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
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
Who was the drill sargeant?
ReplyDeleteIf it's my book you speak of I don't mind sweat stains :)
ReplyDeleteGreat post. I will be experiencing a few of these issues as well..
ReplyDeleteMy site ... social media