6 posts tagged “writing”
A response to What rejection tastes like... (once again, inspired by Redzilla):
Dare to Dream
Lara’s hands shook as she handed the carefully boxed and wrapped manuscript across the counter to be weighed and metered. She dug around in the bottom of her purse for the crumpled dollar bills she’d scrounged from under the couch cushions to pay the postage, and dropped a handful of loose change on the floor. “Omigod, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her face flushing crimson. Could the man tapping his foot impatiently behind her see how desperately she dared to hope that this time, this book, would be the one?
As her box disappeared on the conveyor belt behind the counter, Lara had a fleeting urge to leap across and snatch it back. “It’s not ready yet!” wailed a small insecure voice, one Lara barely recognized as her own.
“It’ll never be ready,” scoffed a deeper, more cynical voice. Her father's. “Might as well find that out sooner than later.”
“There, there, Lara. There are so many other things you’re good at. Why don’t you find a nice young man and settle down? You could still write for fun, you know.” Ah, mom. Always ready with a backup plan.
“It’s terrific, hon,” whispered a faint voice, struggling to be heard over the din of traffic outside the post office. “I always knew you could do it.” The voice faded like an echo on the wind.
Lara tucked her head down and turned her collar up against the chilly autumn breeze, and hurried home to fix a nice pot of tea. “Try not to think about it,” she told herself. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”
Three months later, having succeeded in pushing her hopes and dreams and fears into the back of her mental closet, Lara opened her mailbox and let out a little gasp of surprise. It was a big, thick 11”x17” envelope, creamy white, with a return address of Doherty & Linnert Publishing. A rejection? Lara felt sure they wouldn’t have wasted so much postage on a form letter. A returned manuscript? The envelope wasn’t heavy enough. Lara clutched it to her breast and ran back into the house.
She carefully placed the unopened envelope on the dining room table. She hardly dared to hope – yet hope she did. And as long as she resisted the temptation to tear open the package, she could hold onto that hope, savor it, and cherish it as surely as if it were real. Lara wrapped her arms around her body and hugged herself. Doherty & Linnert Publishing. What a delicious feeling!
Lara made a pot of tea. She grabbed an old mug, then quickly put it back. She reached up for the good china – the special-occasion set her mother had given her when she moved out on her own. She had some imported shortbread in the pantry. Although she was on a diet and had sworn off empty carbohydrates, Lara decided to splurge and made herself a little plate of cookies to go with the tea. She sat down at the dining room table with her tea and cookies, and pondered the envelope. No, surely this wasn’t a rejection. Lara had had plenty of those, and they inevitably arrived in slightly sullied and very ordinary No.10 envelopes. She ran her fingertips across the package – the expensive stationery had a delicious, expensive feel to it. Daydreaming again, she imagined that it contained a three-book contract and a six-figure advance.
Suddenly, Lara broke out in a cold sweat. A three-book contract? Oh, dear God! How could she ever write two more books so quickly, and hope to do as well as she had with this one? Panic engulfed her, swallowed her whole. She felt sick to her stomach and wished she hadn’t eaten the shortbread. She stared at the envelope in horror and dismay. “I can’t! I can’t do it!” she cried. She pushed herself back from the table so quickly that her chair tipped precariously on its back legs.
Lara could swear she heard the voices laughing. “Be careful what you wish for,” whispered one.
“You’re just a one-trick pony,” said the other with a derisive snort.
“I can’t... I can’t...” sniffed a tiny voice, barely audible over the beating of Lara’s heart.
“You’ll never know until you try,” sighed the last, so softly that Lara wondered if she’d heard it at all.
One of my "43 Things" was to create comfortable, inspiring, productive writing area.
Now, not only have I decluttered and cleaned my little corner of our shared home office, including the overstuffed and unsightly bookcase (which now houses only books I haven’t read and might actually WANT to; reference books; books on philosophy and religion; and books on language), I have brightened it with two huge and colorful silk flower arrangements I made myself. (The third arrangement, the red roses - those are real. My husband surprised me with those first thing this morning. He also surprised me with "breakfast in bed" - a box of chocolate-covered strawberries from Godiva. They're huge. Each one's practically a meal in itself, and there were six of them! This is in deference to the diet - the traditional gift being a one-pound box of truffles. I do love this man. He could've been a real smart-ass and given me a bunch of carrots - nothing like a healthy Valentine's pun to cheer a girl up, eh?)
My first thought was to go out and buy real flowers. That was immediately followed by the saner, more self-aware realization that they would simply die – and then sit there on my desk until they turned black and brittle and started to grow things not meant to be grown in lovely bouquets. Fresh flowers are nice – delightful – but they are not always a pack-rat’s best friend. They are just as expensive as the silk flowers, but they only last a few days. Let’s get real; I needed stress-free, effortless, colorful decoration to boost my spirits, inspire creativity, and improve my moods on dreary days. I did not need to create a corner of the office that smells good for five minutes, then begins to resemble a funeral parlor on an off day.
It would take him a while to find the body; by then, she would be long gone.
“Dammit! I don’t have anything to wear!” A pair of hand-tinted Christina Velati jeans flew over the railing and hit the floor in a crumpled heap. Angie yanked open her dresser drawer and threw it on the floor.
Charlotte cringed at the drawer’s high-pitched, grating squeal of protest—just before the loud thump overhead shook the ceiling light fixtures. “Angie, just find something to put on and let’s go! You’ll be late for school!”
“I don’t care. I’m not going. I have nothing to wear.” Angie stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a flimsy, nylon kimono to which she’d helped herself from her mother’s closet. The sullen teen threw herself melodramatically across Charlotte’s bed and sighed.
“You are going. Now get dressed. You have a closet full of clean clothes; go find some and put them on. Now. You have five minutes.” Charlotte bit her lower lip hard to rein in her temper. This little scene was merely another encore in a year-long run of bad performances by her daughter. Charlotte massaged the back of her neck and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Christ,” she muttered, half curse, half prayer.
“Fine. Why don’t I just go in this?” Angie stood in front of her mother, feet planted defiantly apart, hands on her hips, and let the kimono fall open to reveal last summer’s barely-faded tan lines.
“Why don’t you, Ange?” Charlotte shrugged and grabbed her car keys. Angie would not have the satisfaction of shocking her mother or hearing one smidgeon of outrage or indignation in her voice. “If that’s the look you want to be remembered for in the yearbook, let’s go.”
“God, you are such a bitch. Mother.” Angie practically spat the word “mother” and added to it under her breath. She snatched up the discarded jeans and tugged them on, hopping first on one foot, then the other, as she struggled to pull them over her hips. Charlotte noticed that her daughter hadn’t bothered with underwear, but she said nothing. She just closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. When she opened them again, Angie was dressed. The girl’s eyes were like smoldering coals burning into her mother’s heart, searing her at the very core of her being. This child she had loved so completely, so unconditionally, so fiercely from birth now seemed, more often than not, her bitterest enemy. Charlotte craved a respite from the neverending war their relationship had become. She felt sure that Angie craved it just as desperately, but neither of them knew how to bring about a truce.
The two of them rode in silence to the high school. Angie got out of the car as quickly as she could, slamming the door hard on her way out, just for good measure. Charlotte burned rubber in the school parking lot; it had been hard to hold the anger in check, and she felt an immature need to make a statement.
Angie looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, then linked arms with a lanky, sloe-eyed boy and headed to class. “She’s insane,” the girl confided in her friend.
~=*=~
Charlotte had an idea. It seemed a brilliant idea, but she knew that she could never share it with another living soul. She drove to the hardware store, smiling to herself as she tuned the car radio to the Oldies station and started to hum along with the Beach Boys.
~=*=~
After several productive hours spent in the dim light of the old cellar, Charlotte emerged in the kitchen covered in sweat and light gray powder. She had never imagined she had any talent for remodeling, beyond choosing trendy wallpapers and countertops for others to install. She definitely had a talent for spending Peter’s money, but for the first time in her life, she had built something substantial with her own two hands. Thinking back on the transformation she’d wrought in the cellar, Charlotte grinned with pride. She would have to finish the job later, of course, but the hardest part was done.
The thought of ending a life brought her nothing but a sense of peace.
~=*=~
“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Peter’s voice carried up the stairs, clear as a bell. “Charlotte? Angie?”
“Up here,” called Charlotte, straightening up from what felt like a permanent crouch after spending the last thirty minutes cleaning junk out of the hall closet. Charlotte massaged her lower back, kneading tension knots with her fingers as she flexed her spine. Aches and pains in muscles and joints Charlotte didn’t know existed were the fruits of her day’s labor.
Peter met her at the top of the stairs and gave her a perfunctory little peck on the lips. “I invited Joe Johnson and his wife over for dinner tomorrow night – you don’t mind, do you, Char?” Peter surveyed the mess on the landing - the unsorted odds and ends that spilled out of the closet and defied explanation as to how they fit in there in the first place.
“Oh, no, of course not,” snapped Charlotte sarcastically. She was hot, sweaty, and aggravated. The thought of entertaining the Johnsons tomorrow night on short notice was just icing on the cake. “Shall I cook a standing rib? Whip up a little crème brulée?”
“We could do burgers on the grill...”
“Oh, that’s sure to impress your boss, Peter.”
“I’ll call and postpone.” Disappointment was evident in his tone. “I’ll tell them Angie’s sick, or something. Where is Angie, anyway?”
“I don’t know, Peter. Out. Wherever it is teenage girls go to defy their embarrassingly horrid mothers.”
“Isn’t it a little late for her to be out?” asked Peter. He was concerned for his daughter’s safety, but something in Charlotte’s voice set off alarms in the back of his mind.
Charlotte gave Peter a look guaranteed to wilt lettuce. Imitating her daughter’s all-too-familiar, scornful expression, she rolled her eyes and said, “Duhhhh.”
“I’ll go look for her.”
“You do that.”
Peter frowned, started to say something, then shut his mouth quickly as he thought better of it. He hurried downstairs, grabbed his keys, and went to comb the neighborhood for Angie.
~=*=~
Charlotte stepped back and gave a small nod of satisfaction, pleased with the work she had done. The stones fit together perfectly. The mortar was smooth and even; it dried quickly, and the wall was good and solid.
It would take Peter a while to find the body; by then, Charlotte would be long gone. Charlotte smiled.
~=*=~
One by one, Charlotte lit the fat candles she had brought with her. Their soft radiance cast dancing tongues of light and shadows upon the walls. The silence was so complete that Charlotte could hear the sputtering of the wax as it was sucked up the wick and drawn into the flame.
Charlotte opened a bottle of Satterfield Chardonnay. It was the bottle Peter had given her for Mother’s Day. Feeling decadent, she swigged it straight from the bottle. There was no one around to care, or to be grossed out about the backwash. She cracked open the new Sharalyn Feltzer novel she’d been saving for—for what? Six months? Waiting for a quiet afternoon, when she could read for a few hours, uninterrupted?
Ahhh, thought Charlotte. This was better than a hot bubble bath. She stretched and turned, cradling the book comfortably on her forearm, losing herself in the story. There was no one to disturb her, now. Charlotte read until her eyelids grew heavy. Her arms felt like they were made of lead, and she let sleep overtake her. The book fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Charlotte, who had never known an uneventful night’s sleep, slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. A smile curled the corners of her lips. One by one, the candles hissed and died for lack of the oxygen needed to burn. Charlotte could not hear the voices on the other side; she could not hear the soft, fleshy fists pounding on the unyielding stone fortress that she had built around herself. She could not hear her daughter, who had been hanging out and smoking pot with friends – could not hear her apologize. Charlotte could not hear Peter’s desperate attempts to smash through solid rock and well-made mortar. She would have told them, if she could, that her walls were built to last.
"Just a Little Peace and Quiet"
Copyright 2002 H. Jahangiri.
~=*=~
If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy these, as well:
How do you beat writer's block?
Submitted by marvel is my pen name.
I'm not really sure I believe in Writer's Block. There is "I don't really feel like writing, but admitting that doesn't sound as dramatic and serious as 'I'm suffering from writer's block.'" And there's "I really want to write. In fact, that's all I want to do. I don't want to go outside or do a damned thing worth writing about, and unfortunately - for the moment - I've run out of things to say, so that every drop of ink wrung from my pen looks like something the cat barfed up while walking across the keyboard. In fact, the cat wrote a whole novel last night and is currently tying up the phone line, talking to his agent. I wonder if Fluffy needs a manager?" There are other manifestations, of course, but most are variations on a theme. Some involve intense fear: Fear of failure, or fear of success. A good walk to clear the head, or time spent on an unrelated hobby (photography, drawing, playing a sport, building model ships and shoving them into bottles - whatever floats your boat) may help. Some involve a lack of skill or talent that can only be cured, really, through training and practice. Apply butt to chair. Write. Repeat. Enroll in a class, if necessary. Or find other things to do with your time. Maybe you don't really want to write, but someone's sold you on the notion that you must, in order to be a true citizen of the new Millennium. And if you just really feel a need to wear a beret and a turtleneck and sip black coffee in a coffee shop and scribble notes on napkins so as to be mistaken for a writer, go ahead; I won't tell.
You're not a failure in life if you're not a writer.
Some of us can't really do anything else competently, and rely on our words to support us and help build our retirement funds. But we have days when we don't feel like writing, too. We have days when we feel we've run out of things to say - or rather, things we think anyone cares to read. Amazingly, I earn a pretty decent income writing things I know only about three people on the planet want to read. Product manuals. Technical documentation. Next time you sneer and curse at the nameless author of a user's guide, you'll have a face to imagine behind it. Mind you, if it sucks eggs, I didn't write it; I don't do tech support, so don't call me when your toaster starts speaking in tongues and turns your bread into oatmeal.
It's hard to be "blocked" when writing instructions for using a piece of equipment. But that's my day job. By night, I'm an intrepid storyteller and poet (when I'm not cooking dinner for five; helping my 5th Grader with his homework, refereeing fights between him and his sister, or getting into one myself; writing in my blog; or walking, taking photos, engaging in other creative pursuits, and telling myself I don't believe in writer's block).
We Have Met the Enemy, and He is Us*
I do believe in the evil inner critic. Sometimes, she masquerades as my evil inner Muse. Sometimes, giving her a good, swift kick in the teeth will jump-start a stalled brain, spur my itchy fingers into action, and result in a pretty decent yarn. Sometimes, it just results in my throwing myself across the living room couch, popcorn in hand, with no more resolve or strength of will than what's required to flip through channels and see what's on the telly.
Never mind all that. Facing down the evil inner critic - nay, making him or her the object of ridicule and creatively imagined torment - is a great way to forcibly shove aside this thing called "writer's block," because nine times out of ten, either you just don't want to write for whatever reason, or you're falling victim to the voice of the evil inner critic. She says, "You're not good enough. What do you think you're doing, mucking around with this 'writing' thing?" Or he berates you, "What a load of insipid tripe! You're really going to commit that to paper and let the world know what a fool you are?" Hogwash, all of it.
Well all have one. Perhaps you're due for a little chat with yours. If nothing else, it's great practice in creating characters and writing dialogue, so some good ought to come of it. Here's a flashback from 2004, my fourth attempt at that Marathon novel-writing session known as "National Novel Writing Month," or "NaNoWriMo" (which still sounds a lot like something a tired novelist says on November 29th: "Naaaah, no wri' mo'...me sleep now"). Ironically, the only novel I ever attempted and completed was my first, in 2001. Doesn't matter...I had a lot more fun with this one.
Prologue
I seriously thought about quitting.
Then I recaptured the true spirit of NaNoWriMo. I remembered what it was all about: to write a truly hideous novel of 50,000 words in 30 days.
"Nobody said nothin' about 'publishable.' Nobody ever suggested that a 30-day novel should be 'great lit-rah-chure' (Gesundheit!)" my Muse snickered.
"What was I thinking, to put such expectations on myself at a time like this, when all the world's gone mad around me?" I cried, throwing a forearm dramatically over my forehead and letting out a piteous wail.
"That's the spirit."
My Inner Editor foamed at the mouth. Only, the foam came out the bitch's nose, since my Muse had had the foresight to bind up her mouth with duct tape.
"Look, you're an overachiever, but you're a burnt-out overachiever seriously in danger of looking like she's got a bug up her ass. So write this one just for fun. And if you must compete, consider it your entry into the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest next year." The Muse shrugged.
"That's just supposed to be one sentence," I said. I was pouting. I had my heart set on writing great lit-rah-chure.
"So write a novel that gives you nothing but hard choices as to which sentence you should enter."
"There are multiple categories," I said, warming to the idea. "I could have 'em all covered, by the time I'm done."
"There you go. Enter in every category. Just be sure to win a 'Dishonorable Mention' for me."
"I'll do it!" I sprang to my feet, energized. It took less than a NaNoSecond for reality to sink in. "Oh, God, I'm so far behind. All I have so far is three death scenes and an aborted suicide."
You can imagine the withering look my Muse gave me.
"I know that, Dear. It's pretty fucking pathetic, if you ask me." She picked up my daughter's TI-83 calculator and pushed some buttons at random. "Don't think of it as 'behind.' Think of it as an adjustment, from 1667 words a day to 2800 words a day. You can do that, can't you? I mean...if you're enjoying yourself."
"Can I use this conversation?" I asked. I was reluctant to admit it; it seemed so...puerile. But I was beginning to enjoy myself. Guilty pleasures are always the best kind.
"No."
"Will you take that thing away?" I asked, pointing at the Inner Editor. The IE growled and struggled against the ropes that bound her to her ergonomically-correct office chair. Gleefully, I smacked her over the head with an ergonomic keyboard, breaking the device in two. I dumped it into her lap.
"Absolutely." My Muse poured two glasses of cheap cream sherry and we raised them in a toast. "To fingering Bulwer-Lytton's proboscis in April!"
"Here, here."
"Isn't that 'hear, hear'?" squeaked the Inner Editor, who had managed to bite through the duct tape with her jagged fangs.
"Good God. Does 'anal-retentive' have a hyphen?" sneered my Muse. Grabbing She-Who-Inspires-Writers-to-Write-Heinous-Scenes-of-Gruesome-Torture by the neck, my Muse saluted me and disappeared. The Evil One vanished, too, and I could breathe again.
I sat down to write...and this is what my pen barfed up.
Excerpt: The Muse and the Critic
Bob grabbed his laptop from the back room, and plugged it in. He settled into a comfy armchair and began to cogitate. The harder he thought, the fewer ideas occurred to him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Bob looked up from the laptop. “Hey! Your hair’s on fire!” He started to jump up from his chair, but she pushed him back into it. “Lady, your hair is on fire!”
“It’s always like this, Bob.” She laughed.
Bob looked around frantically. Some crazy woman had set her hair on fire. With a little bad luck, she’d take Rayne’s shop with her - probably burning Rayne and Bob in the process. And yet, she was alarmingly calm about her flaming hair. Where the hell was Rayne?
“Relax, Bob. She can’t see or hear me. Only you can.”
The woman was insane. Either that, or Bob was insane. Had to be one or the other, he mused. Had to be. And that’s when he noticed that the hot-headed, almond-eyed stranger was a cross between Angelina Jolie and Pele, Goddess of Fire, dressed in a sleek black, skin-tight, flame-retardant bodysuit. Bob couldn’t help but lick his lips. She was the woman of his adolescent fantasies. She laughed. Bob concluded that he was the one losing his marbles. The woman didn’t exist. “Damn,” he muttered. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am!” said the woman, laughing. “I’m your so-called Muse. I’ve been looking over your shoulder since you were fourteen.”
“You’ve been what?” Bob looked up in horror. When he was fourteen, he’d figured out an easy way to forestall the urges that threatened to overcome him each time he laid eyes on a girl. It was a solitary pleasure, one he knew better than to do where others could watch. The thought of this creature looking over his shoulder…” He shuddered.
“Oh, Christ, Bob… I’m talking about your writing, idiot.” She ruffled his hair.
Bob groaned. She may not have watched over his shoulder constantly, but she could read his mind. That was just as bad.
“You created me, remember?” Her voice sounded smooth as silk and burned like whiskey. Bob felt dizzy.
Bob vaguely remembered doodling sketches of this woman - his supposed Muse - on his History spiral back in high school. Implausibly large boobs, curvaceous hips, a dancer’s legs, stiletto heels…but he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember flames for hair. Took some getting used to, but the warmth her tresses gave off was helping to dispel the tremors in his hands.
“Bob, you’re shaking like you’ve got the DTs.”
“I’m, um, wow. Yeah. Yeah,” Bob looked stupidly at his hands. The tremors spread up his shoulders and down his spine. He was ice-cold, and yet his skin burned.
“Bob, get a grip.”
Bob did just that. He gripped the armrests of the chair in which he was sitting. He gripped the faux hide of nauga until his knuckles turned a ghastly shade of white. “Could you - not - do that?” he asked, prying one hand loose long enough to point at the Muse’s hair.
“Whatever floats your boat, Bob.” Suddenly, an auburn-haired Angelina Jolie sat in the chair opposite Bob, and looked far less threatening than the incandescent goddess who’d stood before him a moment earlier. “Is this better?”
Bob nodded. “What’s your name?” It felt bizarre, having a conversation with what had to be a hallucination, albeit a gorgeous one.
“Fred.”
“Fred?”
“You named me Fred, Bob. It’s not my job to explain why you named me Fred.”
Given the thoughts Bob was having about the illusory Fred, this was disconcerting news, to say the least. He scratched his head, trying to remember why in the name of God he would have named this woman “Fred.”
“Frederica?” he asked, voice full of hope.
“No, Bob. Fred. Just plain Fred.”
“Sorry. You don’t look like a Fred.”
“Never did, Bob.”
Bob cringed. “And I was fourteen, you say?”
“That’s right, Bob. Fourteen.” Fred shook her head and looked down at her well-endowed chest. “Gads, I wish you’d learned to write when you were ten, or waited until you were twenty-something.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Fred hefted her breasts with both hands. “Only a fourteen-year-old boy would endow his Muse with such…gifts.”
Fred’s hair burst into flame, sending Bob burrowing deeper into his armchair. “I’m sorry?”
“No, I can see that you’re not,” said Fred, her hair still smoldering. “So let’s cut the crap, Bob. You have a novel to write.”
“I do?”
“You see the problem with being a Muse created by a fourteen-year-old boy? It’s distracting, Bob. It’s keeping me from being all I’m meant to be.” Fred looked mildly annoyed, but at least her hair didn’t burst into flames. Bob was relieved.
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see. You’re just all fascinated because you can actually see me, and I look like some prepubescent fantasy doll…”
“No, no - I understand how that could be a hindrance. I’m sorry. I - I think I’ve matured since then.”
“No you haven’t.”
“Have to!” Bob was not about to sit here and be insulted by his own Muse. “Why, I--“
“Bob, get real. That deal you made with the cops, earlier? That was real mature.” Fred rolled her eyes.
“Oh, Rayne’s a good sport, she’ll--“
“Bob, do you have any idea how many guys are on the force? Rayne won’t be able to walk for a week if she makes good on her end of the deal.”
Bob snickered. Fred’s hair began to crackle and spark. He quickly tried to look contrite.
“Sir? Sir!”
Bob woke with a start. A little old lady was leaning over him, smelling of lavender and potato chips. “Wha--?”
“Your laptop’s about to slip off your lap. I think you dozed off. Didn’t want it to fall on the floor, you know.”
Bob grabbed his laptop computer just in time to save it sliding off his thighs and onto the ceramic tile floor, where it would surely have broken into tiny bits. Although that might have saved Bob considerable trouble, it was an expensive toy he could hardly afford to replace, given his and Rayne’s recently precarious financial position. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Very kind of you.” He blinked a few times and rubbed the sleep sand from his eyes with his knuckles.
“No problem, son. No problem at all. Say, I couldn’t help but wonder what you were working on that put you so soundly to sleep. I suffer insomnia, you see. I’d love to learn your secret.” The old biddy chuckled.
Bob yawned. With his hands firmly grasping his prized possession, Bob was unable to stifle himself. His mouth opened wide. The only difference between Bob and a yawning cat was the cat’s needle-sharp fangs. And claws. And tail. But the yawn was similar, and from the look on the old lady’s face, she was a cat fancier. “Sorry. I was working on my, er, book. I’m a writer. Sort of a writer. I’m working on a novel. In my spare time, you know.”
“Ahhh. Yes, a writer. How nice for you, dear. And what do you do with the rest of your time?”
“I, uh, my wife and I, we run this shop.”
“Looks to me like she’s doing all the running. I’m Edna, by the way. And you would be…?”
“Bob. Very nice to meet you, Edna.”
“Really? That’s a first. Most people aren’t pleased. Not pleased at all.” Edna sat down in the chair across from Bob, a chair warmed, just moments before, by the enigmatic Fred.
“I can’t imagine that, Edna. You seem like such a kind soul.”
“Not at all, Bob,” said Edna. Her expression hardened as she pulled out her knitting. Her fingers moved deftly as the needles clicked and clacked. Knit and perl, perl and knit…Edna seemed hell-bent to burn her name into the Guinness Book of World Records by knitting what appeared to be a dingy gray and red woolen scarf in under three point two seconds.
“Why’s that, Edna?”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“Should I?” Bob squinted to get a better look at Edna. Five foot two, maybe one hundred thirty pounds, Edna looked like somebody’s grandmother. A third grade teacher, perhaps, with her tightly-curled indigo hair. Bob had never understood why elderly schoolmarms insisted on dying perfectly good white or gray hair a hideous shade of blue that never would have occurred to Mother Nature to create from scratch. That’s it! Third grade teacher… Of course! Edna must have been one of Bob’s teachers.
“Oh, worse than that, Bob,” said Edna, as if reading his mind. “Your third grade teacher was a dear, sweet old woman. She didn’t have the heart to give you the D you deserved on that science report, so she gave you a C and package of crayons to soften the blow.”
Bob swallowed hard. “Who are you?”
“Edna Jacobi Pringleheimer-Smith. I’m your worst nightmare,” hissed Edna. Her eyes were dark and beady, but they smoldered with hate. “I’m your inner critic, Bob. I am a part of you.”
Bob suddenly had an urge to hum, but he felt his blood run cold. “Can Rayne see you?”
“Only if I want her to, Bob. You wouldn’t like that, would you? You’d like for her to think that you were a capable, talented man…”
“I suppose,” said Bob, trying to stifle another yawn. “What the hell is that?” Bob reached for the woolen scarf that was growing, in faster, tighter rows.
“It’s an afghan, Bob.”
“It looks like--oh, Good Christ, woman! That’s my third-grade report card.”
“Tsk, tsk. Says here you got a big fat F in English. Bob, English is your native language. You’d have to be dumb as a rock to flunk English.”
“Mrs. Denhameyer didn’t like me.”
“Didn’t like you? Didn’t like you? What sort of asinine excuse is that, Bob? Ranks right up there with ‘my mother beat me and my father drank,’ in my opinion. Cut the crap.”
“It’s true! She hated me.”
“No one hates a third grader, Bob. You’re delusional, to boot. But never mind that. Why aren’t you working on that stupid novel of yours? I mean, it’s not like you’re helping your wife out, there.”
* Walt Kelly, in the comic strip Pogo (1971).
Originally posted on stormport.spaces.live.com, in response to MSN’s 31 Ways to Use Your Blog?
How about 31 ways not to use your blog?
31) Spread office gossip. Really - don't we all get enough of this at the water cooler? Okay, just don't name names. Unless you have a subconscious desire to watch your career go down in flames.
30) Talk about your sex life (unless it's so interesting it brings out the voyeur in your uptight, grandmotherly church secretary).
29) Discuss bodily functions and fluids - particularly their odor, color, texture, and frequency. As my teenaged daughter would say, "Eww. Overshare."
28) Call your ex a "whore," a "slut," a "tool," a "jerk-off," a "@#$%" - oh, you fill in the blank. It's been done; the shock value's all wrung out of it by now. Besides, wouldn't it be more fun to let the ex's current lover find this out for himself or herself?
27) Keep a daily journal of your food intake, household cleaning chores, and other mundane items on your to-do list. Unless you're competing with Ambien CR and Lunesta for "Best Sleep Aid."
26) Post quotes from Uncle Al or Aunt Mildred. Unless they're particularly pithy quotes from particularly eccentric old relatives, in which case, do entertain and enlighten us. It's about time we came up with a line of fortune cookies that'd give ol' Confucious a run for his money.
25) Post a list of your enemies. I mean, why tip 'em off?
24) Post pictures of the dust bunnies under your bed. Unless you mount them on colored paper, immortalize them on digital media, Photoshop them, and call them "art."
23) Describe a recent sexual adventure. On second thought... Well, see #30. Only if it's really interesting. Alternatively, make stuff up.
22) Compliment your dog. It's not as if your dog can read. I guarantee you'll have more success with a large box of Milk-Bone doggie treats.
21) Compliment your cat. See #22. On the other hand... maybe that's who's been going through my mail at night. @#$%! "Fluffy!!"
20) List 100 things you don't want anybody to know about you. You know, like, your deepest, darkest secrets and fears. Lay it all out there.
19) Post your Top 10 Laws I Want to Break Before I Die, then work your way through the list. Your blog will likely become...evidence.
18) Insult your cat. See #21. It's okay to insult your dog, though. He's too busy licking his - well, and he can't read, anyway, now can he?
17) Post Webcam photos of yourself hunched over the computer at night. Look to the left...look to the right...make a funny face...stick out your tongue... It's been done. They all look alike.
16) Review the manual that came with your computer or the training video from flight school.
15) Describe a class you dropped, and the dead-end job you were not hired for.
14) Describe your snoring.
13) Rate a public bathroom. No, wait - there are actually some very entertaining Web sites built around this concept. Just make sure to "go" in some interesting places. No one cares what the inside of the Port-a-John in looks like. More accurately...we know.
12) Excuse away your daily failures.
11) Offer tips on topics you know absolutely nothing about. Like parenting, if you're a single, upwardly-mobile, transgendered eunuch. Or a twelve year old who's ticked off that Daddy won't pay for a nose-ring. Just because you had parents doesn't mean you're qualified to razz the frazzled from the peanut gallery. Go out and get a kid of your own, then tell me how easy it is. (Note to twelve year old jonesing for the nose-ring: Wait on that. I certainly can. No need to prove me right in the next 10-12 years, really. I'm patient.)
10) Document the growth rate of grass on the front lawn by the number of beers consumed while watching it grow. Especially if you just want to gloat over the government grant you won to study this.
9) Create a Christmas card letter. C'mon, how tacky is it to send out postcards with Santa ho-ho-hoing and your URL printed on the other side? At least set your page to a holiday Theme.
8) Share a poem of yours. See, I disagree with MSN on this one. Don't do it. It's so...yesterday. Share your serialized NaNoNovel, instead. On second thought, that's pretty yesterday, too.
7) Tell heartwarming pest stories. You know, like the time you caught that squirrel in the live trap, and had to argue with Uncle Ed over whether to drive 100 miles out to the country to set it free, or euthanize it in the bathtub. Or maybe that one about feeding the termites the old dining room table, resulting in a truce - they'd eat your old furniture and leave the house frame intact.
6) Describe a top-secret project you're working on. Better yet, describe a top secret project someone else is working on.
5) Post a daily report of your diet failures and lack of progress.
4) You spent how much on soy lattes last month?
3) Post a list of songs on your iPod. Or CDs in your CD collection. Or albums - those big, black vinyl discs? How about books on your bookshelf? Or cleaning supplies in your cupboard? Or number of fingernail clippings (with polish shades carefully documented) you've saved since 1972? Who cares?
2) Photos of your shoes. If your name's not Imelda Marcos, your shoe fetish is just...smelly.
1) Rant about politicians. Instead, why not rant about the lack of political activists and interested voters determined to make a difference?
It keeps me writing regularly, even when I don't have a story or a poem inside me. Sometimes, the act of writing about my day, my thoughts, and my feelings will spark a story idea or inspire a poem. It’s a good way to get unblocked, or prevent a case of writer’s block from becoming crippling. (Update 2006: WTF was I thinking? I don't believe in writer's block. Never did. And "crippling"? Could we get any more melodramatic? Okay, so blogging is a form of discipline. If I don't write anything Pulitzer-worthy, I have to blog about my day and risk public humiliation for admitting that I've done nothing, lately, that inspires a bestselling novel. Thus, blogging becomes a harsh reminder to "GET A LIFE!" Perhaps if we lived as if we were going to blog about it, we'd live more interesting lives.) It helps me to feel connected. Reading others’ journals and their responses to mine reminds me that no matter what, I’m not alone. By encouraging others to comment on my journal, I can’t sit here and wallow in private misery when I’m feeling rotten. I can get it out of my system, then get a little understanding, a little empathy, a little insight, and a much-needed kick in the seat of the pants. (Update 2006: Have you ever gotten a cramp in your thigh from kicking yourself in the ass? Ouch. "Helps me to stay connected..." Wow. Given that I'm an only child who craves solitude like most people crave oxygen, and never get enough of it, what was I thinking when I wrote that? Okay, maybe I should have been a bit more honest: "I like knowing that people read what I write. For the love of G-d, leave a comment so I don't gnaw off my fingers.") It saves going out and seeking advice. Readers are very generous with that. I love getting emails from people who read what I write. Good, bad, doesn't matter - it's a conversation starter. (Update 2006: Okay, so the one comment that went something like "This is the most boring crap I've ever read, and if I pay you will you please stop right now?" got to me - a little - until Anonymous's check bounced.) It saves having to answer the same questions twenty times. It lets me answer in as much depth as I want to, without monopolizing friends’ time. “How was your day?”
