Maru

There's really nothing to say about this other than: 1) I want to be this cat when I'm reincarnated and 2) You have to watch the whole thing. The ending is sublime.

Forget It

I'm the kind of girl who needs a kettle with a whistle. I can go out to make a cup of tea, go back to the computer to quickly answer an email or write another paragraph while the kettle boils, and totally forget about what's on the stove. I used to have a charming Japanese kettle. Then, one day, I walked into my kitchen and found a steam bath. "Oh yeah," I said to myself. Tea. I was going to have a cup of tea. Instead, I had a facial. With the quaint, floral pot totally destroyed, I went out and got a kettle with some lungs. It screams at me almost daily.

I'm really diligent about keeping my calendar up-to-date, jotting down each appointment, details, addresses, etc. Then I'll forget to look at it (because I think I've memorized it), or will leave it (and the addresses) behind when I go off to an appointment. This is how I learned to master the BlackBerry email search function and swear by Google Maps.

These are side-effects of Writer's Brain. Friends might say it's more like "Head Up the Ass" syndrome, but really I'm just stuck in the story. Either way, it can result in regular FAILS.

I really never know what day it is. I mean, I can register the number on the calendar, and guess what day we might be on (it helps that I have street parking and must be hyper aware of when Wednesday and Thursday occur), but I really don't relate to the fact that today is Thursday the fifteenth of January in the year 2009. I'm so far behind in my life, I'm like still in 2002.

There's a certain disconnection that *normal* people would rightfully be concerned about. You would seek a diagnosis for behavior like this. I kind of wonder what Writer's Brain hides. At what point should I worry that I am heading toward dementia? I mean, I would totally forget to call the doctor to make the appointment, but there has to be a line, right?

Forget it. I mean, I will in another twenty minutes. But, if there's a writer in your life, have a little sympathy for their *challenges*. Be forgiving when you have to repeat things over, and over, and over, and...well, if you have a writer in your life you know. We don't do it on purpose. That would take planning, and, well, we forget to do that, too.

So Lonely

Today, Salon has a article on loneliness. Because, I guess, it's that time of year.

While I don't quibble with people who suffer from depression, or those who have to deal with SAD each winter, I think most of the ho-hum that comes at the holidays is the clash of our natural instincts to hibernate by the fire with a cup of spiked nog watching "A Christmas Story" and the obligations to dress up, be cheery and bear the cold to make a meal of bad hors d'oeuvres while enduring mind-numbing chit-chat during this highly social season. Or maybe that's just me.

I politely cleared my schedule this weekend. I was tired, not feeling especially social, and desperately wanted to avoid the panicked-shopper traffic this weekend seems to bring. Most of my social obligations had been met by Friday anyway. The remainder can be made up after Boxing Day. So, I snuggled up, wrapped in my Four Seasons Hotel robe, and watched movies I've seen three hundred times before.

Don't ask me why I willing watch "Terms of Endearment" when I know I'm going to cry when Huckleberry Fox does after Debra Winger tells her sons she's not getting better. Ugh. But, sometimes, I long for weekends like this. Quiet time alone. Perhaps it's part of a certain type of writer's personality. I think we are solitary creatures by nature only because there are a bunch of characters living in our heads all the time. It's sort of exhausting, at least mentally. So, if I can get those characters to be quiet, I kind of blow off the rest of the characters in my life. Which sort of makes me a cruddy friend, I suppose. But, my friends are used to it to a degree. Writers are also like exotic pets to some. Our idiosyncrasies are considered part of the charm (as long as we don't claw the furniture or crap on the rug).

Inevitably, I get a bit bored at the end of my hibernation. Typically, as I'm getting my second wind, friends have lost theirs. They are donning their robes and either nursing lingering hangovers, or trying to psyche themselves up for Monday...or neither of us is willing to drive to the other's part of town, so we end up gabbing on the phone instead of in person. Which is just as well, because I was still in my robe and didn't bother blow-drying my hair after my shower.

Then, I stumbled on the Salon article. I've always been a loner but, for a moment, I became slightly panicked that I was actually chronically lonely, and without even realizing I was! I took the lonely test and ended up in the gray zone between the "normal" and "severe" range. Then I realized that I had forgotten about the "rarely" option. Never give me four choices. It's one more than I can handle.

There's a thin line between being lonely and alone. I'm quite comfortable being alone -- which is both a good and bad thing. I like the self-sufficiency, but it can also be a bit of a bad habit. Fortunately, I have friends that will call me on my idiosyncrasies and force me to be social. They know the magic words: "Drinks", "Hal's" or "A Votre Sante". And I love them for it.

Unfortunately, they disabled the embed (where's the love, Universal Music Group?), so click here for a little slice of Charlie Sexton. Just in case your beat's so lonely, too.

Judge Me All You Want

I love, absolutely adore your comments and emails (please keep 'em coming), but I thought I would throw in some fun and let you judge me...publicly.

Feel free to "react" in the newly added Reactions part of the comment section below each post. You can even go back and judge past posts. Why? Because you are bored at work and this will help you look busy. Click on some ads, too, while you are at it. They are good ads. And some of the Google ones are hilarious. Who comes up with that stuff?

And, because I couldn't stuff everyone's stocking this year, go ahead and give yourself the gift of "The Slip". Got a long travel day coming up in the next week or two? This will help. You can thank me later (thank Reznor, too, because it's on him). Besides, downloading it will give you something else to do. We both know you're here killing time until happy hour. I'm just trying to fill that space with a little joy. And it's a great album. I can't believe you don't have it. After "The Downward Spiral", this is my favorite NIN. And, no, I'm not obsessed. I'm not. Seriously. Why do you think that? Sheesh. It's not like I'm calling the songs out by Halo numbers or anything. Jeebus.

For those of you wondering what you could slip under my tree, don't even think about sending me sweets of any sort. Not after the box of truffles (it was a small box, thank God) I ate in the course of a couple of hours yesterday. Effing menses. Yeah, that's the fancy word for *period* you can say in polite company. See, not only do I entertain and help you kill time, I edumakate. This is the blog that keeps on giving. This is the blog that cares.

Now wasn't this a pleasant way to pass the time? Sure it was. I'm glad you stopped by. Now, go on...click away. Click click click. Come on. Show the lurve. And have a nice weekend. xo

Real Biggest Loser Challenge

I fancy myself as having some level of sophistication. Then, I scroll through my TiVo "Now Playing List" and that level dips a bit.

I suppose it's not a totally humiliating set of shows, but I have to admit that, before writing this post, I sat through the un-aptly-named America's Next Top Model and my most guiltiest pleasure, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I haven't even watched Real World in years but, somehow, I am sucked into the dysfunction and highjinks of the challenges. They are redunkulous.

But that goes without saying that I spent Tuesday night with furrowed brow watching The Biggest Loser (which would have to be me for wasting two hours on that...every week...while eating). And, according to the "To Do List", Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew is back. I love that almost as much as Celebrity Fit Club.

The Bravo reality includes Tim Gunn, those chefs and that runway show, but not any of the housewives (I have my standards), that Zoe creature or Top Design (does anyone watch that?). And nothing on network television. I've never watched one of those shows. Wait...there was that first season of Rockstar: INXS, but only because a friend dragged me to a taping...and then I had to see who won. Thank God they were more than halfway through the competition. The whole time I kept wondering if Michael Hutchence was pissing himself laughing from the great beyond, or was just pissed.

Going through my "Season Passes", you will also find Oprah, True Blood and Dexter. I'm about to dump My Name is Earl. I know. I fricken loved that show the first two seasons, but now...meh. CSI Miami totally bugs. Too much filler, if you know what I mean. CSI is also on its last legs, but I like it more. Sadly, that bumps off 30 Rock, but I think I can catch that on Hulu or something. Yeah, sadly Frontline or Masterpiece Theatre hasn't quite made the cut. I guess my sophistication only goes so far. But, I think we knew that.

By Any Other Name

Do you ever wonder what you would be like, who you'd become if you were given a different name at birth? Me neither. But it crossed my mind the other day for some reason.

Sandra is a rather random name. And, until effing Grease, we sort of flew under the radar. My only saving grace was having Ann for my middle name (same as mom's). My mother never gave me a satisfying answer as to why she named me Sandra. I was grateful for her decision, though, when I found out the other two contenders were April (for the month I was born) or Patricia (as in Nixon). Sweet baby Jeebus. If my mother took drugs, those options might have made sense. My father said he agreed to Sandra Ann because he had grand plans to call me Sam. Seems he couldn't talk my mother into Samantha.

I've never met an April that wasn't blonde. I'm not blonde. Well, I was for a bit when I was about six months old. I don't think April would really fit who I am. If I were named April, I have a sneaking suspicion I'd be expected to be perky all the time. Perhaps I'd perfect my cartwheel and join the rah-rah squad. That's just a guess, though. I suppose we'll never know.

I have lots of friends with the name Patricia. Including a cousin. I guess the question big is: Would I be a Pat, Patti, Tricia, Trish or Tish? With my ass, I'd likely be Tush. But, if my mother kept my middle name the same, I might be Pam.

What would Pam or Tricia Miller be up to today? I suspect she'd have a couple of kids and would be running against the long-seated PTA president, pissing off the other mothers on her cul-de-sac. Eschewing minivans and CC&Rs, miserable in Small Town USA (I have a feeling Pam/Tricia would have remained in the Santa Clarita Valley), gagging on beige stucco.

For a long time, I was Sandi. It was the shortened name my grandfather gave me. Very, very, very few people can get away with calling me that today. Very few. I recommend that you don't go there. Back then, only my classmates and grandfather called me that. My mother hated it. She, who almost named me April or Patricia. Please. When I was heading into my sophomore year of high school, two other Sandis came into my punky crowd. They were nice enough, but a tad more "quirky" than I was. And not the kind of "quirks" I wanted to be confused with. I went back to using my given name. Hard to do when a hundred people were in the habit of Sandi.

Sandra Miller is a very common name. You many not think so, but my hometown gyno had three of us. There, I had to give my name and birthdate to book an appointment. About eight years ago, I started getting lien notices for another Sandra Miller who failed to pay her taxes. I called the IRS in a panic. Didn't they see that the Sandra Miller at my address paid her taxes and had a different SSN? "We just try everyone," the nice lady explained. She then suggested I use my full name for professional and tax paying purposes. As I've said before, going by my full name is prevention, not pretension. But, to keep it simple, you can call me SAM, if you'd like.

What's in a name? Does it shape who you are? I don't know. I'm just happy my middle name isn't Dee.

Vampire Weekday

I love my gym. It is the mecca for all things strange. It's like a continual, bizarre parade of endless, post-modern performance art. You never know what you are going to witness. And, in my nearly eight years of going there, I have seen some sights. My personal favorite is the man who puts the strap of his Walkman MP3 in his mouth and dances about in a fencing manner through the back weight room. Once, the Walkman smacked him in the face when he got a little carried away. He quickly recovered and resumed his ballet. He's not the wackiest, just the most reliably entertaining.

The gym has the typical random professional athletes, random bodybuilders, random actors, random whack jobs. There are a few normal people, too. The odd ones are just more fun to watch. And when you have an hour to kill on the cardio machines, you have a good perch and plenty of time to check out the membership.

A few years ago, I had a thrill when I found a Lost Boy in my gym. I nearly swallowed my gum when I spotted him standing there on the steps to the back room. Jason Patric. Yum-me. Let's face it, The Lost Boys is early girl porn and Jason Patric -- with those eyes, that jaw, those lips and in 501s -- is a girl-porn star. And I get to sweat next to him occasionally. It's not a bad way to start the day, my friends and neighbors. He perspires in such a pretty way. I, however, do not. At the end of my sixty-minutes, I'm more of a red-faced, drowned rat with a ponytail. And it always amazes me the guys who will actually flirt with me when I am in that state. But, that's my gym for you. A bounty of strange rangers.

(I need to take a brief tangent here...not too long ago, I was upstairs on the stretch deck and Jason was there, too. Our mats were across from each other. I was doing my thing, he was doing his. I was taking my time. When he was finished, he put back on his shoes, got up from his mat and headed down the stairs. Then, a flash caught the corner of my eye. This chick had gotten up from where she was stretching and threw herself on the mat where Jason was nanoseconds before. It was far from graceful. I think she kind of hurt herself when she landed. It was spectacular.)

So, yesterday, I was bopping around doing upper body when another fanged wonder appeared in the distance. I couldn't be sure if it was him at first, because I'm only wearing one contact this week. (Long story.) I didn't want to squint-stare, so I lost track of him when I was doing my lats (I can't believe I just wrote that). But, as luck would have it, he came right up next to me when I was doing my biceps and shoulders (I can't believe I wrote that, either) to do his biceps and shoulders (somehow, it's only weird to write workout lingo when it pertains to me). He was on the side of my "good" eye, so I could see him clearly. Stephen Moyer, the delicious, you-can-bite-me-anytime vampire from True Blood.

I was trying not to stare at him through the mirror, because that's just rude. But, Nine Inch Nails was on the iPod (again), and "Ruiner" was playing. I nearly drew blood biting my lip, trying not to giggle as Trent whispered in my ears: "How'd you get so big? How'd you get so strong? How'd you get so hard? How'd it get so long?"

Really. That was the true scene. You try keeping a straight face and proper form with hot vampire actor on one side of you and Trent Reznor inside of you...your head, I mean...saying such things first thing in the AM. It was perfect.

And you wondered why I wake up early to workout.

You Twit?

I wonder if you Twitter about blogging and blog about Twittering, will you end up getting tangled in the World Wide Web? Come down with virtual vertigo? Spin out on the information superhighway? I guess we shall see.

I've become a bit of a Twitter addict. I'm still new to it, so I'm still trying to figure it out. I have gotten myself on Twellow and figured out how to get my "tweets" to update my Facebook status, too. (That would be through the Twitter app on Facebook, and, yes, I can hear the resounding "Duh" coming from a few of you.) I'm sure you've noticed the Twitter feed right there to your left. So, now, if I ever end up doing anything interesting, you will know immediately. (And I hear the resounding yawn there, as well.)

For as long as I have had RUAWAKE (nearing year eight), I've not been what you would call "in" with the internet. I just sit and post. Email friends. I'm not a regular visitor to YouTube. I don't know all the cool sites and blogs. I mean, I get DailyCandy, know how to Google and subscribe to Salon, but that was about the extent of my internet life. Getting on MySpace took years. Now, I live on Facebook.

This whole Twitter thing was kind of a blind leap. None of my actual friends are on it. Well, one is, but she never actually "tweets". Most of my lot had the same initial reaction I did to it: One more thing to manage? But it's really not a hassle. It actually makes some things easier, and is a bit of fun.

On Twitter, I have discovered a really interesting group of intelligent, funny people. It really should be called Witter, because what some of these folks come up with in only 140 characters (and that includes spaces and punctuation) is pretty amazing. Some are there to promote their blogs, their books or their jobs. Others are just folks posting thoughts. Yes, there is some gobbledigook on it as well. But, you can stay away from it. You pick and chose whom you follow and can miss the rest. If only all of life were like that.

I'm still only in double digits with those I'm following. It's a fabulous array that makes up my dirty dozen, and I find them both informative and entertaining. I don't know that I could follow any more than that, though. It's hard enough keeping up with the ones I have as it is. That might be because the DNC is happening, and Rachel Sklar has a lot to say about it. But I appreciate that. See, now I don't have to watch it. Tah-dah!

It also has a broader purpose. In your "tweets", you can ask questions, request research assistance, make connections, announce a job opening, an event, that you are looking for work. It's not really about marketing though, which is what makes it so nice. Right now, it is a happy, little community of people. How long do you think it will stay that way?

Kicking It Old Style

Did I mention that I got a chain letter the other day? No, not an email. That would hardly be worth talking about. I received, in the post, a real, live, actual, hard copy, Xeroxed, mailing-labelled, stuffed-in-envelope-and-stamped chain letter. This was the kind that if I mailed a single dollar to the first six people on the list I would end up with a kajillion bucks. If only. I marvelled at it for a moment. The time that person took to send out this letter. The care that went into it. The fact that they bought (or had access to) a mailing list (that actually had my home address and not my mailbox...which kind of freaked me out) and used it for a chain letter, of all things. I smiled as I walked it over to the recycling bin. Sorry. Someone is going to end up being a few bucks short of their kajillion.

There's something to be said for an old-fashioned chain letter going out in this day and age. It was sweet. Nostalgic. Beyond retro. Touchingly personal, in a creepy sort of way. It made me think back to the old days, before cell phones and emails. When getting the mail was a big deal. You never knew if an auntie had sent you a Just Because card with some cash in it. Today, it's all bills and junk. Everything is electronic. And I realized there are people out there who have never known a time without all this technology. The days when we colored in books and not on the computer. I kind of feel sorry for them.

For whatever reason, the musical bug bit me this morning. On my new fangled computer, I went to work putting together a digital playlist for my iPod. It's so easy now. I remember the art and skill it took to put together a mixed tape back in the day. Timing your turntable and testing your reflexes on the "Record" button. Oh, I was good. I made one David Bowie mix that was so sublime someone stole it before I could dupe it for friends. Of course, I never kept notes or a list for those tapes. It was an organic process. You had to feel it. I kind of think I've missed my true calling, which would be working for an alternative version of K-Tel making compilations. Instead, it's a hobby. Nothing makes me happier on the treadmill or in traffic than punk followed by disco, soul, rap, 70s glitter rock and a few newbies thrown in the mix to help me bop along my way. It makes me want to pass a note in the hall. Cut class. Make out in public. Stay out past curfew. Pimp beer. Tease my hair and whip out the liquid eyeliner. Ah, those were the days. Before you could get black nail polish just anywhere. When you could walk into a thrift shop with ten-dollars and walk out with a wardrobe. Before there was a Madonna ruining our airwaves (sure, it's kitschy now; back then, it was an audible atrocity). Now, look at the messes that are in.

Last night, I was talking with a friend I've known since junior high (for two hours; how high school is that?!?), catching up on our lives. We spoke of how young we still feel. How old our parents were at our age. How happy we are to be out of a "planned community" and to have survived our youth in one piece. Without rehab. Or criminal records. While we were having our chat, my mind wandered down memory lane to Tempo Records and Tommy's for fries (two totally different ends of the avenue, so it was a long walk...and was it Tommy's or Tommie's?). Working at Magic Mountain. Making sure you had a cool job there. White Reeboks and Season Passes. God. You couldn't pay me to go there now. But I do fondly recall the Contempo dance floor and many a weekend spent on it.

There was a time when music defined you more than anything else. Fights were had over it. Much beloved bands were abandonned when the masses took a liking to them. Poseurs. You had to back up what you wrote on your Pee-Chee. It was serious business. Then, LPs warped. Tapes tangled. CDs were replaced with the computer. It's just not the same.

I hear you can hook your turntable up to your computer and download your LPs to iTunes. The new fangled old style. I'm too lazy for that at the moment. I just buy the singles and put needle to vinyl when I want to hear the whole album. Lying on the floor with my head toward the speakers. Singing along with Ian or David. I can't believe that Beth still has my Adam and the Ants records that she borrowed to tape in the ninth grade. The whole collection. Do you know how many special orders at Tempo that took? I hope she's enjoyed them over the years. I wonder if she'll turn up on Facebook? I'd still like those back. You can't get liner notes on iTunes.

Here's the playlist I concocted this morning. I'm not going to say that this is my best. No. That honor goes to the disco dance party mix I made a few years ago. A dual CD compilation that will have your ass shakin'. Enjoy this anyway.

Hitsville Uk - The Clash
To Have and to Have Not - Billy Bragg
Sole Salvation - The English Beat
Ain't No Other Man - Christina Aguilera
Do You Wanna Hold Me? - Bow Wow Wow
Baby I'm a Star - Prince
Got to Be Real - Cheryl Lynn
God Is a DJ - P!nk
Philadelphia Freedom - Elton John
Silver - Echo & the Bunnymen
Digital - Joy Division
Brick House - The Commodores
Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin' - Journey
DJ - David Bowie
My Baby Just Cares for Me - Nina Simone
Gimme Shelter - The Rolling Stones
Blood Sugar Sex Magik - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Poem With No Rhyme - Mads Langer
Beautiful Child - Rufus Wainwright
(White Man) In Hammersmith Palais - The Clash
Cretin Hop - The Ramones
Los Angeles - X
Love Gets Dangerous - Billy Bragg
Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division
Lips Like Sugar - Echo & The Bunnymen
Hip Hop Is Dead - Nas featuring Will.I.Am
Clash City Rockers - The Clash
Any Way You Want It - Journey
Judy Is a Punk - The Ramones
Transmission - Joy Division
Me Ever Changing Moods - The Style Council
Oh What a World - Rufus Wainwright
Kite - U2
California Love - 2Pac, Dr. Dre & Roger Troutman
Devil Doll (Demo) - X
Blitzkreig Bop - The Ramones
Bend & Break - Keane
Red Hill Mining Town - U2
This Is England - The Clash
Shine - Mads Langer (admittedly, this one doesn't really fit the punk-themed mix, but it is just so damn good, I put it on everything)

Staycation

I really wanted to go away this weekend. Unfortunately, the budget doesn't have much room. So it's another staycation for me.

A staycation isn't so bad. I don't have to pack or squeeze my toiletries into one-ounce containers. There are no lines or delays. No chance of traveller's tummy. But there's also no change of scenery, which is something I'm beginning to crave.

I shouldn't complain. I have the luxury of living in a tourist town. The ocean is walking distance away. You'd think every day would be a vacation, but no. Work has a way of sucking the life out of you no matter where you reside. Especially if you work from your residence.

So, I think I'll buy a pair of Bermuda shorts, get a tacky t-shirt, strap on a fanny-pack and wander around my neighborhood. Take in the sights with new eyes. Ooh and ah. Ask silly questions. Take too many photos. Attempt to get lost. Sip an umbrella drink in my backyard. I'll be sure to send you a postcard.

What Would You Take With You?

After having a simplifying conversation with a friend, then doing some fantasy real estate shopping over the weekend, I took a good look around my home and thought, What would I take with me?

Not much. My laptop, music and movies and books, my champagne and wine glasses, and a few pots and pans. My plates (I love my plates) and some of my clothes. Oh, and my toiletries and art. That's it. You can get really ruthless when you pack...even if it's only in your head. So, why can't I pack up all the stuff I don't really want and send it on its way?

I've tried. I've even had some success. But I just can't get as serious (or brutal) as I would be if I had to load it all up in boxes and had to take it with me.

I keep going back to my ten days in New York where I had travelled light (for me) and didn't lack a thing. I had packed perfectly for every occasion, was prepared for the weather and had a variety to pick and choose (I like options), but still didn't wear everything I packed. My entire life fit into my rolling duffel bag, and it was still more than I needed. As silly as this may sound, it was a truly liberating experience looking at the paltry selection hanging in the closet, the finite set of shoes lined on the floor. This is how I want to live, I said to myself. Simply. Efficiently. Clutter-free. More than a year later, I'm still trying to get to that point.

It really comes down to being chicken. There's something scary about throwing things out with abandon. What if I need it one day? I don't have enough money to replace it. In some ways, all that crap brings me comfort. In another, it drives me batty. I want it gone.

Part of me wants to live the fantasy. I would love to have a yard sale and get rid of it all, take what I make from it and buy only what I need and would really love. Then I say, Nah. I don't want to invest in my little hovel. While I joke that I will stay here 'til the end of time because I've got cheap rent, my neighborhood is changing. It's being over-built and will soon be over-crowded. Clompy should have served as a sign. She sounds like one of the horsemen of the apocalypse by the way she stomps around. I should have been positive thinking my way to a new, quieter, larger place with sane neighbors and my own parking space. I long for a garage. Perhaps its time for that.

I don't like being cowardly about anything. I'm one to face my fears. I'm on the verge of double-dog daring myself to do it. Get rid of it. Live simply. Efficiently. Easily. But, right now, that sounds so hard.

I Don't Like Mondays

But I do enjoy these videos. Feel free to sing along.



I feel better now, don't you?

Okay, here's one if you really want to be sullen today. Catch the genius of Kevin Aucoin's makeup artistry in this one. He's someone I really miss.

How to Write a Novel

Writing a novel takes a great deal of work and dedication. It’s not as simple as saying, “I have an idea for a story,” and placing that idea onto paper, or at least the computer screen. No. It takes much more than that, my friend. Much more.

First, you have to mentally prepare. Clear your mind so the story can fill your brain. Repeated viewings of favorite movies assist in this endeavor. It’s sort of a creative meditation, or mental laxative, evacuating all that needs not be in your head. TiVo helps with this aspect of novel writing. I recommend saving on TiVo The Departed (Boston accents are disarming), Infamous (it’s important to see a writer at work) and the guilty pleasure of The Devil Wears Prada (which helps not only to numb creative trepidation, it serves as a beacon of hope — because if that piece of shiction got not only published but adapted into a feature, there is hope for all of us).

Once you are mentally ready, you need to consider what it will take to fuel your creativity. You do have to eat. Stock up on staple items; things that won’t spoil or take much effort to prepare. My favorite staple is a collection of menus from restaurants that deliver. Face it, you aren’t going to have much time or energy to fend for yourself. Crunchy food is a good thing. It helps you to “chew” your ideas. I recommend Baked Lays and Peanut M&Ms. Baked Lays offer fiber. Who knew? And the Peanut M&Ms are low glycemic index. That’s nearly a healthy meal. And your health is important to consider. These items can be procured at any liquor or convenience store, like the one three blocks from me. Walking to get your goodies allows you to combine much needed exercise and fresh air getting. You can also buy a lottery ticket while you are there, because extra funds until that publishing deal comes through will be a boon. The odds of winning the lottery or getting that publishing deal are about the same. Just believe that if you aren’t winning that Fantasy 5, your book deal is waiting.

Soymilk is good for you. Caffeine keeps you peppy. So, you shouldn’t feel guilty about all that money you are spending on your daily 2-3 Venti soy latte Starbucks habit. You can actually see it as a help to those friends who have Starbucks stock. Wine is not only a creative lubricant, but is heart healthy. Yet, if you are going to be serious about writing, Guinness is key. Guinness has spawned many a wonderful Irish tale and is only 125 calories per 12 ounces. How fabulous is that? Granted, the can is nearly 15 ounces, but you are still about 150 calories for a rather tall glass of stout. Watching calories is important when you are writing because not a lot of cardio is involved in the drafting of your tome. Unless you count screaming at the heavens for burdening you with this task.

You will also need to make a personal run to the grocery store for necessities like Charmin, Kleenix, more wine and Guinness. While you are there, get some fruits and vegetables because now is not the time to come down with scurvy. Throw in more Baked Lays, Peanut M&M’s and some cereal and soymilk. Anything you don’t have to cook is a writer’s friend.

You must be disciplined and set aside time each day to tackle the project. The first thing to go is the gym. Staying up late while your creative flames are roaring means that early alarm clock will be beaten into snooze submission. You can’t burn the candle at both ends. The sacrifice is only temporary. And, since you’ve pretty much only been eating portion-controlled amounts of Baked Lays and Guinness, you are doing okay calorie-wise. Throw in a few lunges, some sit ups and push ups in between chapter revisions and you’ll keep some of your tone.

The next thing to go is your social life. You can’t spend that precious creative time trying to figure out what to wear on a night out. Besides, you can’t be expected to get to the dry cleaners and such. You have a colossal undertaking in writing this damn book. Brunch isn’t a weekend requirement anymore. Not even when martinis are offered. Besides, you have Guinness and wine at your house...and Pink Dot on speed dial. You’ve got a job to do. You don’t need any further distractions. And The Departed is on again. That’s a sign from the creative gods that it’s time to “meditate” and hit the laptop.

You’ll also need a creative warm up before hitting the computer keys. I recommend Big Bang Backgammon. You know it’s going to be a good writing day when your Luna whoops that wiseass Sol, making him eat his dialogue-bubbled words.

When you get to about page 300, you will see the light at the end of the tunnel, but you won’t be ready to walk toward it. That’s because you have to go back and fix those first 300 pages before you can write the last 100...or 150 as it’s turning out. It’s a damn drag, but necessary. You’ll get over it. By now, everyone at Starbucks, the liquor store, Gelson’s, Pink Dot and House of Thai Taste all know you by name and/or order. They are ready with a smile and an encouraging word. These are your allies. Tip them well.

You will also need to keep your appointments. The doctor, dentist and orthodontist can’t be ignored. Neither can your roots. A ponytail can only hide so much. You have to keep up your appearance. Never leave the house in your track pants. Change into something more chic when you venture out, even if it’s just for the chips and candy. You can always put the track pants back on when you return. Each day, you will shower. Shaving, however, can be done once a week since you are no longer going to the gym each day and your “service technician” has been put on hiatus until you get the damn book done. It’s all about the sacrifice, people. That’s how great stories get told.

I’m going on month four with this. The goal was to have it done in three. Lofty, I suppose, but I can only keep up this non-exercising, anti-social, take-out way for so long before I lose it completely. Twelve chapters down...three or five more to go. Whoever thought that writing was a walk in the park must’ve been on their second bottle of wine. I’m ready for a pint.