The Hieroglyphics of Notebooks

My first serious writings go back to childhood when I kept diaries and wrote letters by hand. I loyally (well, as much as a pre-teen can) wrote to various pen pals, like my grandmother, and then sporadically used small diaries, secured by tiny locks and keys. I was a better letter writer than a diarist. My early attempts at journaling in the diaries show my self-consciousness. It still feels self-indulgent to write about myself. But, welcome to my blog (ironic wink here😉).

What I appreciate about those early writings is the demarcation of time. My age, the date, my thoughts show where my head was at. You can image at 12: "No one will ever love me for X, Y, Z reason!" Ouch.

I stopped journaling in high school and college. It wasn't until about ten years ago that I took up writing to myself in random notebooks, but those were mainly to start the novel I couldn't get out of my head. I'd take the kids' abandoned Pokeman spiral notebooks from school and re-love them. Then friends, my husband, other writers, started giving me tiny journals. I have a nice collection. I didn't become suddenly prolific though. Maybe I became more diligent at jotting the occasional gem of an idea down. There was also an index card phase (which I've recently revived), and I was not above using a crayon.

By no means do I have an astounding collection of handwritten work. What I do have are snapshots of the past. They tell me who I was at a time when I was wondering who I was. Sometimes, more often than I'd care to admit, my writing didn't go much beyond "no one will ever love me" (no winking here).

Recently, I flipped through a notebook in my drawer and picked a nearly blank one to find a poem I couldn't remember writing and the title of a book, which I've since read. Both notes to myself were several years old, both a remembrance of what was going on then, the life stuff, the good and the bad. Ironically, I just mentioned the name of the book to someone and went on to describe the gist of the story, which was darkly dystopian.

My point is: notebooks are like hieroglyphics, and mine are a mirror. Sometimes it's nice to see your old self; sometimes I wish I looked different.

The Upside of the Downside

Make no mistake. We haven't hit bottom. If anything, these days feel like the calm before the real storm. When, similar to the autumn of 2008, the experts proclaimed the economy would meltdown, but we really weren't sure what that prediction meant. So, call this post the rose-colored-glasses or looking-at-the-bright-side version of a pandemic. First, let me clarify, the economic downturn is a tab in the file cabinet labeled: FATALITIES. For all the thousands (just in the U.S.A.) who have and will die, for the survivors, for the pain and suffering and the inability to succor and mourn properly, I commiserate in grief.

Here is where I find comfort: each day, the leaves have grown. The trees in my yard started six weeks ago without a leaf on them, and now they are full. I've watched the process every day, which I couldn't have witnessed had I been at my desk job. The leaves do not know the chaos undermining humanity.

And, my grass is mowed. Well, you might ask, isn't mowing something you always do? And, I will admit, not necessarily. I wanted to bring some structure to the chaos, and my yard guy was happy to take the job. He mowed the same day I called. In some ways, I felt a sense of duty to still use him. Give him an immediate focus and a check. He didn't say so, but the look on his face told me what went unsaid.

The sheets are clean on my bed. Again, you'll wonder again, is that any different than before? Yes, it is, because it was done out of a conscious need to nest. Nesting is the new overachieving. Clean sheets make the world seem better, even if it isn't. And, I've hung sheets and towels and clothes to dry on the clothesline. This seems appropriate. Because life has slowed down. I don't feel rushed. Haste is not on my calendar. The whir and thunk of the dryer may become a relic of the frenzied life of going-and-doing, and right now, those opportunities and obligations are far fewer.

Cat nap in a basket.

I receive a postcard now about once a week from a friend in Portland, Ore. We have begun a jovial correspondence. A distraction but a connection. The cards don't really say much but signal we are alive and haven't lost our marbles. You could easily lose them, you know. (Of course, you do.) Postcards are amazing at mental uplift. Would you like one? I'll send a few. Soon, you'll be waltzing to the mailbox in great anticipation.

And, of course, I have my three cats, Ollie (right), Fish, and Slayer. I won't wax on about my fondness for them. Anyone who has more than one in the house automatically qualifies as cat infatuated. And, who among us has not had a COVID nightmare? Well, this week, my dream was not a nightmare but a strange product of my feline domesticity. One of my cats spoke its first word: "Yes." Then I realized it had been speaking to me for quite some time. In full sentences, naturally. And in these unnatural times, odd has an entirely different meaning.

Birthdays Last Forever

This post is six in one. I'm one of those rare people who, as she ages, appreciates her birthdays more and more. They are a happy, motivating force. So, I've been writing short essays for my Birthday Week on Facebook the last few years. Here's the 2019 set. Enjoy!

Not Sucking

The day she removed the note from her refrigerator door reminding her not to suck—a note that met her each morning as she pulled the creamer carton from the clear plastic shelf knowing she would feed the cats first—she decided that “not sucking” was far too low a bar to set. The opportunities for an employed American woman with a low mortgage interest rate and a high credit score afforded her options much sweeter and exotic than surviving the day without feeling like she owed someone something or had screwed up that one important Thing-I-Will-Do.

No. She was not sucking. Not anymore. She was ! so ! not sucking that the conceit of the idea suggested a need for pity. Sure, she’d had her challenges: a dead husband, a steep learning curve into single parenthood, a stuttering career that had placed her in late middle age skating along the edge of under-employment. And her lovelife. Yes, the men. Sigh. How could she truly discern which of them didn’t suck, the few who had brought a minor twinkle to her eye. Hell, all she wanted was to be held and told “It’s not all going to suck.”

She was going to have to give the not-sucking pep talk to herself. No one else would do it less-sucky. It needed to come before her coffee. Before the cats. Before the shower for work. Before she dealt with the kids. Before she kissed the next man. Before she wrote yet another essay in third person. Before she opened the chapter to another year of not sucking. “No, my dear, you’re not sucking. Everything that could possibly suck, has. Now, get on with it. You’re fabulous.”

Dear Hands

Dear Hands:
Where have you been all my life? In front of me, that’s where, like a guiding, driving force. Can you remember holding anything for the first time? My mother’s finger in your tiny baby palm? And what about a Cheerio or your first ice cream cone? Mouth loved those so much.

Did you think holding Dad’s hand was special when you needed to get up and walk for the first time? Feet were always one step behind you. They would never hold a Crayon or shuffle a deck of cards.

And, then, one day, you wrote! It was you and Brain from then on—attached at the hip (haha). You were Brain’s tool. He told you what to write and when and how, and in your wish to comply, you wrote all those long handwritten letters to your great-great long lost aunt whom you never met and to your Gramma Mimi and to your cousin, whose letters you stuffed into small white envelopes and sent with God knows what inside.

You learned to write a lot of big words and to erase a few, too. No one was really looking at you or the rest of us either. It didn’t matter much whether we got any attention, and it didn’t make any sense to complain. It was easier to go to the cupboard for a cookie.

But, then, the typewriter!

Who was our first typing teacher? Maybe Mrs. Lane, a large Nordic-looking woman who gave us spiral-bound practice books to complete mindless exercises. Ff, Jj, Kk, Ss, and did you know there were so many other sentences that used the entire alphabet other than “The quick brown fox …”? Me neither.

You really were a showoff, Hands. You knew how to fly across those typewriter keys and kick the hell outta QWERTY. The IBM Selectric was a goddess of a machine. Maybe after her we just didn’t care for pencils anymore.

And then you got really snotty in college as the typesetter for the student newspaper. But Brain wouldn’t have it. He wanted YOU to write, not just decode everyone else’s writing for the weekly rag. Did typesetting feel like second-class citizenry? Never mind, because you turned into a journalist. Yet, come to find out, you weren’t quite fast enough at note-taking. The tape recorder took over your scribbling job. You spent years afterward as a glorified transcriptionist. Don't worry, we appreciated the effort.

Your dexterity came in handy later. When the smartphone showed up. Lord, what would we do without Thumb?! The master of all texting. A savior. A god.

Let me say, all that transcribing and gophering for Brain hasn’t quite been the pinnacle of your life. In fact, those things you wrote were third-string compared to the important stuff.

You held my babies and never failed.
Cuddled their precious new skin.
Nestled hunger against my breast.
Stroked tufts of hair freshly washed with Johnson & Johnson.
Delivered electric love with a fingertip on a teary cheek.

And wasn’t THAT something?
Something worth writing about.

(Thank you, Nina Hart, for inspiring Dear Hands!)

This Lil Monster Love

(Last year, after posting some of my Birthday Week essays, several friends commented that the pieces seemed kinda sad. That wasn’t my intention when I wrote any of them, and I assure you I’m not sad writing any this year. So, please don’t worry. I’m okay. I am. If anything, I’m 100% human. Always agitating for more. 😎)

The word—get—is not my favorite. It’s guttural and sounds like it’s picking a fight: Get XYZ. I need to get XYZ. If I don’t get XYZ, I’m coming to get you.

But, we don’t always get what we want, thanks Rolling Stones. Beyond food, clothing, shelter, the necessities, getting what we want all the time, all the way, just doesn’t happen. Let’s call those our Lil Monster Needs.

Lil Monster Needs will keep you up at night.

These Lil Monster Needs could fill a garbage bag a week. If you believe in religion, you might advise us, the keepers of the Lil Monsters, to go in peace. Peace be with you .. and your bagful of Lil Monsters. Drop them off along the street corners, maybe, in black Hefty garbage bags where they can slump next to the other bags o’ Lil Monsters in the neighborhood, forming rows of holes to be filled. Then, the garbageman might come along on his Monday route and find that he can’t fit all the Lil Monsters in the back of his dumpster. Where will they all go, still calling out to their owners, who can hear them quite crystally clear from their dining room tables next to the picture windows with the blinds closed?

One need in my bag calls out particularly strong from its pre-final-resting-place at the bottom of my driveway when I place it there each week. Its voice could travel a hundred-thousand miles or from a dirty ditch three counties over and be flattened by bulldozers five times a day and covered by a layer of dirt, but still I’d hear.

‘Feed me love,’ it says. And not just any kind of love, but an expansive, immortal love for which there may be no source. It is a hungry, greedy need—this Lil Monster Love—whose teeth have some mighty sharp ends. It knows how to get me. And maybe you, too.

Bury it where you’d like. It’ll find you anywhere you go.

Ghost Riders

Two years ago this week, I decided to reaquaint myself with bicycling. I’d been off my bike for about 15 years. Bicycling had become something I’d do at the beach or on a special outing. When I lived in Portland, the biking capital of the U.S.A., even then, I hadn’t been a serious rider. But I wanted to make a lifestyle change and contribute to Asheville’s shift toward becoming more bicycle-friendly.

It took a leap of faith to overcome my fears of biking in a hilly town where there aren’t a lot of bike lanes. Asheville’s population is about 91K and is surrounded by the Smoky Mountains, so it still has a lazy feel to it compared to Portland or Austin, Texas, cities that are often considered its contemporaries. Biking has been slowly taking hold here, and I’ve started riding at a time when a small but growing band of others are, too. In many respects, I see this as my effort to “be the change you want to see in the world.”

What I didn’t anticipate when this adventure started was how biking is both a solo venture and a ride-along. Not that I’m commuting with a bunch of folks or organizing group rides to promote the culture here. My companion riders aren’t really real. They’re all people—living and dead—and memories, just a few ghosts that tag-along in my head.

I’ll admit, the number of streets I’ve been on continues to expand and so do my ghost riders. Here’s one: my 12-year-old self, who used to ride from Franklin Street in Clinton all the way to Artesian Park for swim team practice. My old high school friend (now a ghost rider), Maria, and I made those trips together, and once I ran into the back of her bike and flattened her back tire. Her dad called me Crash Fulford after that. Thank goodness I haven’t lived up to that name. But pre-teen me is frequently on my rides.

One of my first ghost riders, obviously, was Daryl. He’s most vividly with me when I’m on a trail. There’s a short urban trail about a mile from my house, and almost every time I’m on it, I think of his last ride. He was mountain biking near Portland when he passed away. He became short of breath and stopped to rest. He sat down at a wooded spot and lost consciousness from heart failure. A friend, Ethan, was with him. He rides with me, too. For Daryl’s funeral, friends marked the spot on the trail by nailing a bracelet that Daryl had made to the tree he was near. It’s simply engraved “LIVE.”

A man I never knew, Ray, rides with me because I inherited his bike. He was a friend of a friend and a rider in Asheville, way before me, and he died not too long ago. I’d been searching for a commuter bike when I was told his family wanted to re-home his. I met his grown daughters shortly after his death. They had that look about them that I had when Daryl passed, stunned resignation. I was thankful for the affordable option their dad’s Diamondback gave me, and it’s been a solid bike on the street and gravel. Thank you, Ray. I appreciate the loaner.

Another tag-along, my daredevil side, also rides along. Darn it if I can’t shake the desire to speed. I always do my best to stay safe, but the thrill-seeker in me can get a little itchy. I ALWAYS wear a helmet and almost always a safety vest and carry lights in case the sun goes down. So, there’s that.

My teenage kids ride with me, too, in spirit, as do many friends, co-workers, and acquaintances who often want to know about my riding adventures. Riding a bike is an adventure for people who don’t. I always see something I wouldn’t if I were in my car. Just a few days ago, I saw a public mural I’d never noticed on a building in the middle of town. How could I miss it? Because driving just does.

I’ve been on hills and trails and sidewalks and bike lanes and neighborhoods and parks. When I’m in my car for other commutes, almost always I’ll drive down roads that I’ve now cycled on. My cycling has criss-crossed the city and its bumps.

One street in north Asheville passes by the location where Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, spent time in a home for mental health patients. It’s a scenic and hilly spot and not a place that anyone would necessarily say, “Let’s ride there.” It’s off the beaten path. And I always think: Wow, she lived here. She slept and ate and maybe wrote here. Though her husband earned the notoriety, she was also a tremendous writer and, from what I’ve seen of her work, had an incredible knack for words and story. Unfortunately, she also died in the institution during an accidental fire in 1948. I can’t help but wonder if maybe her ghost is sweeping across the grounds when I ride by. Out of deference, I nod my head occasionally. One free-thinking woman writer to another.

A Master

It's late and dark out, and I owe myself an essay. Not you, me. I want to write Birthday Week Essay #5 because it compounds the doing. Here’s where a self-reminder helps. The product of this week is not in the numbers—the word count or the days in a row that I can dash off something worth reading. I tend to become wrapped up in the product, the outcome. What do I have at the end? Something I can sell? Something I can point to of publishable quality in the competitive world of literary works? Something that drives my friends, family (you!) to buy one of my books? I’m not writing any of these essays for those reasons. I’m writing because of the love of the doing. I celebrate my life by doing this thing I love.

I’ve taken enough writing classes and practiced to a degree that I understand doing is good in and of itself. This is not the same as mastery. At one class years ago, with a best-selling memoirist (I may have the details wrong), the message she drove home was: the only way to become a master writer was to write for 10,000 hours. Where she got that figure, I don’t know. That comes out to be about 20 years of 40-hour work weeks. At that rate, I’ll never be a master writer. I’ll always be a doer.

In retrospect, what do we ever master when the bar is so high? For me? Naturally, there are a few things. Some good, some unfortunate:
Worrying, that evil energy-suck.
Breathing, thank God.
Eating, the great necessary indulgence.
Sleeping, though losing the skill to age.
Failing, this essay, perhaps.
Wanting, always always.
Caring, about my family, friends, the planet.
Hoping, never caving to the dark.
Learning, by the doing.

I’ll keep doing this, if you promise to keep doing the thing you love. What do you love? Go do it.

WWJFD

Remember that craze in the 1990s that had millions wearing rubbery bracelets marked with WWJD? The What Would Jesus Do? message essentially was: do good works and act morally as a demonstration of Jesus. I never quite caught the fever. But in the last few years, as I’ve navigated solo-mom duties and faced a lot of consequential decisions alone, I’ve come up with my own coping mantra: What Would Jack Fulford Do? Or, for short, WWJFD.

Jack Fulford, my father, happens to be salt-of-the-Earth stock whose moral and intellectual compass closely matches mine. I guess that shouldn’t be any surprise. All bias aside, I’ve come to understand that practicality and common courtesies are a little scarce these days. The world isn’t such a nice place on the other side of my front door. Now, you’re probably thinking: ‘She’s paying tribute to her father because that’s what a grateful daughter would do in some fashion once they meet a certain age.’ True, to some degree, and as I celebrate another birthday, my age does instill a smidgen of perspective.

Yes, I love my father. He’s a decent man with decent morals and a sense of wonder and a little bit of compassion that hasn’t been killed off by cynicism. But, he is human. He’s got his faults, too. He’s sometimes slow to motivate, more of a plodder than a sprinter on decisions and actions. He deliberates occasionally with the speed of Chicago rush-hour traffic. You just gotta wait it out. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t have his share of bright ideas that, when executed, tend to look a little impetuous to an outsider.

For instance, on a recent flight of mine into KC International Airport, he showed up in an old Honda Acura, having just bought it for the visit. It was an impulse buy, by most standards, out of convenience. Rather than haul me and his grandchild around Missouri in the cramped cab of his Chevy pickup with our baggage thrown in the truckbed, he’d opted for second-hand luxury. Family required a trunk and a backseat, so we piled in (albeit, after we stood for a good five minutes in the parking garage trying to figure out how to turn off the car alarm).

A year ago in July, Dad and I went on a two-day, two-night excursion on an Amtrak train across the West. We’d cooked up the idea after my first train trip earlier in the year. We both reserved sleeping berths that included meal service in the dining car. And from Denver to San Francisco, we basically spent the entire time talking. It was an unbelievably precious 48 hours. In those two days, we commiserated about the past, about politics, about books, about people, and the funny and tragic circumstances that glued our family together. We watched incredible scenery roll by and passed through historic locations (site of the Donner Party) and natural wonders (the Salt Flats). Pauses in our conversation, when we had any, were always a segue to a new subject. We smiled and laughed a lot and wondered with grave concern what the future would bring, for us, for our families, for our country. We met some interesting characters on the train, people we would have never encountered elsewhere (a young man who sang in the San Fran Opera and his artist girlfriend), and left each other with new stories to tell. Storytelling is a good skill to hand down. It centers you to your people.

Obviously, my gratitude for that trip is immense. For those of you who’ve lost your father, I am so incredibly sorry. This includes my own children, who will not have the opportunity to spend time with their dad in adulthood. For those of you who do not have a relationship with your father or parents, my well of sympathy runs deep. I am fortunate. Looking ahead, there are still plenty of blindspots. There’ll be more days of decisions that are tough and that I’ll feel ill-equipped to handle. But, I’ve got my backup. WWJFD.

~end~thanks~for~reading~

Earnest Aside: An Incomparably Beautfiul Line

Strands of thought today. My desk, I deny, is a reflection of inward misalignment. It is never clean. Papers stay unattended for too long. When I clear a space, within days another pile replaces the swept-away. My folders are reused, first labeled a month or a year or a decade ago, and re-labeled with a black marker, recycled but not renewed. It should be a sign of progress, new labels with new projects, and this is good. It feels instead like abandonment and a grasping for territory. Neat alignment. No neat alignment. Make sure the rows are even; the contents are not.

Writers write for different reasons. I wish I could say I've made peace with my motivation. Who wishes to be forgotten? Who wishes to be unloved? Remember me. Love me. Honorable motivation or sorry self-esteem? Eyes of the beholder.
See my desk unclean here. See the mind's folders stacked competitively side-by-side. Here is a streak of loveliness, a word next to a word next to a word, and together we proclaim them beautiful.

A beautiful line of prose is an elusive creature. I chase it. Can elusive be snared? I think I shall write an incomparably beautiful line sometime in my lifetime. End up in the Book of Quotations. Under the heading, incomparably beautiful lines. When I think of this, my thoughts go onto the body. Translation, beauty has a physical quality. Words have a physical quality. Read, and feel the affect they have on your pulse and temperature and erogenous zones. This includes the area behind your eyes, arguably the origination place. This is the experience of being alive. Words seep under the skin. They embed there.

Part of me wishes I did this writing thing for money. Maybe more for money than for admiration. A friend pleaded with me this week: Forget admiration. Get your books out. I want to agree with her. Want them out of my head and my body and into/onto someone else's. I reach for the folder that is labeled Grief. In it, I put my regrets, my misunderstoodness, my ego, my longing. Foremost, my indecision. I think this conflict has merit. 

The Myth of December

Cold weather is good for writing. It pulls your energy inside. A writer must hold in the heat during the winter, which is good for contemplation. I've experienced some of my most productive writing months in December, the season some writers claim is worthless. They must be of the mentality of a kindergarten teacher I knew long ago, who told me school was pointless in December because the kids were too hyped up about Christmas.

It's one day.

I think the longer hours of dark cause me to sit with myself and think more. Not that I think less in the spring, summer and fall. I simply have no excuse to go out much in the winter. Too cold. Whereas inside, I can write about summer (which I am, come to think of it) in my book. I'll have to fess up that I write sporadically. Every week, for sure, but not from 5a-9a every single day, or until I've written 1,000 words or 5 pages, or whatever the going quota might be per your favorite mentor. I'm shamelessly all over the place. I've tried to change my habits, but so far, no luck. I keep telling myself, 'When I make money at it, then I'll write like a professional.' But then someone reminds me of the chicken-and-egg scenario. To make writing into a living, I have to live like a professional writer right now.  

I do generally end the week with five good pages. This takes me about 4 hours of drafting and a few hours of editing and redrafting. Then I move on. I'm near the end, so close, to the second book in my Musketeer series. I'm actually enjoying writing the end because I know exactly where the story is headed and once I type the end, I live at least three days in utter euphoria.

What a great Christmas present to myself.

Then the revising starts. The real work begins. A draft is structure, a house with a skin on it, no windows or trim work or carpet. It's halfway. I don't mind. I squat in my unfinished work for a while, covering myself with the newspaper of my story. It makes a nice blanket this time of year.

Flash vs. Free

Flash fiction: write for a specific time/word count.

Free write: just write and don't look back.

Either way, it's open-road writing. Thinking lately of some lyrics where the words match so closely to one another, they demand active listening:

Walking down from home to unknown.
Working down my own to unformed.
Walk in, drowned for more to unfold.
Waking in down, holding my own.

Fun. Something there.

Reading, Writing

Back at it. Writing again after letting my MS rest. Feels good. If anything, persistence will see me through. Showing up. I'm showing up. Finished a wonderful book, still thinking about it. Leaving pens and paper around the house. Savoring early morning epiphanies that expand my plot. Those are sweet.

Finished! Not Quite

The draft is finished. At 12:20 p.m. EST yesterday, I wrote THE END.

I've been pushing all month, in part for NaNoWriMo, but also because I wanted to finish my novel, started 400+ days ago. I felt a little giddy near the end. (I kept proclaiming from the back bedroom where I dug in, "I'm almost done!") The last chapter, all of three pages, was an absolute joy. I danced some, sang some and had a party with friends.

Something I've thought about through this first novel is: if a person can think it, it can somehow be written. Transferring the sublties of human interaction is a huge part of the writing process. The story and plot are the wild part; getting it right in words is the hard work.

Today, I take a brief break. I woke up thinking about stories I want to write next. The fun starts, again.

Postcard from Home

It happened. Reality bumped in. Between job, kids, husband, bills, daylight savings, I didn't write yesterday, Day 10. The literary-abandon month dropped like a spent bottlerocket.

I moped some last night. I wanted to write, but the other voices in my life (not including my dog) said give it a break. I expected this to happen, but I'm not quitting. Re-saddling, today, very soon.

My month at the keyboard has been outstanding. I've written 42 pages and almost 10K words. Did I? I can hardly believe it. Better yet, I like most of it. Here's a short section that made me happy:

In the short windows of solitude, she daydreamed. The visions involved flight. Flight made possible with wings. She stood in a summer field, her body covered by loose, opaque gauze, the sky a blanket of invitation, and from a whirlwind, enormous wings unfolded from her shoulder blades. At times, the wings were brown and barred, on other occasions, red and speckled with yellow. Most often, the wings, spanning beyond her fingertips, were white.

In quick, repeated bursts, the intensity flattening the grasses, she lifted into the air between treetops and clouds. She soared steady, buoyed by the winds without fear of predators. From above, the world displayed its order and chaos. Fields and roads bordered by trees etched comforting patterns while thick forests and jutting coastline reminded her nature meant unpredictability. The contradiction of the view, of the order and disorder, lingered within her after the vision died, when she flew into the sun and burned to ash.

Finding the Creative Cow

No sacred cow exists of creativity. Just sit your butt down if you wanna write (or create). Or maybe, lie down, get drowsy and let your subconscious take over. It happens, you know, those moments of incredible, diamond-sharp revelations, right when you're sleepy.

Keith Richards talks about it in his new book Life. He was interviewed by Terry Gross about how he came up with the song Satisfaction. He sleeps with a tape recorder by his bed to capture the goodies. He doesn't even remember having taped the hook for the song. He woke the next morning, and there it was along with 40 minutes of snoring. Love it.

I've met others who mention something similar. I have writing tools handy by the bedsheets, and occasionally, I'll get an idea that's gotta go on the paper ASAP. But, frankly, I do best by showing up. Let me have the time, and it'll flow. I plot and it helps, but I've got to give it space.

A Shot of Something in My Coffee

Write, and be thwarted. Negativity follows writers, especially fiction writers, like an unshakeable head cold. Even (or should it be, especially) in the places where encouragement should be found. The NYT Book Review published this lead on a review, a good review, over the weekend:

"Just because something happened to you doesn't make it interesting. Anyone one who has suffered through an overly indulgent blog post or cocktail-party anecdote is familiar with this thought . . . "


Turn away now from my overly indulgent rant. God bless you, writers. Every last stinking, ego-maniacal, selfish one of you. The act of sharing is a thankless risk. The world doesn't need you, you know. The world needs more fissionable material and automatic handguns and racial rhetoric and toxic assets. We definitely need more religion and morals and pornography. And please, at least a score more talking heads and idiotic threads of user comments. So, writers, put your pens and keyboards away now. It's pointless.

Unless, big exception coming, there's room for something else. There might be room in the world for the small story you have inside. Whether it's insufferable or not. It could be one is and the next isn't. Write it. From it tumbles all sorts of possibilities. Personal fulfillment. Connection with people. Turning nuance into meaning. Transferring love. The creativity, and the crap, are worth it.