Skip to main content

I'd KILL for some writing time

Here's what happens when I go on vacation thinking "Yippy skippy -- I'll finally have some time to write."

It's 110 degrees; herds of giant ants erupt from the earth to feed on my face and limbs; my husband suffers a food coma and wakes up believing he's God's gift to everything; the Internet disappears; a gypsy peers into her crystal ball and tells a nasty troll that I'm to blame for all his sorrows; the troll hounds me mercilessly, nipping at my heals, berating me at every turn; my children inject themselves with copious amounts of sugar and caffeine and spin about like tiny tornadoes; and before I've recorded a single word in my notebook the vacation is over.


It's suspicious -- like a twisted, menacing writer sicked the hounds of hell on me to sabotage my productivity. It sounds like something a character from Stephen King would do -- make a pact with the devil to usurp all the words from the pens and fingertips of all the writers in the world. I'm sure the man himself is innocent, since few decent writers can touch his productivity. But someone out there is rooting against me. Someone out there is watching my every move and cracking up at all the stupid obstacles that trip me.

Take for example the ill-conceived camping trip -- ill conceived because it's 110 degrees and climbing. The family packs up two cars and heads south for a day on the boiling lake because our drill sergeant told us to.

It's wet. We swim. It's hot. We wine.

The drill sergeant concedes it's too hot to camp, but before we can revel in the victory the air conditioning in our vehicle dies, and me and the driver follow the drill sergeant and company -- who are all riding comfortably in a temperature-controlled Astrovan -- back two hours in the sweltering afternoon sun.

I have no means of communication with my usual muses, because I haven't got access to the Internet. I can't load a book on my Nook -- those pesky Internets again. I won't risk soiling with sweat stains the paperback I borrowed from the neighbor. I'm escrewed in the literary department, and every time I try to wander off a voice rolls out of the distance "Where's your mom kids?"

I'm cursed. I know it. Everyone comments "You're on vacation." And I study their faces to see if their souls haven't been snatched by those aliens who grow in house plants.

I know I'm on vacation, or I was on vacation. Now I'm home in the same messy room pounding angrily at my keyboard.

* Artist credit: Vacation Hell by Illustrator Ashley Holt

Comments

  1. Who was the drill sargeant?

    ReplyDelete
  2. If it's my book you speak of I don't mind sweat stains :)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Great post. I will be experiencing a few of these issues as well..


    My site ... social media

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

I showed you mine -- it's your turn now.

Popular posts from this blog

The insecure writer's support group

The ground is important -- for several reasons.

Among them

Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.

I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.

Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?


Ask Alice

None of my friends growing up were impressed with Disney's…

Writers get laid

Writers get laid -- or they would if they tried -- because people -- especially women -- are impressed by the phrase, "I'm a writer." It's romantic.

Introducing yourself as a writer insinuates substance and depth of character; people like that. They don't know why, except that one-dimensional characters on T.V. sitcoms and big-screen romantic comedies prattle on and on about the whole package -- a good looking, funny, intelligent single with rock-solid values and money.

People admire the skill and dedication it takes to be a novelist or a journalist or a screen writer  -- "I always wanted to be a writer," they tell you with stars in their eyes.

Whether they know it's a myth or not they imagine us in rich, thrilling lives with sports cars and beach houses and Louboutin shoes like Carrie Bradshaw. So the woman at the grocery store doesn't feel bad when she puts back the US Weekly she read cover to cover before she checks out.

Or downloading unauth…

TOWANDA!

I am one dumb-luck happenstance away from a full-fledged nervous breakdown -- no kidding this time.

My back is pretty sturdy by now -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children, crazy family members (they're all nuts including me) -- I can carry a shit-ton of crap in my nifty ain't-life-swell backpack, but I'm no frickin' body builder. And it's not even big things that are pushing me over -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children ... it's the shit-storm of stupid people raining down on me like poops from Heaven.
The latest was a Florida couple--a mullet-sporting, NASCAR-loving twat and her top-heavy husband -- in a movie theater parking garage. I was so close to knocking their teeth down their throats -- that's assuming they had teeth -- I could taste blood.
For starters they came fishtailing into the garage and nearly plowed into a row of parked cars. They raced around the place like a couple of Earnhardt wannab…