I bought my first package of recycled toilet paper yesterday. I gag a little whenever I think of the phrase "recycled toilet paper". It's just gross. I, like most women, am a total toilet paper snob. So, while I will buy recycled paper towels (the 365 brand at Whole Foods is the best because it comes in half-sheets with little hearts embossed on it, so what's not to love), and biodegradable detergents and non-chlorine non-bleach, organic soaps and shampoo, I can only take my ecological efforts so far. Thus far, that has not included "feminine" supplies (nor will it), or recycled TP. Until I stood in the aisle staring at the $2.99 double-roll 4-pack of environmentally conscientious bathroom tissue.
I stared at it for a long time. I looked at the options. Seventh Generation's was a whopping $4.69. Hell, if I'm going to spend that kind of money, I might as well get Charmin or Northern...stuff that hasn't been used before. No. That was quickly ruled out. The 365 brand was also $2.99, but had a lesser sheet count (yeah, I really do look at that stuff....eight months of unemployment will change a woman) than the brand (whose name I can't even recall, outside of "environmentally sound packaging") I ended up getting...but only after I squeezed it to see if I could gain a sense of its softness.
I couldn't.
But, I bought it anyway. Why? Because I was too fucking lazy to walk two stores down to CVS and get real toilet paper, that's why. Really. Can you fucking believe that one, people? No. Neither can I.
Let me further articulate the situation. My Whole Foods is in a semi-gentrified mini-mall. It houses (from South to North) a laundromat, the aforementioned Whole Foods, a 99¢ Store and a CVS. Now, my Whole Foods is the size of the Super Dome, so it's quite a walk over to the CVS. And that CVS is tiny, and still kind of grungy, but has the basics, including real toilet paper.
So, I stood there in the Whole Foods aisle of all things recycled, including things that really shouldn't be, and weighed my options: Dump my groceries in the car and walk over to CVS and get the super ultra Northern at nearly $1.25 per roll, or save myself a few steps and two bucks and buy the recycled crap.
How lazy am I?!?
Well, to my credit, I got up at 7:30, had my shower, sorted laundry, took it over to the 'mat (not the one by WF, because that one still kind of skeeves me out...all laundromats do, but I would rather get three loads done in one hour, so I suck it up and pretend I'm not really there) and got petrol for the week. So, by the time I got to Whole Foods, it was just after ten, and I had my whole day ahead of me. I just wanted to get home to my French press of French roast and the chocolate croissant I splurged on (because my uterus wanted it and she tends to get want she wants...it just makes life much easier not to argue with her, trust me).
Recycled toilet paper seemed like a cheap price to pay for that.
(I'll let you know how it goes. I'm making my half-roll of the really good stuff last as long as possible. Why do I do this to myself? Really. I would love some insight here.)
**********
And so, I should probably explain my four-month absence from the blog, especially since I promised so much and it is its last year, and to just toss a good third of it away kind of deserves an explanation.
I don't have one.
Sorry. But just being burnt out doesn't seem to hold water. Being busy with a job rather than doing the work I want doesn't really breed fodder for this forum. Spending every weekend writing for someone else's project leaves little left over for myself. Ideas whir about in my head, then evaporate before I can log in here.
There's a lot I want to say, but can't right now. There's a lot on the line and a lot on hold and I desperately want to share, but I'm afraid it would make it all go away. I know. Could I be more vague? I'm sure I could, but how annoying would that be? Or annoying-er. Whatever. There is more to say here. Really, there is. I just need to free myself from a few more strings, and then I can really let it all fly.
xo
RUAWAKE...a wake-up call column of questions, answers, celebrations, fascinations and philosophications.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
17 May 2010
16 January 2009
Control
Flipping through channels last night, I came across "Control". Whether or not you are familiar with or a fan of Joy Division, this is a must-see. The performances are astounding. The actors learned to play their instruments and sing, so the performances aren't dubbed. They are sublime.
This is the tragic story of a talented man, a short life, and an enduring impact. Put it on your Netflix. Set it on your TiVo. Do not miss this cinematic gem. That's an order.
Control itself is a funny thing. We lose it, give it up, or it ends up making us freaks. It's something you love (when you have it) or hate (when it's out of your hands or lorded over you). It's one of my favorite things. It's also something I'm learning to let go of. But, even that's a form of control, no?
Things are in a little bit of a spin for me at the moment. In a good way, though. My pet project just got a huge boost, which means a lot of work to do in a short time. Thus, my posts here will be a little less regular...but hopefully a bit better. There are no guarantees on that, however. I'm just being honest. I hope you will stay tuned, though. There will be interesting developments I hope to share here.
A lot of things will soon be out of my control. It's wonderful and knicker-twisting. I just hope I'll wear the dark circles well.
This is the tragic story of a talented man, a short life, and an enduring impact. Put it on your Netflix. Set it on your TiVo. Do not miss this cinematic gem. That's an order.
Control itself is a funny thing. We lose it, give it up, or it ends up making us freaks. It's something you love (when you have it) or hate (when it's out of your hands or lorded over you). It's one of my favorite things. It's also something I'm learning to let go of. But, even that's a form of control, no?
Things are in a little bit of a spin for me at the moment. In a good way, though. My pet project just got a huge boost, which means a lot of work to do in a short time. Thus, my posts here will be a little less regular...but hopefully a bit better. There are no guarantees on that, however. I'm just being honest. I hope you will stay tuned, though. There will be interesting developments I hope to share here.
A lot of things will soon be out of my control. It's wonderful and knicker-twisting. I just hope I'll wear the dark circles well.
15 January 2009
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.
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.
09 October 2008
Good In Bed Again
There are lots of things I'm good at, and lots of things I'm good at in bed. Writing is not one of them. Not anymore.
I suppose I've always written. Early academia kind of forces you to. By high school, I was prolific...in writing notes. I would write up to five per class to pass on to friends in the halls. All day. Every day. Not just little passages. Massive missives went out. Some were well over a page. I owe the planet a forest.
When I got to college, I began to get more into creative writing, but the film bug bit harder. Off to film school I went as an experimental narrative director. Tuition was so high, and funding so low, that I didn't have enough money to make a film. "Well, you could always make a video," some of the faculty told me. My reply was, "Um, I didn't come to film school to make a video." That's when I said, Screw it. If I couldn't shoot the movie I wanted, I'd write one instead. A traditional narrative writer was born.
My first script was written just to see if I could write for 120 pages. And I did it the hard way. The screenplay format was so foreign to me, as was writing on a computer, that I couldn't do it at first, and wrote it out longhand with a Bic pen on yellow legal pads while I was working on a film set. I'd come home and transcribe it onto the computer. And this was before FinalDraft, so I would just tab-tab-tab, return, tab-tab my way through it on Word in bed, my 145 PowerBook sitting on a breakfast tray. GoodFellas or Citizen Kane on the VCR, or the Menendez trial on CourTV would play as I wrote in the sack. I suppose it was no surprise I ended up writing a character study and a dark comedy.
I would write until I fell asleep. Then, I would wake up and write some more. When I moved into my first apartment (second apartment, technically; first without a flatmate), I would do the same thing over long weekends. Thanksgiving was my favorite. Boyfriend out of town, the city quiet, I would write for four-and-a-half days straight in bed. Then, I moved in with Almost, and bed writing became a thing of the past, relegated to the living room. Sofa city, sweetheart.
Even after that relationship ended and I moved into my own pad again, the magic was gone. The bed was no longer a writing zone. The desk became workspace for clients and the couch became my personal creative corner. I longed for the bed, though. Back to those early days of comfort and flow. I want it to be good in bed again. Being so tired lately, I thought I would give it one more go and attempted to blog between the sheets.
No go.
Oh, other things happened. There was plenty of channel surfing and oodles of Twitter feeds to read. Bravo on the boobtube didn't really help inspire. WTF is up with that design show? Talk about a creative c@!kblock. I guess this is what it feels like to be frigid. The bed has become a dead zone. For writing, I mean.
I suppose I've always written. Early academia kind of forces you to. By high school, I was prolific...in writing notes. I would write up to five per class to pass on to friends in the halls. All day. Every day. Not just little passages. Massive missives went out. Some were well over a page. I owe the planet a forest.
When I got to college, I began to get more into creative writing, but the film bug bit harder. Off to film school I went as an experimental narrative director. Tuition was so high, and funding so low, that I didn't have enough money to make a film. "Well, you could always make a video," some of the faculty told me. My reply was, "Um, I didn't come to film school to make a video." That's when I said, Screw it. If I couldn't shoot the movie I wanted, I'd write one instead. A traditional narrative writer was born.
My first script was written just to see if I could write for 120 pages. And I did it the hard way. The screenplay format was so foreign to me, as was writing on a computer, that I couldn't do it at first, and wrote it out longhand with a Bic pen on yellow legal pads while I was working on a film set. I'd come home and transcribe it onto the computer. And this was before FinalDraft, so I would just tab-tab-tab, return, tab-tab my way through it on Word in bed, my 145 PowerBook sitting on a breakfast tray. GoodFellas or Citizen Kane on the VCR, or the Menendez trial on CourTV would play as I wrote in the sack. I suppose it was no surprise I ended up writing a character study and a dark comedy.
I would write until I fell asleep. Then, I would wake up and write some more. When I moved into my first apartment (second apartment, technically; first without a flatmate), I would do the same thing over long weekends. Thanksgiving was my favorite. Boyfriend out of town, the city quiet, I would write for four-and-a-half days straight in bed. Then, I moved in with Almost, and bed writing became a thing of the past, relegated to the living room. Sofa city, sweetheart.
Even after that relationship ended and I moved into my own pad again, the magic was gone. The bed was no longer a writing zone. The desk became workspace for clients and the couch became my personal creative corner. I longed for the bed, though. Back to those early days of comfort and flow. I want it to be good in bed again. Being so tired lately, I thought I would give it one more go and attempted to blog between the sheets.
No go.
Oh, other things happened. There was plenty of channel surfing and oodles of Twitter feeds to read. Bravo on the boobtube didn't really help inspire. WTF is up with that design show? Talk about a creative c@!kblock. I guess this is what it feels like to be frigid. The bed has become a dead zone. For writing, I mean.
23 September 2008
Not Sure What's Next
I'm kind of not sure what's going on with me. Perhaps it's a pseudo-corporate rebellion, a compulsion or obsession. All I want to do is listen to words of Trent Reznor and look at the art of Chuck Connelly I long to buy. When my hair grows out, I totally want him to do a portrait of me. If you are familiar with his art, you'll know there's no vanity in that desire. No telling what the end result would be, and that's the part I like best. (And, if you're still wondering what to get me for Christmas, there's another idea.)
Maybe I'm tapping a different creative vein. Since I'm stuck in re-writing purgatory right now, I can't move on to something new. This isn't a bad thing. Not this time. It's actually fantabulous. My "baby" is getting some attention, so she needs to be nipped and tucked. Hollywood likes it tight, you know. But, that means my creative brain can't move forward. It's revving in neutral, wheels spinning, and I'm beginning to jones. My right brain needs a fix, and bad. Picture Ewan McGregor in "Trainspotting". Not the nude scenes, but the part when he's going through heroin withdrawals. Not the worst toilet in Scotland scene, the one with the creepy creeping baby. Well, Ewan-as-Renton writhing in the bed is my creative lobe aching to move on to something new, but minus the profuse sweating and awful wallpaper.
Two more stories are brewing in my brain, and I've had to press pause. There's nothing worse than that. It's like cutting off circulation to a limb. The creative equivalent of all-dress-up-and-no-place-to-go or blue balls. It's pathetic. And you begin to panic because you are afraid that when you go to reach for it, it will be gone. You'll catch a glimpse of its back as it walks away from you, holding its middle finger high. Therefore, you can't let it all go. You become something of a "chippy", using just enough not to get sick. Because I can't tap the vein I want or give it what it needs, I've started using Reznor and Connelly as my Methadone. Their art is so visceral I feel like I am in the creative process when I listen to it or look at it. It's kind of groovy. Though, listening to Nine Inch Nails after midnight isn't highly recommended. It's like having a venti-triple-shot latte. The nights have been productive, but the mornings are rough.
With Trent and Chuck serving as surrogate mothers for my next two pieces, I'm not sure how they are going to turn out. I hope half as eloquent and interesting as those two gents are. But, I think the romantic-comedy in the hopper will be a tad outside the box.
Maybe I'm tapping a different creative vein. Since I'm stuck in re-writing purgatory right now, I can't move on to something new. This isn't a bad thing. Not this time. It's actually fantabulous. My "baby" is getting some attention, so she needs to be nipped and tucked. Hollywood likes it tight, you know. But, that means my creative brain can't move forward. It's revving in neutral, wheels spinning, and I'm beginning to jones. My right brain needs a fix, and bad. Picture Ewan McGregor in "Trainspotting". Not the nude scenes, but the part when he's going through heroin withdrawals. Not the worst toilet in Scotland scene, the one with the creepy creeping baby. Well, Ewan-as-Renton writhing in the bed is my creative lobe aching to move on to something new, but minus the profuse sweating and awful wallpaper.
Two more stories are brewing in my brain, and I've had to press pause. There's nothing worse than that. It's like cutting off circulation to a limb. The creative equivalent of all-dress-up-and-no-place-to-go or blue balls. It's pathetic. And you begin to panic because you are afraid that when you go to reach for it, it will be gone. You'll catch a glimpse of its back as it walks away from you, holding its middle finger high. Therefore, you can't let it all go. You become something of a "chippy", using just enough not to get sick. Because I can't tap the vein I want or give it what it needs, I've started using Reznor and Connelly as my Methadone. Their art is so visceral I feel like I am in the creative process when I listen to it or look at it. It's kind of groovy. Though, listening to Nine Inch Nails after midnight isn't highly recommended. It's like having a venti-triple-shot latte. The nights have been productive, but the mornings are rough.
With Trent and Chuck serving as surrogate mothers for my next two pieces, I'm not sure how they are going to turn out. I hope half as eloquent and interesting as those two gents are. But, I think the romantic-comedy in the hopper will be a tad outside the box.
13 August 2008
Overdrawn
I've always been a girl who dreamt big. After all, it's free. I like anything at a discount. I make the most of free. So, my dreams are epic. Limitless. But they do come with a bit of a cost.
While I am a dreamer, I'm not a fantasist. My dreams are reality based. I don't expect to meet an exotic (and truly handsome) prince from a little known European monarchy who will whisk me away, make me his queen and we'll live in the well-heated castle (replete with a moat) in a happily-ever-after manner. No. But I have often said I intend to be William's Wallace Simpson. Oh, come on. Stranger things have happened.
I'd like to win the lottery. But I only play the $50,000 jackpot. Better odds. Name kept out of the paper. And my real goal is to just pay off my bills. I don't need a McMansion.
The dream I have for my life is a simple one. I get to live on my own terms. Make a decent living doing what I love. Have a great guy to share it with. Sure, there are additional perks I'd indulge in, like multiple homes. But, even in my dreams, they are modest. A place in LA near the water (which I have now with rent control). Perhaps a pied-á-terre in Manhattan. A flat in Dublin. Something quaint in Tuscany. I'd rent those out when I'm not there, of course. Like I said, reality based. Rental income is nothing to sniff at.
I don't want a big, fancy car. I love my Ghetta. She'll soon be nine. I think if I got another car it would be a Jetta or a Rabbit or a Mini. Although, the Audi turbo wagon is kind of nice. My dream wardrobe just consists of the basics. Something comfortable and right for every occasion. But I wouldn't mind having Grace Kelly's wardrobe from "Rear Window". We need an Edith Head revival. I wonder if the Gap could pull that off?
A simple life for me would truly be a dream. Funnily enough, getting to that simplicity has been a challenge. While I'm living life mostly on my own terms, there is a price to that. The stubbornness grows with time. I don't hold myself open to a "Plan B". I've invested too much in my aspirations to turn back now. I find myself mentally pacing, holding breath, gritting my teeth as I wait for an answer. What I've long ago planted and nurtured is due to finally bloom. However, I've been waiting an awfully, awfully long time for that. When one gets close to seeing something come to fruition, one's patience is spent. Overdrawn, in fact. Optimism turns into bullheaded agitation. Irritation sets it. Then a pit in one's stomach grows. Please, don't tell me we are back to square one. Not again.
These aren't failures or set backs, just par for the course in a creative field. A path that doesn't come with a map or signposts to let you know you are nearing your destination. Because, when it happens, it really does come overnight. Or, after lunch. Years and years of work culminate into a moment of success. Perhaps a mention in a trade. A blurb on the internet. A Twitter post (or five, since they are small). Until then, there are merely blips and hope and opportunities that come one's way. Blip. Blip. Blip.
So I sit in a patience deficit. Blue from holding breath. Cramped from crossing fingers. Blind from staring at the BlackBerry. Waiting for the call or email to come so I know, one way or another, what move to make next. It's not the end of the line. Not a brick wall or hurdle, just another step. Whether it's forward or back or lateral has yet to be determined. I need the BlackBerry to vibrate in order to know that. One thing is for certain, though: At the end of the day I can always count on my friends. Their love and support and patience comes in surplus.
While I am a dreamer, I'm not a fantasist. My dreams are reality based. I don't expect to meet an exotic (and truly handsome) prince from a little known European monarchy who will whisk me away, make me his queen and we'll live in the well-heated castle (replete with a moat) in a happily-ever-after manner. No. But I have often said I intend to be William's Wallace Simpson. Oh, come on. Stranger things have happened.
I'd like to win the lottery. But I only play the $50,000 jackpot. Better odds. Name kept out of the paper. And my real goal is to just pay off my bills. I don't need a McMansion.
The dream I have for my life is a simple one. I get to live on my own terms. Make a decent living doing what I love. Have a great guy to share it with. Sure, there are additional perks I'd indulge in, like multiple homes. But, even in my dreams, they are modest. A place in LA near the water (which I have now with rent control). Perhaps a pied-á-terre in Manhattan. A flat in Dublin. Something quaint in Tuscany. I'd rent those out when I'm not there, of course. Like I said, reality based. Rental income is nothing to sniff at.
I don't want a big, fancy car. I love my Ghetta. She'll soon be nine. I think if I got another car it would be a Jetta or a Rabbit or a Mini. Although, the Audi turbo wagon is kind of nice. My dream wardrobe just consists of the basics. Something comfortable and right for every occasion. But I wouldn't mind having Grace Kelly's wardrobe from "Rear Window". We need an Edith Head revival. I wonder if the Gap could pull that off?
A simple life for me would truly be a dream. Funnily enough, getting to that simplicity has been a challenge. While I'm living life mostly on my own terms, there is a price to that. The stubbornness grows with time. I don't hold myself open to a "Plan B". I've invested too much in my aspirations to turn back now. I find myself mentally pacing, holding breath, gritting my teeth as I wait for an answer. What I've long ago planted and nurtured is due to finally bloom. However, I've been waiting an awfully, awfully long time for that. When one gets close to seeing something come to fruition, one's patience is spent. Overdrawn, in fact. Optimism turns into bullheaded agitation. Irritation sets it. Then a pit in one's stomach grows. Please, don't tell me we are back to square one. Not again.
These aren't failures or set backs, just par for the course in a creative field. A path that doesn't come with a map or signposts to let you know you are nearing your destination. Because, when it happens, it really does come overnight. Or, after lunch. Years and years of work culminate into a moment of success. Perhaps a mention in a trade. A blurb on the internet. A Twitter post (or five, since they are small). Until then, there are merely blips and hope and opportunities that come one's way. Blip. Blip. Blip.
So I sit in a patience deficit. Blue from holding breath. Cramped from crossing fingers. Blind from staring at the BlackBerry. Waiting for the call or email to come so I know, one way or another, what move to make next. It's not the end of the line. Not a brick wall or hurdle, just another step. Whether it's forward or back or lateral has yet to be determined. I need the BlackBerry to vibrate in order to know that. One thing is for certain, though: At the end of the day I can always count on my friends. Their love and support and patience comes in surplus.
05 August 2008
Goal!
I'm not an overly ambitious individual. But I am goal oriented. The goals tend to be personal, not things which would compete against anyone else. There is no scoreboard. No tick marks, no notches on lipstick cases or anywhere else. But there are lists. Some are physically noted, others are mental. Either way, I find them a powerful tool.
I remember years ago when I went freelance -- right at the time the economy took it's first nose-dive; it was 2000, and who knew what we were in for. Being the type who leaps then looks, I found myself without a parachute. "Man, six months ago, we would've hired anyone who knew where to put a comma," one ad guy told me when I mentioned I was looking for copy writing work. When the writing gigs I was told would come were moved to the back-burner, then taken off the cooker entirely, I took truly odd jobs, most of them free of writing. I took what business savvy I had and organized small businesses and individual offices. It was far from my goal, but filled time and came with a check.
To say I was broke was an understatement. I thought I had dropped twenty-grand from my annual income. At the end of the year, I found out I had more than cut it in half. As hard and scary as that was, it was also liberating. I would cash the weekly check from my Long Beach job at a bank near the Target. I'd walk over to the red bull's-eye and spend ten dollars on flowers as a treat to myself and my backyard. I had a lovely garden that year. And that simple act brought me a great deal of joy.
I also wrote out a list of things I really wanted: New sofa; leather coat; leather pants (remember, this was 2000 and those were a vital part of fashion); and a trip to Ireland topped the list. Outside of making it to the Emerald Isle, I achieved every goal, in cash. I had to be patient, look for deals, would only accept perfection. It was a pleasure and slight source of pride to draw a line through an item on that list. And, while I don't center my life on material goods, I learned what it was to really appreciate what I earned, the work that went into it, and how to use it wisely...more or less (don't pick on my pants).
I lived that way for two years. A very long, very hard two years. Then I landed regular gigs, steady clients and was finally paid a living rate. The simple goal of paying everything on time (rent, student loans, insurance and car payment were always on time; credit cards, nearly on time; utilities were paid on the color-coded system in that lean period...when they got to yellow, pink or red, the payment was called in), turned to more personal aspirations. Five years after writing it on the first list, I made it to Ireland. Then, I finally got a new computer (I tend to get one every eight years) and went wireless. Modern technology. And then I set about my biggest goal: Finish the novel.
I gave up two years of my life for this goal. Not intentionally. Once I started, I found I couldn't stop writing. The novel was interrupted by the Guide (that pink thing to your left). It was interrupted again when interest in an ancient script of mine was piqued and required a rewrite to get it into modern times. Then the novel was finally finished, sent out and a revision requested. That revision was interrupted when the script needed to be revamped. Then another script itched to be written. Now, I'm about to start my third script (that would make three in a year), outlining my second novel and slowly revising the first.
I'm not telling you all this as boasting. Gag. There's really nothing here to brag about. I'm merely noting how one little goal can spiral into more and more and more than you anticipated. Of course now the goal (and the big job) is getting it all out there. Baby steps are being made, but I am finally focusing on my aspirations with the intensity that I should...nearly eight years after the fact. The whole point of going freelance was to make my living as a writer. It took me a long time to finally get the nerve up to do just that. I hope you won't wait that long to reach for your goal(s). There's no point in putting it off. The excuses we can come up with (and, believe me, I had mine...namely rent and color-coded accounting), don't really add up to anything but procrastination, and that's such a waste of time.
Go on. Write the list. Take the leap. My only advice would be to pack a parachute. It's the wiser way to jump.
I remember years ago when I went freelance -- right at the time the economy took it's first nose-dive; it was 2000, and who knew what we were in for. Being the type who leaps then looks, I found myself without a parachute. "Man, six months ago, we would've hired anyone who knew where to put a comma," one ad guy told me when I mentioned I was looking for copy writing work. When the writing gigs I was told would come were moved to the back-burner, then taken off the cooker entirely, I took truly odd jobs, most of them free of writing. I took what business savvy I had and organized small businesses and individual offices. It was far from my goal, but filled time and came with a check.
To say I was broke was an understatement. I thought I had dropped twenty-grand from my annual income. At the end of the year, I found out I had more than cut it in half. As hard and scary as that was, it was also liberating. I would cash the weekly check from my Long Beach job at a bank near the Target. I'd walk over to the red bull's-eye and spend ten dollars on flowers as a treat to myself and my backyard. I had a lovely garden that year. And that simple act brought me a great deal of joy.
I also wrote out a list of things I really wanted: New sofa; leather coat; leather pants (remember, this was 2000 and those were a vital part of fashion); and a trip to Ireland topped the list. Outside of making it to the Emerald Isle, I achieved every goal, in cash. I had to be patient, look for deals, would only accept perfection. It was a pleasure and slight source of pride to draw a line through an item on that list. And, while I don't center my life on material goods, I learned what it was to really appreciate what I earned, the work that went into it, and how to use it wisely...more or less (don't pick on my pants).
I lived that way for two years. A very long, very hard two years. Then I landed regular gigs, steady clients and was finally paid a living rate. The simple goal of paying everything on time (rent, student loans, insurance and car payment were always on time; credit cards, nearly on time; utilities were paid on the color-coded system in that lean period...when they got to yellow, pink or red, the payment was called in), turned to more personal aspirations. Five years after writing it on the first list, I made it to Ireland. Then, I finally got a new computer (I tend to get one every eight years) and went wireless. Modern technology. And then I set about my biggest goal: Finish the novel.
I gave up two years of my life for this goal. Not intentionally. Once I started, I found I couldn't stop writing. The novel was interrupted by the Guide (that pink thing to your left). It was interrupted again when interest in an ancient script of mine was piqued and required a rewrite to get it into modern times. Then the novel was finally finished, sent out and a revision requested. That revision was interrupted when the script needed to be revamped. Then another script itched to be written. Now, I'm about to start my third script (that would make three in a year), outlining my second novel and slowly revising the first.
I'm not telling you all this as boasting. Gag. There's really nothing here to brag about. I'm merely noting how one little goal can spiral into more and more and more than you anticipated. Of course now the goal (and the big job) is getting it all out there. Baby steps are being made, but I am finally focusing on my aspirations with the intensity that I should...nearly eight years after the fact. The whole point of going freelance was to make my living as a writer. It took me a long time to finally get the nerve up to do just that. I hope you won't wait that long to reach for your goal(s). There's no point in putting it off. The excuses we can come up with (and, believe me, I had mine...namely rent and color-coded accounting), don't really add up to anything but procrastination, and that's such a waste of time.
Go on. Write the list. Take the leap. My only advice would be to pack a parachute. It's the wiser way to jump.
30 July 2008
Tick Tock Ticked Off
Nobody's perfect. Things happen. I know. But, at some point, a line has to be drawn.
You have one yourself: A friend who is time-telling-time-managerially challenged. One who, no matter what, will be late. Fifteen minutes late would be early for them. A half-hour or more is more likely. And they are not bothered by it. A smile and a, "Yeah, sorry," is supposed to suffice. But I've had it. I'm good and ticked off.
I believe giving slack when slack is needed, but there's only so much I can give before I yank it back. I sort of live by the Three Strikes Rule. Once, it could happen to anyone. Twice, well, we all have bad days. Thrice, that's just ridiculous, and a waste of my time. After that third offense, you're out. The chances of plans being made between us are next to nil, and will happen at zero inconvenience to me. Why should I be troubled by someone who can't bother to be on time? The same goes for those who constantly "forget" or need to "reschedule". The chronically overbooked who haven't yet mastered putting a pen to a calendar to note one's schedule. (Usually actors or the representation thereof.) They are the ones I pencil in and call to "confirm" the appointment well in advance knowing there will be a change and use that time for someone I can actually ink. I tend to lose their overscheduled numbers and am absolutely amazed when they call or email with the suggestion of "Drinks?"
Nobody's perfect. Things happen. Believe me, I know. I have forgotten the promise of a dinner, been an hour late due to traffic (and I even left early), and had to reschedule a date more than once. I've had mornings when I've gotten into a time warp and lost a chunk of time. How does that happen? But the winner was when I'd been working at my desk counting down the minutes to leave for a lunch date only to have the friend call and say, "Where the hell are you?"
Writers can trip. We get pulled into our heads and lose all track of time and housecleaning. But never once have I said, "You are really going to have to cut me some slack," because of it. No. That's my bad. I will warn, "You really will have to excuse me. I've got writer's brain and I might float off at any moment," because, when I'm in the thick of a story, part of my mind is always working on it, and sometimes it will cause me to be distracted almost to rudeness. My caveat is not meant as a free pass for this impoliteness but a request for my friends to tell me to snap out of it. It annoys even me.
Traffic is a factor that is beyond unpredictable. And I know that the best of intentions can blow up in your face. The time I was an hour late, I gave myself fifty minutes to get to a place that would normally take me thirty-five. Because it was early in the traffic wave, I thought that would more than ample. I know the good ways to get places. But, that day, it was bumper to bumper at every turn. I zigged and zagged, watched the clock tick away and realized my BlackBerry had shuffled numbers. I didn't have my friend's cell number. No one at her office had her cell number. I didn't have the cell number of the friend of hers we were meeting with (he and I had chatted on the phone but this would be our first face to face). I left messages on their office voicemails and called the restaurant. It was embarrassing. I showed up sixty-five minutes late, nearly in tears. The meeting itself was more business than social, so I was doubly mortified. Fortunately, they were very understanding and were kind enough to order me a stiff drink to help bring my blood pressure back down. We ended up having a great night, and my friend's friend and I ended up doing business together and becoming great friends. Still, you had better believe that when I go to meet him or her, I leave extra, extra early, let them know when I am in the car and if I run into any traffic troubles. The turn-by-turn updates can be a little annoying, I'm sure, but it's just not okay to be late, especially if you've been late before.
A trick I play on the terminally tardy is: "Why don't you pick the time. Let me know what works for you." That way, the ball is totally in their time-constrained court. So I am beyond perplexed when they can still manage to be late. And I'm not talking a few minutes. I'm talking thirty. And that's after they call saying, "I'm running ten minutes behind." I can't say I'm happy to see my friend when he/she gets to my door -- or worse, the venue that I'm already at. Waiting, without a book because I was overly optimistic that this time, this time for sure, they would be on time. I believe in my friends. They are smart people. They should know how to read a clock. And most of my friends are quite apt at it. It's the few, the annoying few, that hold me up. I have other things to do with my time than wait around, don't you? And I'm beginning to take the stand that people who waste my time aren't worth my time.
I don't expect perfection. I know that life, and bad drivers, can get in the way. But I'd like to see an effort made to keep things on the dot, and keep me from being totally ticked off.
You have one yourself: A friend who is time-telling-time-managerially challenged. One who, no matter what, will be late. Fifteen minutes late would be early for them. A half-hour or more is more likely. And they are not bothered by it. A smile and a, "Yeah, sorry," is supposed to suffice. But I've had it. I'm good and ticked off.
I believe giving slack when slack is needed, but there's only so much I can give before I yank it back. I sort of live by the Three Strikes Rule. Once, it could happen to anyone. Twice, well, we all have bad days. Thrice, that's just ridiculous, and a waste of my time. After that third offense, you're out. The chances of plans being made between us are next to nil, and will happen at zero inconvenience to me. Why should I be troubled by someone who can't bother to be on time? The same goes for those who constantly "forget" or need to "reschedule". The chronically overbooked who haven't yet mastered putting a pen to a calendar to note one's schedule. (Usually actors or the representation thereof.) They are the ones I pencil in and call to "confirm" the appointment well in advance knowing there will be a change and use that time for someone I can actually ink. I tend to lose their overscheduled numbers and am absolutely amazed when they call or email with the suggestion of "Drinks?"
Nobody's perfect. Things happen. Believe me, I know. I have forgotten the promise of a dinner, been an hour late due to traffic (and I even left early), and had to reschedule a date more than once. I've had mornings when I've gotten into a time warp and lost a chunk of time. How does that happen? But the winner was when I'd been working at my desk counting down the minutes to leave for a lunch date only to have the friend call and say, "Where the hell are you?"
Writers can trip. We get pulled into our heads and lose all track of time and housecleaning. But never once have I said, "You are really going to have to cut me some slack," because of it. No. That's my bad. I will warn, "You really will have to excuse me. I've got writer's brain and I might float off at any moment," because, when I'm in the thick of a story, part of my mind is always working on it, and sometimes it will cause me to be distracted almost to rudeness. My caveat is not meant as a free pass for this impoliteness but a request for my friends to tell me to snap out of it. It annoys even me.
Traffic is a factor that is beyond unpredictable. And I know that the best of intentions can blow up in your face. The time I was an hour late, I gave myself fifty minutes to get to a place that would normally take me thirty-five. Because it was early in the traffic wave, I thought that would more than ample. I know the good ways to get places. But, that day, it was bumper to bumper at every turn. I zigged and zagged, watched the clock tick away and realized my BlackBerry had shuffled numbers. I didn't have my friend's cell number. No one at her office had her cell number. I didn't have the cell number of the friend of hers we were meeting with (he and I had chatted on the phone but this would be our first face to face). I left messages on their office voicemails and called the restaurant. It was embarrassing. I showed up sixty-five minutes late, nearly in tears. The meeting itself was more business than social, so I was doubly mortified. Fortunately, they were very understanding and were kind enough to order me a stiff drink to help bring my blood pressure back down. We ended up having a great night, and my friend's friend and I ended up doing business together and becoming great friends. Still, you had better believe that when I go to meet him or her, I leave extra, extra early, let them know when I am in the car and if I run into any traffic troubles. The turn-by-turn updates can be a little annoying, I'm sure, but it's just not okay to be late, especially if you've been late before.
A trick I play on the terminally tardy is: "Why don't you pick the time. Let me know what works for you." That way, the ball is totally in their time-constrained court. So I am beyond perplexed when they can still manage to be late. And I'm not talking a few minutes. I'm talking thirty. And that's after they call saying, "I'm running ten minutes behind." I can't say I'm happy to see my friend when he/she gets to my door -- or worse, the venue that I'm already at. Waiting, without a book because I was overly optimistic that this time, this time for sure, they would be on time. I believe in my friends. They are smart people. They should know how to read a clock. And most of my friends are quite apt at it. It's the few, the annoying few, that hold me up. I have other things to do with my time than wait around, don't you? And I'm beginning to take the stand that people who waste my time aren't worth my time.
I don't expect perfection. I know that life, and bad drivers, can get in the way. But I'd like to see an effort made to keep things on the dot, and keep me from being totally ticked off.
09 July 2008
I Know Who Killed (Ti)Me
I cannot believe that I actually watched I Know Who Killed Me. The shame I feel. Maybe it was the Midol I was stoned on. Or maybe this is the length I will go to in order to avoid the revision on my novel. Writers. We tend to avoid writing every once in a while. It’s all part of the process.
Probably the most disturbing part of this is that I didn’t merely stumble upon the movie playing on cable. No. I caught a glimpse of it on the guide and selected it. I chose it. This was an act of free will. There must be something wrong with me.
For those of you who might be curious, this is not one of those “so bad it’s good” films. It was so bad that I am absolutely amazed that it got funding in the first place. I watched it with my eyebrows together and mouth agape. Fortunately, I was alone. It was so bad that the ending credits went in alphabetical order (and it’s not like the movie boasted an all-star cast). The woman who played “Fat Teena” rolled first. (I suppose it does pay to have a last name that starts with double-A’s.) But I started to surmise that Lindsay might not have been too popular on set if the Bozo-like lipstick application in the strip club scene was any indication. It artistically emphasized the poorly timed and oddly chosen lip injection she had, probably for the “character”. To think of all the little celluloids that died to make that film. Sigh.
Perhaps that premium cable package isn’t such a good idea. I can only pray that if/when my life ever flashes before my eyes, I won’t have to relive that hour and a half.
Probably the most disturbing part of this is that I didn’t merely stumble upon the movie playing on cable. No. I caught a glimpse of it on the guide and selected it. I chose it. This was an act of free will. There must be something wrong with me.
For those of you who might be curious, this is not one of those “so bad it’s good” films. It was so bad that I am absolutely amazed that it got funding in the first place. I watched it with my eyebrows together and mouth agape. Fortunately, I was alone. It was so bad that the ending credits went in alphabetical order (and it’s not like the movie boasted an all-star cast). The woman who played “Fat Teena” rolled first. (I suppose it does pay to have a last name that starts with double-A’s.) But I started to surmise that Lindsay might not have been too popular on set if the Bozo-like lipstick application in the strip club scene was any indication. It artistically emphasized the poorly timed and oddly chosen lip injection she had, probably for the “character”. To think of all the little celluloids that died to make that film. Sigh.
Perhaps that premium cable package isn’t such a good idea. I can only pray that if/when my life ever flashes before my eyes, I won’t have to relive that hour and a half.
30 November 2007
A Day Without Art
The first day of December is a day of remembrance. “World AIDS Day” is also “A Day Without Art”. Back in 1989, many artists chose to honor those lost to AIDS by not creating on December 1st. Theatres went dark. Galleries closed or shrouded the art. While some artists choose to show commemorative work on that day, others still choose not to create on December 1st. I am one of them.
Having gone to an art school, there was no way not to be touched by HIV/AIDS. While I have known many friends and acquaintances who were positive or had gone full-blown, I can’t say that one has died from it. But that’s only if I don’t count a suicide. I remember the pre-“cocktail” days when the loss of from AIDS was massive. There was a time when every obituary in the trades was a loss from that disease. Gratefully, that is now rare. But AIDS is still here. And, like most things from the 80s and 90s, it’s having a come back.
Condoms, people. Wear them. If not for fear of HIV, then what about Herpes, Chlamydia or even Syphilis, because that’s making a come back, too? I’m not about preaching abstinence. Sex is a fabulous part of life. I’m no saint, but I’ve not been able to master slutty. I am a natural born serial monogamist. Even my one-night stands turn into relationships. I’m so not one to judge, but I am one to question: Why wouldn’t you use a condom?
First of all, it takes away the question of who will sleep in the wet spot. Secondly, guys, it takes away the question of if she remembered to take her pill. Unless you’ve had a vasectomy, boys, a condom is the only way to be sure she won’t get pregnant...and even then you need to know how to use it right. Thirdly, there isn’t that much of a difference. Just find the condom you like best. I’m a Trojan fan. Don’t like the Durex, though.
We all would like to think we are bullet proof, or at least Teflon coated, but we aren’t. AIDS testing is no longer vogue, but it is prudent. And, for me, it is required. Until there is a committed relationship with all the proper paperwork, a raincoat is proper attire.
One boyfriend took my request as a bit of an insult. He asked me, “Why do you need a test? Do you think you might have slept with somebody wrong? I mean, I was in a relationship for seven years. I know I’m clean.”
I reminded him that his ex cheated on him, with at least one guy he knew of. Which goes to show that you might be monogamous, but that doesn’t mean your partner is. My point was that you never know until you know, and the only way to know is to be tested. It’s not about being “dirty” or sleeping with someone “wrong”. It’s not about judgment but knowledge. He saw my point and went willingly to the doctor. The swab up the urethra was a little surprising, but I reminded him what women go through for our annual pap. We both passed our tests with flying negatives, as we expected and, at the end of the day, he admitted his respect for my insistence.
To me, it’s not about expecting doom, but respecting yourself and those you love, or hope to one day. And, it’s a true test to see how much that person respects you. If he or she can’t commit to taking a test at your request, that can’t bode well for your future. And are you really willing to risk that?
Whether you choose to create on December 1st or not, please take a moment to think about how far we haven’t come in reducing HIV and AIDS. Then take a test. Or take someone to take their first test. Or buy a value pack of condoms and shag your lover senseless. However you chose to do December 1st, I wish you good health.
For information on free testing, visit: http://www.knowhivaids.org/
Having gone to an art school, there was no way not to be touched by HIV/AIDS. While I have known many friends and acquaintances who were positive or had gone full-blown, I can’t say that one has died from it. But that’s only if I don’t count a suicide. I remember the pre-“cocktail” days when the loss of from AIDS was massive. There was a time when every obituary in the trades was a loss from that disease. Gratefully, that is now rare. But AIDS is still here. And, like most things from the 80s and 90s, it’s having a come back.
Condoms, people. Wear them. If not for fear of HIV, then what about Herpes, Chlamydia or even Syphilis, because that’s making a come back, too? I’m not about preaching abstinence. Sex is a fabulous part of life. I’m no saint, but I’ve not been able to master slutty. I am a natural born serial monogamist. Even my one-night stands turn into relationships. I’m so not one to judge, but I am one to question: Why wouldn’t you use a condom?
First of all, it takes away the question of who will sleep in the wet spot. Secondly, guys, it takes away the question of if she remembered to take her pill. Unless you’ve had a vasectomy, boys, a condom is the only way to be sure she won’t get pregnant...and even then you need to know how to use it right. Thirdly, there isn’t that much of a difference. Just find the condom you like best. I’m a Trojan fan. Don’t like the Durex, though.
We all would like to think we are bullet proof, or at least Teflon coated, but we aren’t. AIDS testing is no longer vogue, but it is prudent. And, for me, it is required. Until there is a committed relationship with all the proper paperwork, a raincoat is proper attire.
One boyfriend took my request as a bit of an insult. He asked me, “Why do you need a test? Do you think you might have slept with somebody wrong? I mean, I was in a relationship for seven years. I know I’m clean.”
I reminded him that his ex cheated on him, with at least one guy he knew of. Which goes to show that you might be monogamous, but that doesn’t mean your partner is. My point was that you never know until you know, and the only way to know is to be tested. It’s not about being “dirty” or sleeping with someone “wrong”. It’s not about judgment but knowledge. He saw my point and went willingly to the doctor. The swab up the urethra was a little surprising, but I reminded him what women go through for our annual pap. We both passed our tests with flying negatives, as we expected and, at the end of the day, he admitted his respect for my insistence.
To me, it’s not about expecting doom, but respecting yourself and those you love, or hope to one day. And, it’s a true test to see how much that person respects you. If he or she can’t commit to taking a test at your request, that can’t bode well for your future. And are you really willing to risk that?
Whether you choose to create on December 1st or not, please take a moment to think about how far we haven’t come in reducing HIV and AIDS. Then take a test. Or take someone to take their first test. Or buy a value pack of condoms and shag your lover senseless. However you chose to do December 1st, I wish you good health.
For information on free testing, visit: http://www.knowhivaids.org/
03 October 2007
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.
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.
05 September 2007
A Month of Somedays
Summer is ending. And it’s not just the warm weather (or endless-seeming heat wave) and long days that are fading away; so many other things have come to an end. Good, bad, indifferent or appropriate, loose ends have been tied, questions answered and natural resolutions occurred. Spring shot it all into action, bringing my past into my present. By summer, my future had come into clearer view.
I don’t believe you can go back. Though, sometimes, you find yourself doing just that. I was brought back in touch with Masters when I went to Manhattan. He was still in the city working. Having received his graduate degree, he’s now teaching at his alma mater, warping young adult minds, writing freelance and working on his novels. Six years ago, Masters and I had an ill-fated, long distance, telephonic callationship. Suffice it to say, two, broke, struggling writers who cannot come up with the funds for consistent cross-country travel should not bother being involved. It seems romantic in theory, but the reality is harsh if neither one can afford the airfare. Phone calls and emails can only take you so far. We did the push-pull of wanting more but not being able to have it. Sweet conversations turned into terse talks because neither one of us was getting what we needed. Finally, I cut the phone cord. Even though the feelings lingered, I kept them at a twenty-eight-hundred-mile distance. After all, what was the point? He was there, I was here, and the space between wasn’t getting us any closer to something real.
We had stayed in touch off and on over the years, though not always on the best of terms. I refused to flirt and found his late night calls more annoying than charming. Do you like the phone ringing at 2:30 AM? On a weeknight? And I mean my time, not his. The guy should have a breathalyzer attached to his phone. Still, I thought it would be nice to see him while I was there. Surely enough time had gone by for us to move beyond what was and move forward to something new. Like an actual, grown-up friendship. We made tentative plans to see each other, understanding that my schedule was unpredictable and his was pretty booked. We stole some time on a Sunday night and met for wine at a Spanish bar.
I had no intention of reopening the door to our past. We would be friends, and that’s it. I even donned my most “I’m so not sleeping with you” ensemble: Plain, white, button-down oxford and jeans; hair not redone; makeup suitably subtle. The conversation was kept safe. Respectable physical distance maintained. My plan was going along famously, surviving even an Irish pub crawl, until he insisted on helping me get a cab. I asserted that I was more than capable of hailing my own taxi, but he wanted to play the gentleman. He failed at that when he pulled me into a kiss before I got into the yellow sedan.
Damn. We still had it.
I rode back to my apartment with furrowed brow. Perhaps it was nothing more than the Guinness mixed with fond memories and jetlag. Still, I had a feeling that I was being haunted by history. You have to understand, I had just taken a job that I had ten years earlier, gone to my twenty-year high school reunion two weeks before, and now had made out with a beau from half-a-decade ago. There was a hell of a lot of karma closing in. It was enough to make your head spin. Mine surely was. Like the candy floss I had for dessert the next night.
Masters wanted to see me again, and I couldn’t find a reasonable excuse not to. So we grabbed time again on Tuesday and the Friday before I left. In true “us” form, we did the push-pull thing back and forth during the week and ended up having a huge fight on Friday night. And when I say huge, I mean apocalyptic. I really let him have it. It had been a long week and a hard day. Mix physical and emotional exhaustion with some truly stupid moves on his part, and you get a rather unpleasant public display of agitation. But, if you are going to explode, there’s no better place to do it than in the back of a cab in New York City. I got into another taxi and went home.
Two weeks went by before we spoke again. Feeling terrible over my end of the fight, I offered an apology the best way I knew how…email. He accepted, offered his own set of sorries and then we talked. A lot. About why we did the push-pull, what we might be afraid of, even about going to Ireland together in the fall. After two-point-five hours on the phone, it seemed the wounds were healed, but a question mark still lingered. So, the next morning, I did the unthinkable. I invited him to come to L.A. and stay with me through the month of August. While it might seem crazy, I thought it was the saner move than just going off to Ireland for a week and potentially ruining my favorite place. We needed some sort of test-drive.
I knew Masters was going to take August off and go to the Catskills, of all places, where there was a free place for him to stay via a family friend, in order to work on his book undisturbed. With that amount of free time on his hands, I saw this as an “If Not Now, When?” situation. Someday had come, as far as I was concerned, and so I offered up my home for him to write and for us to experience reality. The reality of two writers, that is. We needed to spend quality time together, day in and out, so we could see what it was we really had, and if it could last longer than a phone call and some stolen time. And, if it could survive both of us in creative mode, as I would be working on my book, too. I told him to think about it, it was a big step. For him, it came down to finances, which I well understood, and finding a subletter. So, I left the offer on the table and waited for him to come back with his answer.
I needed an answer of my own, though. I found myself wondering why did I give this guy such a hard time? He was obnoxious and arrogant at times, absolutely, but he also had many fine qualities and characteristics. We couldn’t deny the connection we had, and enjoyed the story we could share of how we came to know each other. I wondered what we would find if we both dropped our guards and didn’t have the luxury of running away; hence, the offer to stay with me. We needed to see what we really had, decide if we wanted it, then find a way to make it work.
Being an Aries, I have to examine the big picture, look at all the potential problems and find solutions. It takes me about five minutes, if that. It’s what makes me good at what I do, and awful at letting the man in my life figure things out on his own. This time, I was determined to let Masters do just that. I was going to let him hang himself, or pull himself up, by his own rope, without any hints from me on which direction he was headed. It was bad enough that I had already done the flight research (who knew Continental was cheaper than JetBlue and offered better airports?). I wanted him to make his own choice. Rise to the occasion, which was something I had waited for him to do since the beginning. So I resisted the urge to remind or cajole. And, while I understand the money situation, I also know that if a man wants something, a man will find a way to get it/have it/make it happen. He had ample time to procure another writing gig, or even just cut back on his bar bill. If there was a want, he could find a way.
Then again, he is a guy to whom things come rather easily, and usually free of charge. The women in his life cater to him. Doors open for him, he doesn’t have to work for much. But he would have to earn me. I rooted for him quietly, waiting for him to surprise me and prove me wrong. Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t come, no matter what words he said to the contrary.
“I’ve got good news and bad news, baby,” he said. He went on to tell me that his aunt had called and the Catskills house was his for as long as he wanted it.
Um, that wasn’t news as far as I knew. The place was his from the get go. So I waited for him to finish, wondering which part of this was good, and for whom.
“Are you there?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied.
“So, do you want to come and stay with me in the Catskills?”
“Nope,” I answered.
“Have you ever been to the Catskills?”
“Yes.”
“Well, have you ever been to the Catskills with me?” His pitch was getting higher.
“Once was enough, thanks.” I couldn’t hide my irritation. Seriously, what part of a job didn’t he get? I had one, a new one, and couldn’t take time off. Even taking a long weekend to visit him, the hassle of getting myself to the remote location was not enticing, nor cost-effective. Going to Manhattan is one thing; going outside of Manhattan is…well…pointless.
He kept going on about how the house was free and so wonderful. Hey, so is mine. All he had to do was cough up the airfare. It’s not like getting to the Catskills was costless. Cheaper, yes, but can you put a value on spending time with me? Well, it seems he did.
“Baby, I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to come to L.A.,” he placated.
“Let’s just not go down that road,” I said. It was just that. Just as simple as that. I got off the phone before I gave in to the urge to school him in semantics.
One of the more aggravating things about Masters was that, for a writer, he was quite lax with his words. Still using the surfer lingo from his Ventura upbringing, which I find terribly grating, he didn’t understand why I would ask him to define my gender when he used “dude”, “man” or “bro” when talking to me. He was good at tossing words around without respecting their meaning. I’m the type of woman who believes that if you are going to bother saying something, you had better mean it, understand it, and own it. I don’t say things just because they sound pretty or are provocative or pacifying. But he did.
“Baby...” he said on a later call.
I let him know that his “baby” days were over. He was no longer allowed to call me that, nor any of the other endearing terms he offered up.
“Am I in the doghouse?” he asked. There were times I wondered if he had brain damage or was some sort of functioning idiot savant.
“More like you’ve been demoted,” I advised.
There wasn’t time to get into it. He had to go, and I had to move on. For a guy who seemed to always have something to say about what we would/could/should do someday, he was easy to let pass a month of somedays when it was offered. I didn’t hear a Plan B, or when he would come out to LA. He did ask when I would be back in the Apple. Funny, no? Still, as irritated as I was, I was relieved to have my question clearly answered. Yet, that wasn’t the last shift to hit the fan.
June and July had come and gone. By then, I saw more changes on the horizon. I treated myself to a new computer — something I do about every seven years or so — went wireless and got busy writing. I was plowing through a new version of the novel and expected to be done with it by the end of September. Everything seemed to be going swell. Until I heard I had a certified letter waiting for me. When that occurs, you’ve either won a lottery, or are getting into a lawsuit.
I didn’t win the Lotto.
A “cease and desist” letter was served. It seems my book infringed on someone’s trademark. No, I didn’t check for that. A publishing rookie move that a first-time author/publisher is bound to make. The thought of having to rename my book was devastating. Trust me, if I could’ve come up with a better title, I would have.
I spent the first weekend in August in a twist. I put together lists of titles, emailed my friends for a consensus, narrowed the title list down, and fought a losing battle with tears. It was no time for insipid phone calls. Especially not from a cell phone. Masters made an attempt to be a support for me digitally, but I’m not really going to open up on a call that might be dropped. Besides, if he wanted to be there for me, he should’ve been here, don’t you think? And so I let him know his time would be better spent packing for the Catskills. I had a tome to re-title.
For those of you who bought the original Guide, keep your collector’s item. In another week or so, you will find A SASSY LITTLE GUIDE TO GETTING OVER HIM on the shelves. Who knew one little word would cause so much trouble?
Before August was over, the new job came to an end. You just can’t go back. Things are never the same, and rarely are they better. That’s not to say they are worse. They just are what they are. It’s simply something you left behind, and it stayed there for a reason. And it shouldn’t be sad, or hurtful, or even surprising. It should be looked at as a confirmation that you have grown. You have moved on. And so have they.
“Someday we should get together for lunch or a drink or something,” another old friend suggested. I smiled back and said, “That sounds nice,” knowing that someday rarely comes around. But, if it does, take it lightly. It’s a gentle time to hold, and it usually doesn’t last for long.
I don’t believe you can go back. Though, sometimes, you find yourself doing just that. I was brought back in touch with Masters when I went to Manhattan. He was still in the city working. Having received his graduate degree, he’s now teaching at his alma mater, warping young adult minds, writing freelance and working on his novels. Six years ago, Masters and I had an ill-fated, long distance, telephonic callationship. Suffice it to say, two, broke, struggling writers who cannot come up with the funds for consistent cross-country travel should not bother being involved. It seems romantic in theory, but the reality is harsh if neither one can afford the airfare. Phone calls and emails can only take you so far. We did the push-pull of wanting more but not being able to have it. Sweet conversations turned into terse talks because neither one of us was getting what we needed. Finally, I cut the phone cord. Even though the feelings lingered, I kept them at a twenty-eight-hundred-mile distance. After all, what was the point? He was there, I was here, and the space between wasn’t getting us any closer to something real.
We had stayed in touch off and on over the years, though not always on the best of terms. I refused to flirt and found his late night calls more annoying than charming. Do you like the phone ringing at 2:30 AM? On a weeknight? And I mean my time, not his. The guy should have a breathalyzer attached to his phone. Still, I thought it would be nice to see him while I was there. Surely enough time had gone by for us to move beyond what was and move forward to something new. Like an actual, grown-up friendship. We made tentative plans to see each other, understanding that my schedule was unpredictable and his was pretty booked. We stole some time on a Sunday night and met for wine at a Spanish bar.
I had no intention of reopening the door to our past. We would be friends, and that’s it. I even donned my most “I’m so not sleeping with you” ensemble: Plain, white, button-down oxford and jeans; hair not redone; makeup suitably subtle. The conversation was kept safe. Respectable physical distance maintained. My plan was going along famously, surviving even an Irish pub crawl, until he insisted on helping me get a cab. I asserted that I was more than capable of hailing my own taxi, but he wanted to play the gentleman. He failed at that when he pulled me into a kiss before I got into the yellow sedan.
Damn. We still had it.
I rode back to my apartment with furrowed brow. Perhaps it was nothing more than the Guinness mixed with fond memories and jetlag. Still, I had a feeling that I was being haunted by history. You have to understand, I had just taken a job that I had ten years earlier, gone to my twenty-year high school reunion two weeks before, and now had made out with a beau from half-a-decade ago. There was a hell of a lot of karma closing in. It was enough to make your head spin. Mine surely was. Like the candy floss I had for dessert the next night.
Masters wanted to see me again, and I couldn’t find a reasonable excuse not to. So we grabbed time again on Tuesday and the Friday before I left. In true “us” form, we did the push-pull thing back and forth during the week and ended up having a huge fight on Friday night. And when I say huge, I mean apocalyptic. I really let him have it. It had been a long week and a hard day. Mix physical and emotional exhaustion with some truly stupid moves on his part, and you get a rather unpleasant public display of agitation. But, if you are going to explode, there’s no better place to do it than in the back of a cab in New York City. I got into another taxi and went home.
Two weeks went by before we spoke again. Feeling terrible over my end of the fight, I offered an apology the best way I knew how…email. He accepted, offered his own set of sorries and then we talked. A lot. About why we did the push-pull, what we might be afraid of, even about going to Ireland together in the fall. After two-point-five hours on the phone, it seemed the wounds were healed, but a question mark still lingered. So, the next morning, I did the unthinkable. I invited him to come to L.A. and stay with me through the month of August. While it might seem crazy, I thought it was the saner move than just going off to Ireland for a week and potentially ruining my favorite place. We needed some sort of test-drive.
I knew Masters was going to take August off and go to the Catskills, of all places, where there was a free place for him to stay via a family friend, in order to work on his book undisturbed. With that amount of free time on his hands, I saw this as an “If Not Now, When?” situation. Someday had come, as far as I was concerned, and so I offered up my home for him to write and for us to experience reality. The reality of two writers, that is. We needed to spend quality time together, day in and out, so we could see what it was we really had, and if it could last longer than a phone call and some stolen time. And, if it could survive both of us in creative mode, as I would be working on my book, too. I told him to think about it, it was a big step. For him, it came down to finances, which I well understood, and finding a subletter. So, I left the offer on the table and waited for him to come back with his answer.
I needed an answer of my own, though. I found myself wondering why did I give this guy such a hard time? He was obnoxious and arrogant at times, absolutely, but he also had many fine qualities and characteristics. We couldn’t deny the connection we had, and enjoyed the story we could share of how we came to know each other. I wondered what we would find if we both dropped our guards and didn’t have the luxury of running away; hence, the offer to stay with me. We needed to see what we really had, decide if we wanted it, then find a way to make it work.
Being an Aries, I have to examine the big picture, look at all the potential problems and find solutions. It takes me about five minutes, if that. It’s what makes me good at what I do, and awful at letting the man in my life figure things out on his own. This time, I was determined to let Masters do just that. I was going to let him hang himself, or pull himself up, by his own rope, without any hints from me on which direction he was headed. It was bad enough that I had already done the flight research (who knew Continental was cheaper than JetBlue and offered better airports?). I wanted him to make his own choice. Rise to the occasion, which was something I had waited for him to do since the beginning. So I resisted the urge to remind or cajole. And, while I understand the money situation, I also know that if a man wants something, a man will find a way to get it/have it/make it happen. He had ample time to procure another writing gig, or even just cut back on his bar bill. If there was a want, he could find a way.
Then again, he is a guy to whom things come rather easily, and usually free of charge. The women in his life cater to him. Doors open for him, he doesn’t have to work for much. But he would have to earn me. I rooted for him quietly, waiting for him to surprise me and prove me wrong. Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t come, no matter what words he said to the contrary.
“I’ve got good news and bad news, baby,” he said. He went on to tell me that his aunt had called and the Catskills house was his for as long as he wanted it.
Um, that wasn’t news as far as I knew. The place was his from the get go. So I waited for him to finish, wondering which part of this was good, and for whom.
“Are you there?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied.
“So, do you want to come and stay with me in the Catskills?”
“Nope,” I answered.
“Have you ever been to the Catskills?”
“Yes.”
“Well, have you ever been to the Catskills with me?” His pitch was getting higher.
“Once was enough, thanks.” I couldn’t hide my irritation. Seriously, what part of a job didn’t he get? I had one, a new one, and couldn’t take time off. Even taking a long weekend to visit him, the hassle of getting myself to the remote location was not enticing, nor cost-effective. Going to Manhattan is one thing; going outside of Manhattan is…well…pointless.
He kept going on about how the house was free and so wonderful. Hey, so is mine. All he had to do was cough up the airfare. It’s not like getting to the Catskills was costless. Cheaper, yes, but can you put a value on spending time with me? Well, it seems he did.
“Baby, I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to come to L.A.,” he placated.
“Let’s just not go down that road,” I said. It was just that. Just as simple as that. I got off the phone before I gave in to the urge to school him in semantics.
One of the more aggravating things about Masters was that, for a writer, he was quite lax with his words. Still using the surfer lingo from his Ventura upbringing, which I find terribly grating, he didn’t understand why I would ask him to define my gender when he used “dude”, “man” or “bro” when talking to me. He was good at tossing words around without respecting their meaning. I’m the type of woman who believes that if you are going to bother saying something, you had better mean it, understand it, and own it. I don’t say things just because they sound pretty or are provocative or pacifying. But he did.
“Baby...” he said on a later call.
I let him know that his “baby” days were over. He was no longer allowed to call me that, nor any of the other endearing terms he offered up.
“Am I in the doghouse?” he asked. There were times I wondered if he had brain damage or was some sort of functioning idiot savant.
“More like you’ve been demoted,” I advised.
There wasn’t time to get into it. He had to go, and I had to move on. For a guy who seemed to always have something to say about what we would/could/should do someday, he was easy to let pass a month of somedays when it was offered. I didn’t hear a Plan B, or when he would come out to LA. He did ask when I would be back in the Apple. Funny, no? Still, as irritated as I was, I was relieved to have my question clearly answered. Yet, that wasn’t the last shift to hit the fan.
June and July had come and gone. By then, I saw more changes on the horizon. I treated myself to a new computer — something I do about every seven years or so — went wireless and got busy writing. I was plowing through a new version of the novel and expected to be done with it by the end of September. Everything seemed to be going swell. Until I heard I had a certified letter waiting for me. When that occurs, you’ve either won a lottery, or are getting into a lawsuit.
I didn’t win the Lotto.
A “cease and desist” letter was served. It seems my book infringed on someone’s trademark. No, I didn’t check for that. A publishing rookie move that a first-time author/publisher is bound to make. The thought of having to rename my book was devastating. Trust me, if I could’ve come up with a better title, I would have.
I spent the first weekend in August in a twist. I put together lists of titles, emailed my friends for a consensus, narrowed the title list down, and fought a losing battle with tears. It was no time for insipid phone calls. Especially not from a cell phone. Masters made an attempt to be a support for me digitally, but I’m not really going to open up on a call that might be dropped. Besides, if he wanted to be there for me, he should’ve been here, don’t you think? And so I let him know his time would be better spent packing for the Catskills. I had a tome to re-title.
For those of you who bought the original Guide, keep your collector’s item. In another week or so, you will find A SASSY LITTLE GUIDE TO GETTING OVER HIM on the shelves. Who knew one little word would cause so much trouble?
Before August was over, the new job came to an end. You just can’t go back. Things are never the same, and rarely are they better. That’s not to say they are worse. They just are what they are. It’s simply something you left behind, and it stayed there for a reason. And it shouldn’t be sad, or hurtful, or even surprising. It should be looked at as a confirmation that you have grown. You have moved on. And so have they.
“Someday we should get together for lunch or a drink or something,” another old friend suggested. I smiled back and said, “That sounds nice,” knowing that someday rarely comes around. But, if it does, take it lightly. It’s a gentle time to hold, and it usually doesn’t last for long.
25 July 2007
The Bitch is Back
Every once in a while, a girl needs to take a break. A little time off. Like, say, three months or so. A respite of sorts. And, sometimes, she doesn’t even know she needs it. It just sort of happens.
The hiatus I took was not planned. (Nor was it a stint in rehab. Please. I’m so not a twenty-something celebutard high on hubris.) April brought much more than expected. I took on a new old job for one thing. An impromptu dinner led to an offer to return to a previous position and, a week later, I started the new old gig while finishing up my old new job. I juggled the two posts for the next six weeks and, during that time, I made a ten-day journey to New York where I attempted to function in both time zones. Needless to say, I failed at that. Miserably. The jetlag I was attempting to avoid hampered me through the end of May.
I had made the mistake of making out with the wrong guy and got a nasty flu accessorized with a hacking cough, which boarded the plane with me. I’m sure flashbacks of Outbreak were running through my seatmates’ heads during the long flight to NYC. At least this was before the TB dude ran amok, or I fear I would have been sequestered. What kind of guy says, “Man, I think I’m coming down with something,” right after he thoroughly verifies your tonsillectomy? So glad it stopped with a kiss and something curable. This is where not being completely slutty comes in quite handy.
I’m a pretty tough broad who runs at a fairly kinetic pace, even with an active bout of Epstein-Barr Virus, but the bug combo’d with the lag and the new work+work schedule just knocked me on my ass. At the end of the day, I had nothing left. By the time May rolled around, the act of balancing two jobs, multiple projects and working six weeks straight with no time off, seemed to rob me of my usual stellar personality. My social life took a nosedive. Phone calls went unreturned, emails piled up in my inbox, plans were often cancelled or reschedule for a time when I had more time. I’m still waiting for that. After work, I would simply pass out shortly after inhaling dinner, only to wake up a couple hours later and start working again. Work work, not my work.
I get really unpleasant to be around when I don’t write. By June, the malaise reached a pretty intolerable level. It’s sort of like a version of PMS, as in: Please Miller Sit-down-and-write-something-for-the-love-of-God-and-all-that’s-holy! I found the creative flow blocked by the lack of verve required to transform a thought to something tangible. There are many half-written, semi-started columns, but my train of thought would easily get derailed. And what a time to run out of writing steam! Look at all I missed! Blohan on video doing blow (and I am so intentionally leaving out “allegedly” since Venice neighbors Santa Monica and its Police Department), Blohan in rehab, Paris in jail, Blohan extending her stay in rehab, Paris leaving jail for a hot minute before getting tossed back in the clink, Blohan spending her 21st birthday in rehab, Paris getting out of jail and Lindsay SCRAMing around after being released from rehab. At least until yesterday.
But, please, there are so many more important things to address: The war, the troops who are dying daily, getting wounded by the minute and being deployed yet again for their fourth, fifth or sixth tour all sidelined by celebutard news. I mean, didn’t we celebrate “victory” there about two years ago? And two years before that? Yet, in spite of W’s victories, we keep losing. What about the Shrub telling his bitch Harriet to stay home; after all, it’s only a pesky subpoena...look what Scooter was up against. The Dub has your back. As long as your back is one of a glad-handing, money-grubbing crony. The rest of us are screwed. How that futhermucker and his Beelzebublican cohort have not been impeached is effing beyond me. Nixon must be cursing up a storm somewhere. Where’s Ken Starr when you need him?
Then there are some people you just don’t have use for. Ann Cuntler showed her wax face and lived up to her nickname. Seriously. You make fun of someone’s dead kid and you have sailed way beyond bitch status and deep into the C. When will she do us all a favor and forget that you shouldn’t blowdry and take a bath at the same time? Yeah, I said it. It’s my karma. I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid. She should be, though. Her public disgrace has got to be on its way. Karma is one thing; hubris seems to bite you in the ass even faster. Especially if you are a blonde celebutard.
Finally, there was the earth-shattering news that the “Sex and the City” movie was finally a go! And I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t about five years too late? Are you like me and will be so totally excited to see it...the night it premieres on HBO? I am setting my TiVo, let me tell you. You bring the Tasti D-Lite and I’ll make the Cosmos.
Yeah, I’m back.
The hiatus I took was not planned. (Nor was it a stint in rehab. Please. I’m so not a twenty-something celebutard high on hubris.) April brought much more than expected. I took on a new old job for one thing. An impromptu dinner led to an offer to return to a previous position and, a week later, I started the new old gig while finishing up my old new job. I juggled the two posts for the next six weeks and, during that time, I made a ten-day journey to New York where I attempted to function in both time zones. Needless to say, I failed at that. Miserably. The jetlag I was attempting to avoid hampered me through the end of May.
I had made the mistake of making out with the wrong guy and got a nasty flu accessorized with a hacking cough, which boarded the plane with me. I’m sure flashbacks of Outbreak were running through my seatmates’ heads during the long flight to NYC. At least this was before the TB dude ran amok, or I fear I would have been sequestered. What kind of guy says, “Man, I think I’m coming down with something,” right after he thoroughly verifies your tonsillectomy? So glad it stopped with a kiss and something curable. This is where not being completely slutty comes in quite handy.
I’m a pretty tough broad who runs at a fairly kinetic pace, even with an active bout of Epstein-Barr Virus, but the bug combo’d with the lag and the new work+work schedule just knocked me on my ass. At the end of the day, I had nothing left. By the time May rolled around, the act of balancing two jobs, multiple projects and working six weeks straight with no time off, seemed to rob me of my usual stellar personality. My social life took a nosedive. Phone calls went unreturned, emails piled up in my inbox, plans were often cancelled or reschedule for a time when I had more time. I’m still waiting for that. After work, I would simply pass out shortly after inhaling dinner, only to wake up a couple hours later and start working again. Work work, not my work.
I get really unpleasant to be around when I don’t write. By June, the malaise reached a pretty intolerable level. It’s sort of like a version of PMS, as in: Please Miller Sit-down-and-write-something-for-the-love-of-God-and-all-that’s-holy! I found the creative flow blocked by the lack of verve required to transform a thought to something tangible. There are many half-written, semi-started columns, but my train of thought would easily get derailed. And what a time to run out of writing steam! Look at all I missed! Blohan on video doing blow (and I am so intentionally leaving out “allegedly” since Venice neighbors Santa Monica and its Police Department), Blohan in rehab, Paris in jail, Blohan extending her stay in rehab, Paris leaving jail for a hot minute before getting tossed back in the clink, Blohan spending her 21st birthday in rehab, Paris getting out of jail and Lindsay SCRAMing around after being released from rehab. At least until yesterday.
But, please, there are so many more important things to address: The war, the troops who are dying daily, getting wounded by the minute and being deployed yet again for their fourth, fifth or sixth tour all sidelined by celebutard news. I mean, didn’t we celebrate “victory” there about two years ago? And two years before that? Yet, in spite of W’s victories, we keep losing. What about the Shrub telling his bitch Harriet to stay home; after all, it’s only a pesky subpoena...look what Scooter was up against. The Dub has your back. As long as your back is one of a glad-handing, money-grubbing crony. The rest of us are screwed. How that futhermucker and his Beelzebublican cohort have not been impeached is effing beyond me. Nixon must be cursing up a storm somewhere. Where’s Ken Starr when you need him?
Then there are some people you just don’t have use for. Ann Cuntler showed her wax face and lived up to her nickname. Seriously. You make fun of someone’s dead kid and you have sailed way beyond bitch status and deep into the C. When will she do us all a favor and forget that you shouldn’t blowdry and take a bath at the same time? Yeah, I said it. It’s my karma. I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid. She should be, though. Her public disgrace has got to be on its way. Karma is one thing; hubris seems to bite you in the ass even faster. Especially if you are a blonde celebutard.
Finally, there was the earth-shattering news that the “Sex and the City” movie was finally a go! And I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t about five years too late? Are you like me and will be so totally excited to see it...the night it premieres on HBO? I am setting my TiVo, let me tell you. You bring the Tasti D-Lite and I’ll make the Cosmos.
Yeah, I’m back.
24 January 2007
P-O'd
Patience. It's not only a virtue, it's a crock of shite.
As I have written before, patience is not a quality I've taken on and, in spite of efforts, it has not taken to me, either. It is obvious we are like oil and water; a combination that can mix well for a brief period of time...and then off we go to our opposing corners where our true colors can shine. Over the years, I have made a grand effort at being patient. I figured it was a lesson I needed to learn, like playing well with others...but that's only gotten me into excruciatingly banal conversations at a dinner party, or the wrong boyfriend, sometimes in the same night. Being patient generally gets me just irritated. And whenever I have attempted patience on a grander scale (beyond simply abstaining from honking at the imbecile in front of me who nodded off at the green light), it inevitably turns around to bit me in the ass.
Case in point: Publishing. I started my own imprint because of my lack of patience. I didn't want to spend half a year shopping a book around, finding the right agent who could get me the right publisher who would offer the right deal. No. I am a Do-It-Yourself kind of kid. Besides, I saw it as an adventure in which I would learn so much...including the ever elusive P word. Phooey.
I received my first lesson in publishing patience when it took 8 inexplicable weeks to finalize the book for print. It didn't take me that long to write the futhermucker, and if I went to complain about it to a friend, they would all say something irritating like, "Just be patient. It's still an accomplishment to have a book done so quickly. You should be proud." Please. The real accomplishment was that I had not gone postal, ripping off heads and tearing new assholes at those who slowed my pace. I tried to remember, this was an adventure. A journey. A lesson. One that made me clench my teeth.
Unlike say a Simon & Schuster, I did not get a release date for my book. When it was done, it was done and would be listed with distributors and available for sale. I asked for a timeline for when the online merchants would pick it up. They had no idea. It was kind of a willy-nilly thing. I was told, "Just be patient. Keep checking the websites. You should be up any day now." A wiser, more seasoned publisher might’ve been able to finesse online stores for pre-sales and get some hype going, but I was merely a publette. I understood that it was a process, it would take time, and I would need to be patient. But not for long. Within a day, it was ready to go. Amazon was first to pick it up...and last. So I waited. And waited. A week went by and I inquired about the other listings, mainly the distribution channels, and was told, "They should have it. Just be patient. It takes time." I had no choice, it seemed, but to heed the advice I was given. So I took my thumb and inserted it...well, you get the idea.
Perhaps I should've known something was amiss when I saw my book was on Barnes & Noble online, but listed as not available. But I, being a cynic, just figured they didn't like me and didn't want my pretty pink book. Fine by me. Amazon liked me. They were my friends (both US and UK), and we would do just fine conquering the world and mending broken hearts one book at a time. After all, I was patient. I understood that it takes time. Taking my rejection incredibly well, I philosophized that not every girl will be asked to the dance.
And then a handsome suitor called.
I won't say which mega-chain emailed me about carrying my book, but it was then that I found my distribution listings had not been set up as they should have been...IN EFFING OCTOBER! Merde. As soon as I received the message, I called the people responsible for listing such things to find out what was going on, and how quickly could we get the problem solved, as there was a mega-chain who wanted my book in their stores for Valentine’s Day. Oh, and there was one major hiccup...the mega-chain has an exclusive deal with a certain distributor and, thus, can only buy the book from that company. FUGH.
With the first call, I was told that everything looked right, and that I would have to be patient...the person I need to speak with had left for the day. I waited until morning and called my rep who said she didn't see anything wrong, that she would look into it...and would call me tomorrow. The next day (#3), I was told that it would be a few days before the listing would go up as they would have to wait for current orders to be filled, then take the book out of production to reconfigure the listing and set it up back again. But time does not stop or even slow for things such as this. Mega-chain. Order. Valentine’s Day. Tick-effing-tock, people! When I inquired if there was any way humanly possible to speed up the process, as I was willing to do just about anything to get this listing up, I was told there was nothing I could do but wait. Ha!
It seems they don't know me very well.
Day #6, I called the distribution company and finally (three calls later) got through to someone who knew whom I should talk to: Publisher Relations. Duh. I called, got voicemail and impatiently waited for a return. Day #7, I got a call back. I explained the situation to my pub rep who said, "Put it in an email,” and hung up. Gotcha. Done. I will now make a long story a bit shorter for you and say that I called and emailed this woman everyday for another six calendar days, and was told, "Be patient. This takes time. And you aren't the only title I'm dealing with. We have thousands." To which I said, "Lady, I have been patient. Two weeks' worth of patient. And I can pretty much guarantee that not all of those thousand titles have an order waiting to be placed by a mega-chain who has an exclusive deal with your company." She said, "Maybe not, but you are just going to have to wait. It takes time."
By this point, I knew all the things in the world that take time. Growth takes time. Wisdom takes time. Getting anywhere in LA takes time. Baking a cake takes bloody time. Getting a book listed in a database, however, takes an effing MOUSE CLICK!
After 14 days of being told to be patient, I lost mine for good. It was not an ugly sight, but was surely uncomfortable at times for a few of the recipients. However, losing my patience actually got me to the right person at the distribution company, one who solved the effing riddle in THREE HOURS. One hundred and eighty minutes, and a bloody mouse click later, my book is listed as it should be. A few folks were forced to eat some crow and we all learned the true value of a little impatience.
As I have written before, patience is not a quality I've taken on and, in spite of efforts, it has not taken to me, either. It is obvious we are like oil and water; a combination that can mix well for a brief period of time...and then off we go to our opposing corners where our true colors can shine. Over the years, I have made a grand effort at being patient. I figured it was a lesson I needed to learn, like playing well with others...but that's only gotten me into excruciatingly banal conversations at a dinner party, or the wrong boyfriend, sometimes in the same night. Being patient generally gets me just irritated. And whenever I have attempted patience on a grander scale (beyond simply abstaining from honking at the imbecile in front of me who nodded off at the green light), it inevitably turns around to bit me in the ass.
Case in point: Publishing. I started my own imprint because of my lack of patience. I didn't want to spend half a year shopping a book around, finding the right agent who could get me the right publisher who would offer the right deal. No. I am a Do-It-Yourself kind of kid. Besides, I saw it as an adventure in which I would learn so much...including the ever elusive P word. Phooey.
I received my first lesson in publishing patience when it took 8 inexplicable weeks to finalize the book for print. It didn't take me that long to write the futhermucker, and if I went to complain about it to a friend, they would all say something irritating like, "Just be patient. It's still an accomplishment to have a book done so quickly. You should be proud." Please. The real accomplishment was that I had not gone postal, ripping off heads and tearing new assholes at those who slowed my pace. I tried to remember, this was an adventure. A journey. A lesson. One that made me clench my teeth.
Unlike say a Simon & Schuster, I did not get a release date for my book. When it was done, it was done and would be listed with distributors and available for sale. I asked for a timeline for when the online merchants would pick it up. They had no idea. It was kind of a willy-nilly thing. I was told, "Just be patient. Keep checking the websites. You should be up any day now." A wiser, more seasoned publisher might’ve been able to finesse online stores for pre-sales and get some hype going, but I was merely a publette. I understood that it was a process, it would take time, and I would need to be patient. But not for long. Within a day, it was ready to go. Amazon was first to pick it up...and last. So I waited. And waited. A week went by and I inquired about the other listings, mainly the distribution channels, and was told, "They should have it. Just be patient. It takes time." I had no choice, it seemed, but to heed the advice I was given. So I took my thumb and inserted it...well, you get the idea.
Perhaps I should've known something was amiss when I saw my book was on Barnes & Noble online, but listed as not available. But I, being a cynic, just figured they didn't like me and didn't want my pretty pink book. Fine by me. Amazon liked me. They were my friends (both US and UK), and we would do just fine conquering the world and mending broken hearts one book at a time. After all, I was patient. I understood that it takes time. Taking my rejection incredibly well, I philosophized that not every girl will be asked to the dance.
And then a handsome suitor called.
I won't say which mega-chain emailed me about carrying my book, but it was then that I found my distribution listings had not been set up as they should have been...IN EFFING OCTOBER! Merde. As soon as I received the message, I called the people responsible for listing such things to find out what was going on, and how quickly could we get the problem solved, as there was a mega-chain who wanted my book in their stores for Valentine’s Day. Oh, and there was one major hiccup...the mega-chain has an exclusive deal with a certain distributor and, thus, can only buy the book from that company. FUGH.
With the first call, I was told that everything looked right, and that I would have to be patient...the person I need to speak with had left for the day. I waited until morning and called my rep who said she didn't see anything wrong, that she would look into it...and would call me tomorrow. The next day (#3), I was told that it would be a few days before the listing would go up as they would have to wait for current orders to be filled, then take the book out of production to reconfigure the listing and set it up back again. But time does not stop or even slow for things such as this. Mega-chain. Order. Valentine’s Day. Tick-effing-tock, people! When I inquired if there was any way humanly possible to speed up the process, as I was willing to do just about anything to get this listing up, I was told there was nothing I could do but wait. Ha!
It seems they don't know me very well.
Day #6, I called the distribution company and finally (three calls later) got through to someone who knew whom I should talk to: Publisher Relations. Duh. I called, got voicemail and impatiently waited for a return. Day #7, I got a call back. I explained the situation to my pub rep who said, "Put it in an email,” and hung up. Gotcha. Done. I will now make a long story a bit shorter for you and say that I called and emailed this woman everyday for another six calendar days, and was told, "Be patient. This takes time. And you aren't the only title I'm dealing with. We have thousands." To which I said, "Lady, I have been patient. Two weeks' worth of patient. And I can pretty much guarantee that not all of those thousand titles have an order waiting to be placed by a mega-chain who has an exclusive deal with your company." She said, "Maybe not, but you are just going to have to wait. It takes time."
By this point, I knew all the things in the world that take time. Growth takes time. Wisdom takes time. Getting anywhere in LA takes time. Baking a cake takes bloody time. Getting a book listed in a database, however, takes an effing MOUSE CLICK!
After 14 days of being told to be patient, I lost mine for good. It was not an ugly sight, but was surely uncomfortable at times for a few of the recipients. However, losing my patience actually got me to the right person at the distribution company, one who solved the effing riddle in THREE HOURS. One hundred and eighty minutes, and a bloody mouse click later, my book is listed as it should be. A few folks were forced to eat some crow and we all learned the true value of a little impatience.
10 January 2007
Sloth
There comes a point when you begin to wonder just how lazy you can be without becoming totally gross and off-putting. What things you can cut out, skip or otherwise ignore and still function somewhat as a respectable adult? This isn’t out-and-out sloth, but being so overworked and overwhelmed that you aren’t able to do everything. Some things have got to give just so you can get a little rest.
It occurred to me the other day at the gym, as my face rested on my shins, that I haven’t shaved my legs in a while. Somehow that slipped through the cracks. When I got home, I stubbed my toes on the luggage that has been sitting in the hall since I returned from my Christmas trip. Clusters of dust bunnies gathered in corners and under chairs, having parties to which I failed to RSVP. And something peculiar in my refrigerator, housed in Tupperware, is turning multiple shades of green and blue and is utterly indiscernible from its origin. My office looks as though it suffered a seizure. And don’t even ask about the state of my manicure and pedicure. Oof.
Brushing teeth and showering are mandatory...but wouldn’t it be nice if we could get away without doing it? Think of all the extra time we’d have. You can’t rush oral hygiene...Waterpiking, brushing and rinsing take a certain amount of time. Not to mention the time-eating chore of cleaning your retainers. Yet, if you skip shaving your legs, you can save time in the shower. If you twist your hair up or yank it back in a ponytail, rather than going full-blown into a hair style, you can rush out the door a little faster. Overdress a bit and you look like you put a little effort into your attire, rather than having to admit that you are a tad behind with your laundry. Sunglasses can look chic as well as shield the fact that you forgot to put on mascara in your morning haste. Keep lip gloss in your glove compartment for those times you run out the of house with only your wallet only to catch a glimpse of your appearance in the review mirror and realize your faux pas. By ordering the venti whatever at Starbucks, people can see that you are aware of how tired you appear/are and, thus, can keep their comments about your under-eye circles and sallow complexion to themselves.
When it comes to feeding yourself, which is as mandatory as showering and brushing teeth are...in spite of what some in “Young Hollywood” think...I’ve found that you don’t actually have to cook or even order in. Cereal does not require cooking. Grab a bowl and some milk and you have a meal. Coffee? Forget about it. Cleaning a French press is murder. Instant espresso is much quicker, and you only have to wash the mug (how often do you have to clean a kettle?). After a while, you get a little tired of eating cereal at every meal (took me about 10 days). When that happens, get soup that you can pour out of a box (saves using a can opener) and nuke in two minutes. Wheat pita toasts in no time, and hummus comes out of a plastic bowl. Salad remains a bit labor intensive. Washing the lettuce, tearing it up, slicing the apple and cucumber, then throwing on the dressing takes effort but no pots or pans are involved, which is nice. And having green food is healthy. Combining fruit and vegetables into a salad is a “two birds, one stone” kind of thing. Meat moves out of your diet when you give up on cooking, except for the times where you make it out to a restaurant with friends, which even in your most slothful periods you are bound to do. You happily order the overpriced salmon on these occasions, grateful to pay the fee for someone else to cook it and clean up after it.
When you have Caller ID, you don’t have to listen to the message to know who called. Skip it altogether. Just scroll down the list to see who rang you and email them back, saving you the time and the energy required to have an actual conversation. With sex, missionary position is key, ladies. Virtually no work (if he does it right)...but all the joy. And if you have a web column, one which you’ve neglected for months, feel free to put the post date on the day it was due, and not the day it actually went up.
When you are overworked and overwhelmed, you turn to slothy behavior for simple survival. It’s not something to be proud of, but it is a way to function...if you can call it that. And if the first weeks are telling of the pace in which 2007 will operate, I hope you have jotted down some notes here. You just may need some sloth of your own.
It occurred to me the other day at the gym, as my face rested on my shins, that I haven’t shaved my legs in a while. Somehow that slipped through the cracks. When I got home, I stubbed my toes on the luggage that has been sitting in the hall since I returned from my Christmas trip. Clusters of dust bunnies gathered in corners and under chairs, having parties to which I failed to RSVP. And something peculiar in my refrigerator, housed in Tupperware, is turning multiple shades of green and blue and is utterly indiscernible from its origin. My office looks as though it suffered a seizure. And don’t even ask about the state of my manicure and pedicure. Oof.
Brushing teeth and showering are mandatory...but wouldn’t it be nice if we could get away without doing it? Think of all the extra time we’d have. You can’t rush oral hygiene...Waterpiking, brushing and rinsing take a certain amount of time. Not to mention the time-eating chore of cleaning your retainers. Yet, if you skip shaving your legs, you can save time in the shower. If you twist your hair up or yank it back in a ponytail, rather than going full-blown into a hair style, you can rush out the door a little faster. Overdress a bit and you look like you put a little effort into your attire, rather than having to admit that you are a tad behind with your laundry. Sunglasses can look chic as well as shield the fact that you forgot to put on mascara in your morning haste. Keep lip gloss in your glove compartment for those times you run out the of house with only your wallet only to catch a glimpse of your appearance in the review mirror and realize your faux pas. By ordering the venti whatever at Starbucks, people can see that you are aware of how tired you appear/are and, thus, can keep their comments about your under-eye circles and sallow complexion to themselves.
When it comes to feeding yourself, which is as mandatory as showering and brushing teeth are...in spite of what some in “Young Hollywood” think...I’ve found that you don’t actually have to cook or even order in. Cereal does not require cooking. Grab a bowl and some milk and you have a meal. Coffee? Forget about it. Cleaning a French press is murder. Instant espresso is much quicker, and you only have to wash the mug (how often do you have to clean a kettle?). After a while, you get a little tired of eating cereal at every meal (took me about 10 days). When that happens, get soup that you can pour out of a box (saves using a can opener) and nuke in two minutes. Wheat pita toasts in no time, and hummus comes out of a plastic bowl. Salad remains a bit labor intensive. Washing the lettuce, tearing it up, slicing the apple and cucumber, then throwing on the dressing takes effort but no pots or pans are involved, which is nice. And having green food is healthy. Combining fruit and vegetables into a salad is a “two birds, one stone” kind of thing. Meat moves out of your diet when you give up on cooking, except for the times where you make it out to a restaurant with friends, which even in your most slothful periods you are bound to do. You happily order the overpriced salmon on these occasions, grateful to pay the fee for someone else to cook it and clean up after it.
When you have Caller ID, you don’t have to listen to the message to know who called. Skip it altogether. Just scroll down the list to see who rang you and email them back, saving you the time and the energy required to have an actual conversation. With sex, missionary position is key, ladies. Virtually no work (if he does it right)...but all the joy. And if you have a web column, one which you’ve neglected for months, feel free to put the post date on the day it was due, and not the day it actually went up.
When you are overworked and overwhelmed, you turn to slothy behavior for simple survival. It’s not something to be proud of, but it is a way to function...if you can call it that. And if the first weeks are telling of the pace in which 2007 will operate, I hope you have jotted down some notes here. You just may need some sloth of your own.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)