishes also show that there's an element of leisure regarding when I actually need to clean them, because I have a machine that can do the hard work in less than an hour. I don't have to spend a soggy session soaping, rinsing, and drying those dishes, because the dishwasher does most of the work. What a miracle. Most of the world doesn't have this luxury. So, in many ways, the dishes, piled high, crusty and gross, aren't deleterious at all. They are symbolic of privilege and the vast resources available to me.

That certainly puts a different light on those dishes. Does it put a different light on my life?

Yes ... and no. Living in a modern culture, all the trappings of cultural expectations (usually, consumer items) make feeling contented an impossible ideal. How can I feel contented when I don't have X, X, or X, like my neighbor, or co-worker, or that beautiful model in the ad? Admittedly, I consume far less of the "false feed of need" by not watching commercial television or clicking on every idiotic Facebook ad, but it's there, nonetheless. The message is loud and clear: You won't be happy until you do/have/become THIS (insert car, vacation, relationship, book, method, status symbol, coffee grinder, retro LP collection, etc.). Ack. How will we ever overcome the bombardment?

Well, I start with the obvious, which is recognizing the messages never end and are constantly incoming. And, they sometimes are quite sneaky, i.e., "Why, of course, I want to be healthier by doing that new supplement regime touted by Oprah!" (Remember acai?)  

And, I'll read the book. And, I'll reread the book. Maybe, I'll even start to meditate. Would that be reaching for X, too? Depends, I suppose, on what I meditate on. Perhaps, just on my abundant dishes.


Saturday, December 30, 2017

The Moment I Knew


I don’t remember my first kiss much. Or my first date. Or that boy with dark wavy hair in seventh grade who played the saxophone during band class. Okay, maybe I remember him a teensy bit. But I do remember the first time I wrote something and it gave me a thrill.

Let’s call it The Moment I Knew.

The Moment I Knew didn’t seem like any particular moment at all. At least, it didn’t at the time. In fact, it could have happened in sixth, seventh, or eighth grade. Some of the finer details are a little fuzzy now. What I do remember is locking myself up in my bedroom in Clinton, Missouri, pop. 3,600, and writing a story about a woman who had grown up without electricity. I had interviewed the woman to write an essay for a contest. The Rural Electric Cooperatives of Missouri were offering students the chance to win a trip to Washington, DC. Didn’t that sound special? To a girl from pop. 3,600 Clinton, MO, it sounded more than special.

I asked my parents and friends of my parents for ideas about whom to interview. Several of them suggested a woman who had a warm reputation in town, Mrs. Vansant, who was somehow related to the local funeral home owners. This seemed a strange detail to remember, but not when you’re a kid from pop. 3,600 Clinton, MO. In small towns, folks were known for their strangeness, as if they had a patch on their sleeves that they’d wear about town—to the grocery store (Country Market), the only burger joint in town (Mr. Swiss), and the roller rink (that played ‘60s music). Oh goodness, I never saw Mrs. Vansant at the roller rink. She was in her eighties.

I called and made an appointment to interview her. She lived only a few blocks from my house in a neat duplex. When I say neat, I mean well-kept and tidy, not neat as in cool. Cool as in hip, not cool as in cold. Hip as in … oh, you get the idea. I vaguely remember taking a tape recorder to the interview. It might not have worked. We talked for an hour, and she imparted the story of how in her youth, at about my age, electricity first came to her home and neighborhood.

Admittedly, the details of her story take a back seat to mine. My memory doesn’t include so much her story as the sheer joy I took in writing an essay about her that eventually won the contest. I probably waited until the night before the deadline to write the essay. Hey, I was still a kid then, not a writer. There’s a recollection of a stern look or two from my parents. But once I committed to the page, the words flowed.
Not mine, though I wish it were.


One word in particular stands out in my memory. My first dictionary at my side, I decided to look up a different word for “resident.” It sounded too pedestrian (that’s another way of saying normal). In my newly induced writer’s zone, I found a beautiful fresh word. Denizen. Look it up. I had learned a new word, and it made me fall in deep like with language.

The rest of the essay came together, probably after a first, second, third draft. Back then I had a crummy electric typewriter that didn’t have proper erasing capabilities. I recall a few smudges, perhaps a tiny eraser hole in the paper. But my most distinct memory is the joy of the process. It was The Moment I Knew—that I knew writing was a gift of mine. That whatever was causing such a great ah-ha was darn cool by me. It was thrilling, no exaggeration. The weaving of the story, the typewriter ribbon, and the clackity-clack-clack of the keys on the platen (that’s the name of the black round cylinder in an old typewriter), every part of it made me happy. Could the hum of a writing machine and the ease of crafting a story be so wonderful?

This euphoric epiphany (look it up) didn’t dawn on me until much later in life. The Moment I Knew has had time to grow in grand scale to what it actually was. It was fun. Plain. Simple. Fun. And here I am, still clackity-clack-clacking away, thirty-five years later, searching for that next cool word.