No Fun

Lately, all I've done is work, do extra work to make some money for my trip, and sit at Joshua Cup doing all my web surfing while my husband works. 

I watched the show Quarterlife and I think I'm going to start a videoblog as well. Although mine won't tell about the lives of all my friends, because I don't have any.

I'm only kidding - all my friends read this blog, so eventually, they will comment and out themselves with only slight nudging from me.

I'm too excited about going to Europe. And then after that, I'm going to Africa with commenter bigben and his lovely wife. 

I'm becoming addicted to word games. I've been playing Scrabulous on Facebook with a couple of friends. I have three games going. One I'm doing okay, the other I just started with the guy who graduated as the salutatorian of our high school... I graduated #7. Then I'm getting my ass kicked by someone I met online a long time ago. The score is 273 to 237 and I have seven letters which all have a base score of 1... basically all vowels and I've been adding them to words here and there. That game sucks... I've already lost one game (also against bigben) and that sucks even more, because it shows the score and if I lose them all, then what kind of writer am I? I feel like I'm lagging behind, even though I still consider myself a word nerd. 

I'm also playing this game called Eight Letters Word Game. That's getting to be addictive. And always, when I'm on whatever is the highest level and I can't figure out what the 8 letter word is so I'm trying to string together as many words as I can to make my points, someone comes up and talks to me. Even in my own home. I hate feeling rude, but I gotta increase my score! It's a fun little game though.

So, yeah, all I do is sit and do things at the computer. Sometimes that includes writing, sometimes not. I got good advice from Chris Offutt and that was to write for one minute every day. I can do that. It doesn't seem like a lot and it keeps stretching into longer periods of time. I mean, there are days when I'll be writing for hours, but then there are days when I don't touch the keyboard for the purpose of storytelling. So one minute a day is getting me into a habit I should have developed long ago - writing something everyday.

Okay, I'm done boring you.

Saving My Life

I recently went to an event at the local college where Chris Offutt talked to us, ostensibly to talk about writing for television (HBO in particular), but really about how little he knew about writing for television (this was his first foray into that world). He learned how episodes were outlined on the board, learned how the writer's room worked and learned that if he asked for gatorade and chocolate, that it would magically appear the next day.

He was very entertaining. He'd written a few books, a couple of books of short stories, a novel and a memoir. I bought a book of short stories called Kentucky Straight and had him sign it. He wrote "To a fellow writer - keep writing. Writing will save your life and keep you sane." When I first read it, I almost laughed. Writing is driving me crazy. All the things I want to say, I can't articulate with my fingers. If it came down to it, my thoughts and ideas would disappear into the ether rather than reveal themselves for immortality on paper. But the very next second, I knew he was right. I thought about my blogs and how they have been my glue. Even if I couldn't write a short story or a spec script to save my life, I could always come here or to my previous incarnations and talk about it. I could talk about the crazy things happening and sometimes, even make fun of myself when in real life, that was very hard to do.

Saving my life... that's something I would never had said about writing before, but in a way, every thing in my life has been processed through writing. I was first and foremost a journaler. I wrote about the things going on just to gain some sort of insight into myself. It never came right away, but it did come as I re-read my journals from years ago, the juvenile things that happened even after I'd long aged to maturity, the hopes and dreams I had that I didn't think would be realized, but have. The friends I've lost are forever captured between those pages, recalling times that I want to say were better but which I know for a fact were not.

Now, if only I could talk to people without putting my foot in my mouth or making them feel dumb (which, to those of you who know me is completely unintentional - I promise!), maybe I will feel like I'm getting somewhere.

If You Know Me

The first thing you need to do is stop by the coffee shop, pick up the food and culture magazine and read two articles by yours truly... three if you count my monthly coffee column.

Just do it!

So, I am doing Nanowrimo. I have written a lot of words. And yet I am so far from my word count, it is ridiculous. Okay, I'm just complaining now and slightly procrastinating, but I will get to 50,000 words by the end of the month if it kills me.

The loaded baked potato flavoured Pringles are just okay.

I can eat two bite brownies in one bite.

I get more excited than I should when the clock says things like 11:11 or 12:34 or 5:43.

I'm bad at video games because I don't have the patience to get better.

I wish my hair was longer than it is.

I didn't vote today because I haven't changed my address. And for that, I am sorry.

I finally found the nails and the hammer and I still haven't put up our paintings, clocks and photos.

Okay, just a random post to keep you busy until I have something good to write... or until tomorrow.

Finished!

This week has been the most hectic week that I've had since taking a job and still trying to write for pay. It is becoming harder and harder to be fair to my regular paying job when it comes to writing.

I had 6 assignments due this week, all for next month. I need to start paying attention to the business part of this. I mean, I am keeping up with receipts, but I am not trying to figure out how to optimize my time so that I am getting the maximum worth out of the time it takes to write my articles versus what I get paid.

I have been pulled all out of sorts over how hard this week has been trying to get everything done. The Honey asked me if this was not what I wanted and I found myself smiling because this is EXACTLY what I want. I want this struggle to find the right words and put them to page. I want to receive that compliment from my editor, where her touch is barely there because my words match the style of her magazine or matches the tone that he wants in his magazine. It is not getting easier, but if I am right, it is because I am still trying very hard to be better and better. I think it would be easier to write the way I've always written.

Or it could all just be horrible and it's taken me longer than it really should have to get my articles written. But praise be to my good and fluffy Lord that I am done and ready to relax.

This is what relaxing looks like today:
Little Sister is coming to town today. We will drive around town trying to find clothes for an 80s Prom party and for her Cruela DiVille (sp?) halloween costume. Then we will go to IHOP (International House or Prayer - not Pancake) which she is being forced to go to so I agreed to go for morale support. Then we are going to the Prom. I have no clue what we will be doing after that.

Tomorrow is Arts and Jazz and then another birthday party. I like to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time!

But more than that, I am not going to think about any of the things that are really swirling in my mind. I will give myself permission to rest and to have fun. That's the least that I deserve.

Remembering

Sometimes I forget who I am, or why I write, or why I have blogs.

I started blogging a few years ago because I had been reading blogs for months and there was only so much you could put in a comment. There were things rolling around in my head and I admit those first few posts were more imitative or responsive than revealing. I found that I liked different writing styles and I wanted to write as well or as funny or as introspectively as the people I found delight in reading.

It had more to do with being carried away to the land of those writing and wanting to follow them, on my site, into this imaginary place where I felt at home.

But then, one day, I was revealing; writing about myself and the things going on with me, the thoughts going on in my head, not reacting to what I'd read on my favourite sites. And soon people were reading my words and living in my life. And while it lasted, it was good.

And then, it felt like I grew up. I moved to California for a while and my life has not ever been the same. In ways that I still don't understand, I am closed. That may sound weird, but I found that I could not write about my experiences or put them into any context that wasn't heartrending. And then I got married and in that, the desire to hold something of myself close to my heart and away from the world began to grow.

I guess that is still there, since my marriage is so new and so perfect (even 3 years in) that to talk about it would almost spoil it. I am surprised by how much I want to keep to myself. But as I begin to read other sites again, I have to remember why I am still here, why I take up residence at this url when I could just give it up to someone else who really wants to write. I remember that getting out the things that go on with me, typing about the pains and joys of life, revealing a little bit more than I think is fair, but a little less than everything is the only way that writing will be real for me. I have faked it for a time, slowly chugging along until the words that are jumbled in would come out on their own, but now I realize that won't happen. The words will not find a way, as some say life did. I have to find the words.

Writing is scary only in how revealing it is. Writing is hard only in our fear of telling. Here's to telling.

All Things Considered

If things go as discussed, I may have to move my television blog back to its original location. It has been brought up in certain secretive meetings with a particular newspaper that I may be writing my blog for their online audience. If that's the case, I will let you know, but otherwise, you will have to be bored by the things entertaining me on here instead.

Just a head's up.

Keeping In Touch

Sometimes, I don't write because I feel like I don't have something profound to say. You know, I kind of want each post to be something big, or manifest some new thought or lead others into a different way of thinking.

It's a nuisance really. I am itching to talk about things, but when it comes to getting those "things" down, I balk...

I choke, really.

But really, all I ever do is write, watch tv, knit/spin, and garden. I am a boring person. Oh, I have a job and I manage people, but when it comes to the things that make up me, these are the things, besides being a wife, that take up the most time.

I'm thinking about working on that blanket. I finished one sock, but find starting a new one is easy and hard at the same time. Both involve some sort of boredom in doing a repetitive action over and over again, but then again that sense of excitement that on long strand of fabric creates a multitude of things. When I showed my husband my sock, a sock that looked made specifically for my foot (because it was), he was amazed. Not because he didn't think I could do it, i don't think, but because he didn't realize the joy in it. Something created specifically for you. Something that took time and doesn't look like garbage, something that looks like something you might buy. Amazing.

I cooked out today, a few things. There's nothing like the taste of grill cooked food. And I wanted that taste. It was really good. I wished my tomato plant had ripe tomatoes for me to cut up on the hamburgers. One day, that will be the case. My strawberries are pretty, but now I have to wage war on the slugs so that they don't eat them first. I'm also started a worm farm so that I can have my own composte. It's amazing how good vermicomposting is for plants. Yes, I am handling worms. I used to fish. But I do wear gloves because, basically, those creepy crawlers deserve their names. (is slightly grossed out just thinking about it). With the gloves, it's not so bad.

I am trying my best to be a consistently good writer. Right now, I'm merely passable. There are some things I can be proud of, but mainly it's crap. To me. I want to be consistent. I'll give myself time before I throw in the towel.

I miss tv. My DVR is lonely. No new shows for it to record (just yet) and nothing new for me to watch. It's sad. I can't wait until the summer season starts. It's just that pause between Winter and summer seasons that's a bit frustrating for those addicted to television. Just as well, I need a bit of a break anyway. Ruffles don't knit themselves.

Keep On Writing In The Free World

Working and writing is not turning out like I thought it would. I thought, if I am already writing, working in a job that allows me to work around my writing schedule should be easy.

Wrong.

It seems to be harder. And not only does it seem to be harder, but I am getting more ideas for short stories, television scripts, and articles than I can write. And I'm hearing the voices again... just bits of conversation as opposed to full blown stories with plots, but it will come soon.

That sounds crazy.

My husband tells me he always hears music in his head. As a musician, that makes sense. Sometimes I see him move his hands over invisible keys playing the melody. Me, I hear voices. Strangers take up residence in my head and tell me stories. They keep talking, whether I'm asleep or awake. I miss important plot points. I miss deaths and births, but I hear stories. For a long time, it was a constant barrage. Sometimes, they would include people I know and I couldn't remember if it was only a story or if I had actually had this conversation. Usually, it was only a story. Then, different things happened and it was like my brain shut down.

I used Jeopardy to gauge brain activity.

After my brain shut down, I couldn't hear the stories anymore. I would put my hand to paper and walk away blank. Blank page, blank on the inside. I would watch Jeopardy and not know a single question... or if I knew it, could not get it out before the true answer was given. I was working alot, feeling unappreciated at my job, under stress... just in a generally bad way. Then I was given the blessing of pursuing my dream.

Which was more like a nightmare at first.

But as I worked diligently (and for free) just for the opportunity to become a better writer so I could then make the big bucks, I noticed something.

The voices were coming back.

I could play Jeopardy again.

It sounds crazy.

But I missed it, I realized. The first time I woke up to voices and stories, I just listened. They didn't lead me anywhere, but it was comforting. I felt comfortable in my own skin again. Being away from the pressure of that old job was getting rid of an invisible toxin I never knew I had. I am turning back into myself.

Maybe if writing and working wasn't so time consuming and sleep depriving, then it would be perfect. Then again, because I thrive on chaos, maybe it already is.

When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.

Kurt Vonnegut wrote that. That's how I feel all the time. Except my crayon is a nub and I need to remove the paper. Frustrating. I know that I've been paid to write and I keep getting assignments, but I feel more like a fraud than I ever have. As I get closer and closer to my goals, I feel as if I am still so far away. Each success begs to be duplicated and brings its own very different fears. I am overwhelmed. I want to quit everything, just stop it, but the thought of doing that is so gut wrenching, and when I actually sit down to put word to page (or type to screen), I am at home. I don't know why this has to be such a combative process, but then, as Will Smith playing Chris Gardner says, it is the pursuit of happiness. I don't want to work this hard, yet when I do it, I love it. Ah well, let me take this crayon and pretend that my work is not a giant cerulean scribble on the screen of life.

It's Almost Official

As of this Thursday, I may become a paid writer. I hope it happens. If not, I may be crying in my milk later. But don't you dare worry about me. I'll be fine.

UPDATE: It's now official. I am a paid writer. Yay!

Published Writer

That's me. Some of you may have missed my story on the Dempsey Hotel in the 11th Hour. That's okay. There's http://www.11thhouronline.com for you to go to so if I were to have other stories, especially feature stories, you could read it there. I think they just disable the stories when that two weeks is up. Sorry I didn't tell you guys about it (the both of you). I also have an advert piece in Macon Food for the coffee shop I used to work for.

Now that I'm published, pray that I begin to get paid for it! Or don't.

Writers Write

Writing is such a big deal and I feel, everyday, as if I am falling flat on my face. Despite not having to work, I still feel like I don't have enough time to do all the things that I should be doing to be a successful writer. I don't read like I should, I watch more tv than anybody I know personally. Though I would like to write television shows, I hated living in California. So right now, the best I can hope for when it comes to television writing is a bunch of people who want so badly to write, direct and produce a television show that they are willing to do it for no pay with their own money. It is an expensive and time consuming endeavor. I would do it in a heartbeat.

The problem, mainly, is that I don't know which direction I want to go in. Writing articles is the way most writers go because it's instant gratification... well, instant as in you get paid per article, you don't necessarily have to have an agent, you can track down the work yourself, etc. Writing books requires an enormous investment of time, and may or may not be successful. It is harder to find an agent, a market, etc. Yet while finding a direction is a problem, my second problem is wanting to see the way RightNow. It is disconcerting to be in a place where the possible results of my work aren't even conceivable. I do not know where I am going. I have no idea what my goal is. When I worked at the milk and cookie shop, I knew that I wanted to manage it, so all of my thoughts, work, everything went to making that goal a reality. What is my new forward momentum now? What is my new direction?

I tell people I want to be a writer. They say, what do you write. I don't know where to begin. I dabble in short stories (I've been writing short stories since I was 13. Before that I wrote poetry.) and have a wonderful opportunity to work on article writing, but I let my writing muscles atrophy because I let myself believe what countless people told me growing up. Don't be a writer, be a teacher. I tried that route, but was not satisfied in it, although I love to teach and my ultimate goal involves teaching and writing. No, what was not satisfying was that I felt I should stifle my writing urges because I knew, otherwise, they would take over. It is not a pretty thing to give in to the voices in your head. I told my husband once that I would have stories going on in there all the time, characters talking, actions being acted out, for good or evil. I worked hard to stop it and one day the stories stopped. I regret that now.

I don't know how to turn it back on, to reach into the recesses for the people who lived there, whose lives were entertaining, where things happened so quickly I couldn't write it down. It was an ongoing story line. My dreams are even wimping out on me, not providing the fodder for writing they once did. As I look back through old notebooks of old stories, I cringe, but I long for the time when I wrote what I saw, good or bad, and was able to craft them into the stories that made my family believe in me even when there was no other evidence to support that belief.

So I will follow the mantra that many writers follow: Writers write. There is nothing else to do. There is no other course. And with the writing must come the patience to let myself develop from this ugly writing duckling into a beautiful author swan.