Learning to Write
I was planning to go to workout this morning after blowing it off last night. I blearily peeked my head out of the covers about 8:30am. It was pissing down rain. I decided, nope. Not happening. I blew off yoga tonight. I was too warm and comfortable to leave the house. My clients both had to cancel their massages. One was sick, one got burnt by her dermatologist. I was fine with that. I needed to write my grandmother's obituary. It was nice to have the time to focus on it.
I guess it's right and proper for me to write it. She paid for my journalism degree. I've had a chance to use it the past couple of months. My Uncle David died Oct 20 and I wrote his obituary. I've spent years avoiding writing. Torturing myself about not doing it. It's like the diet I'm never on but always should be. It's a damn shame it took the deaths of close family to force me into to fearlessly writing.
I kept having to tell myself it doesn't have to be Shakespeare, but I wanted it to be. I'm okay with how Eda's obit turned out. I had found a template for obits when I wrote David's. I wrote up a list of questions for him, and went on his FB page, answered a scary amount of them. Facebook really has suspended privacy. Then I sent an email to everyone with the questions. When I sat down to write it, I assembled the bits and made it flow. It was easier than I thought, but I had to snack and wander around the house periodically to calm my nerves.
It felt good to use skills I learned in school. To research, assemble, and tell stories again. I have to relax into this. Before there was always anxiety wrapped in deadlines. I cheesed out of becoming a journalist, because I said the industry was dying. Bullshit. I was too chickenshit to throw my hat in the ring. I didn't want the pay cut. I didn't want to get shit wages for going around calling and bugging people. I didn't want to get ugly with people. I didn't want to report on dog shows and parades. I didn't want to do hard hitting journalism because I didn't want people blowing up my fucking car. I was too old. I didn't have the passion to do it. I wanted to hide in my dimly lit room with my zen jazz music, and people telling how good I am at what I do.
I miss the idea of being a journalist. I wept watching the show Newsroom during some of Jeff Daniels more impassioned speeches. I loved the scotch and cigarette sensibility. Cynicism laced with idealism. We know how it is, but goddammit it could be so much better if people pulled their head out of their asses and worked together for some Rooseveltian ideal. Yeah!
It's not naive if you know it's bullshit.
Utopia is ruined by humans. There is no utopia, there is no ideal, because humanity is chaos theory writ large. Terry Pratchett called us the point where the falling angel meets the rising ape. I love that image.
You know what's fucked up. I was so proud Sunday because I had finally pulled the cork out and written 1200 words on my story. Richard Kadrey had posted a graph showing famous authors and how many words they averaged in a day(fuck you Stephen King and your 5,000 words) About 1,000 was the norm. That takes me about two hours if I'm banging away. I took away the time fear. I'm trying to see it as no big deal to write a 1,000 words. It used to give me anxiety just to give myself a word goal. Now, I'm trying to absorb it as a given easy, enjoyable task. I do this while Scott watches shows I don't give a shit about. Sometimes, I stare at the screen like a trout usually after something worms its way into my consciousness and look up thinking,
"What the fuck?"
After a few minutes, I snap out of it and start writing again.
I had to stop typing to dye my hair last night. We are leaving tomorrow morning. I had roots for days and my stylist is in Cancun at a TIGI convention. She is going to freak when she sees what I did to my hair. Completely fucked up the highlights she put in. Oh well. LOL It's red again.
I sent the finished obituary off to my uncle to send to the funeral home. I had to make a few edits. I was asked to remove the following sentence.
Somewhere in a dark closet, there is an 8mm of her son Greg being chased by a bear. His brother Arthur is laughing hysterically while filming safely from the locked car.
I'm bummed it didn't make the cut, but I love that it actually happened. My mom told me the story years ago, but I've heard other stories that were crazy-pants then I would get the milder sometimes markedly different story from other sources. This totally was confirmed by my Uncle Greg texting me that it was him in the car not Arthur. I died laughing when I saw the text. I can't believe he did that! A fucking BEAR!! Brothers are evil.
So, to completely finish my thought about Sunday. I had been ruminating over those 1200 words I'd written the day before, as I was driving back to the spa from Irvine. I decided that Detlef the pelican had to die. I'd written in him being shot, and narrowly escaping being savaged by a dog, because Ratsby led the dog away. But the next day, I caved. This second book was supposed to be much darker than the first. It was my Empire Strikes Back.
Detlef had to die. Bern and Ratsby had to lose someone to show how much danger they were in on a daily basis. It really hurt to make this decision. I like my characters. I really want a "What Ho, good fellow? Hail and well met. We shall drink as friends and make peace." feel. Isn't that boring? The stories we love make us scream, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" at the perfect time.
So good animals have to die.
I make this decision then I get the text about grandmother. It's like my whole day was about death. Scott and I have managed to book flights and we are leaving tomorrow morning. I had to cancel clients. I was torn about doing it. I had rescheduled two of them because I was nasty sick, now I have a death in the family. Scott had to snap me back to reality of shit happens and they're going to have to understand. Everyone was really cool.
I canceled my dental appointment this morning, I couldn't face driving to Orange in my beater truck. I need to go try to buy a black dress and comfy jacket for Texas. I need to book a car. I need to fold the laundry, walk the dog, shower, pull out luggage, get to spa and do a 2pm massage. I'm sure I'm forgetting a million things. I'm sad I'm not going to be able to work on my book consistently the next few days. And I'm bummed at myself for blowing off workout until next week. But I just don't have the energy to deal with it. I better get on this shit. Later, tater.
today: 558 words
yesterday:1479 words
Monday:817 words
Saturday: 1248 words
Fuck the Diary of Bridget Jones. I'm going to track my words and to dos. It'll will tally all that achieve so it will comfort me about all that I don't achieve.
I am a leaf on the wind.
Watch how I soar.
---Wash
I guess it's right and proper for me to write it. She paid for my journalism degree. I've had a chance to use it the past couple of months. My Uncle David died Oct 20 and I wrote his obituary. I've spent years avoiding writing. Torturing myself about not doing it. It's like the diet I'm never on but always should be. It's a damn shame it took the deaths of close family to force me into to fearlessly writing.
I kept having to tell myself it doesn't have to be Shakespeare, but I wanted it to be. I'm okay with how Eda's obit turned out. I had found a template for obits when I wrote David's. I wrote up a list of questions for him, and went on his FB page, answered a scary amount of them. Facebook really has suspended privacy. Then I sent an email to everyone with the questions. When I sat down to write it, I assembled the bits and made it flow. It was easier than I thought, but I had to snack and wander around the house periodically to calm my nerves.
It felt good to use skills I learned in school. To research, assemble, and tell stories again. I have to relax into this. Before there was always anxiety wrapped in deadlines. I cheesed out of becoming a journalist, because I said the industry was dying. Bullshit. I was too chickenshit to throw my hat in the ring. I didn't want the pay cut. I didn't want to get shit wages for going around calling and bugging people. I didn't want to get ugly with people. I didn't want to report on dog shows and parades. I didn't want to do hard hitting journalism because I didn't want people blowing up my fucking car. I was too old. I didn't have the passion to do it. I wanted to hide in my dimly lit room with my zen jazz music, and people telling how good I am at what I do.
I miss the idea of being a journalist. I wept watching the show Newsroom during some of Jeff Daniels more impassioned speeches. I loved the scotch and cigarette sensibility. Cynicism laced with idealism. We know how it is, but goddammit it could be so much better if people pulled their head out of their asses and worked together for some Rooseveltian ideal. Yeah!
It's not naive if you know it's bullshit.
Utopia is ruined by humans. There is no utopia, there is no ideal, because humanity is chaos theory writ large. Terry Pratchett called us the point where the falling angel meets the rising ape. I love that image.
You know what's fucked up. I was so proud Sunday because I had finally pulled the cork out and written 1200 words on my story. Richard Kadrey had posted a graph showing famous authors and how many words they averaged in a day(fuck you Stephen King and your 5,000 words) About 1,000 was the norm. That takes me about two hours if I'm banging away. I took away the time fear. I'm trying to see it as no big deal to write a 1,000 words. It used to give me anxiety just to give myself a word goal. Now, I'm trying to absorb it as a given easy, enjoyable task. I do this while Scott watches shows I don't give a shit about. Sometimes, I stare at the screen like a trout usually after something worms its way into my consciousness and look up thinking,
"What the fuck?"
After a few minutes, I snap out of it and start writing again.
I had to stop typing to dye my hair last night. We are leaving tomorrow morning. I had roots for days and my stylist is in Cancun at a TIGI convention. She is going to freak when she sees what I did to my hair. Completely fucked up the highlights she put in. Oh well. LOL It's red again.
I sent the finished obituary off to my uncle to send to the funeral home. I had to make a few edits. I was asked to remove the following sentence.
Somewhere in a dark closet, there is an 8mm of her son Greg being chased by a bear. His brother Arthur is laughing hysterically while filming safely from the locked car.
I'm bummed it didn't make the cut, but I love that it actually happened. My mom told me the story years ago, but I've heard other stories that were crazy-pants then I would get the milder sometimes markedly different story from other sources. This totally was confirmed by my Uncle Greg texting me that it was him in the car not Arthur. I died laughing when I saw the text. I can't believe he did that! A fucking BEAR!! Brothers are evil.
So, to completely finish my thought about Sunday. I had been ruminating over those 1200 words I'd written the day before, as I was driving back to the spa from Irvine. I decided that Detlef the pelican had to die. I'd written in him being shot, and narrowly escaping being savaged by a dog, because Ratsby led the dog away. But the next day, I caved. This second book was supposed to be much darker than the first. It was my Empire Strikes Back.
Detlef had to die. Bern and Ratsby had to lose someone to show how much danger they were in on a daily basis. It really hurt to make this decision. I like my characters. I really want a "What Ho, good fellow? Hail and well met. We shall drink as friends and make peace." feel. Isn't that boring? The stories we love make us scream, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" at the perfect time.
So good animals have to die.
I make this decision then I get the text about grandmother. It's like my whole day was about death. Scott and I have managed to book flights and we are leaving tomorrow morning. I had to cancel clients. I was torn about doing it. I had rescheduled two of them because I was nasty sick, now I have a death in the family. Scott had to snap me back to reality of shit happens and they're going to have to understand. Everyone was really cool.
I canceled my dental appointment this morning, I couldn't face driving to Orange in my beater truck. I need to go try to buy a black dress and comfy jacket for Texas. I need to book a car. I need to fold the laundry, walk the dog, shower, pull out luggage, get to spa and do a 2pm massage. I'm sure I'm forgetting a million things. I'm sad I'm not going to be able to work on my book consistently the next few days. And I'm bummed at myself for blowing off workout until next week. But I just don't have the energy to deal with it. I better get on this shit. Later, tater.
today: 558 words
yesterday:1479 words
Monday:817 words
Saturday: 1248 words
Fuck the Diary of Bridget Jones. I'm going to track my words and to dos. It'll will tally all that achieve so it will comfort me about all that I don't achieve.
I am a leaf on the wind.
Watch how I soar.
---Wash
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