Don't bother me I'm writing

Imagine: The only child who pokes holes in her parents' condoms to get herself a sibling. The social outcast -- who seeking a day off from school -- tries to break her leg on the stairs. The underage smoker who tapes her school picture to her father's expired driver's license. The inexperienced driver who wrecks the family station wagon in the driveway and stages the scene to look like a bicycle accident. My repertoire of failed plots and harebrained schemes leaves characters like Lucy Ricardo and Mary Clancy -- mother of the scathingly brilliant idea -- with something wanting. Plotting is something of an addiction, really. And even now -- having been foiled in every dastardly deed -- I frequently entertain the most ridiculous scenarios perhaps to make life more interesting. But here's the thing -- the single most important tenant of plot-building -- less is more. Bold and beautiful schemes are a blast to ponder, but near impossible to execute. The Forge...

I'm a lot like Pigpen -- the Peanuts kid beleaguered by filth. I'm messy. I cook messy, do my hair and makeup messy, get dressed messy, fix my coffee messy -- I clean messy. My husband hates it, and I  hate that he follows me all over the house to catch me in the act of making messes -- and the moment I turn my back on something that's not where it belongs he jumps out like a jack-in-the-box and scolds me. It drives me insane -- explode-out-of-my-skin homicidally insane. It occurred to me last night while I was angrily rolling out a pie crust -- swearing because the dough was too warm -- that Jerod -- my husband  -- is my Grandma Kay's revenge. She popped into my head first because she'd disapprove of my swearing. Then in mid chuckle -- my mind's eye picturing my grandmother clap her hands and chirp something disciplinary like "don't be so ugly" or "I'm very disappointed" -- I felt something soft and slippery glop between my ...

Imagine a little girl in pink granny glasses. Her haircut gives her a boyish look and she’s dressed in a purple checked sweater with red high waters and electric-blue duck shoes. A couple of kids on the playground tell her how cool she looks, and -- not comprehending their sarcasm -- she smiles brightly and thanks them. That was me -- the dork in ginormous glasses. I answered to many names in elementary school -- loser, duck feet, four eyes and a few others I'd rather forget -- smart, pretty and fashionable I was not. It felt like the end of the world back then. All the popular girls braided each other's hair during story time at the library while I picked my nose and talked to myself.  I'm not ashamed to admit it. I  was  a dork -- as big a dork as it's possible to be -- and it gave me character. I think  Lester Bangs  said it best : "Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts." No one called 4-year-old Paris Hilton -- or Linds...

I'm the lady who locks her keys in the car while the engine is running on a rural road where driveways are marked by signs that read "Trespassers will be shot on sight." I'm the lady who backs her car into a ditch looking for a haunted cemetery with her best friend on Thanksgiving, and  then on Christmas gets pulled over with the same friend -- who threw a cigarette out of the window -- going 15 miles-an-hour over the speed limit with a busted tail light. And -- if you think all I need is a bus pass -- I'm also the lady who waxes her legs on a work night and can't get the wax off and pokes a hole in her down comforter while she's sleeping. That's me -- a ticking time bomb -- a disaster waiting to happen, always. And though I complain quite frequently that my luck is the lousiest luck in the world, I thrive on the drama. A conversation that starts with "my husband lost his job the day after our daughter was born" is much more entertaini...

"Now you may ask, what if my characters won't talk to me? What if they won't even visit? The only answer is to think and think some more, and then go out and read and look and listen some more. Do not sit and mope. Do not sigh. Do not throw up your hands and give up on the whole project. Do not go back to the drawing board. There is nothing more depressing than an empty drawing board. No, go back to the world, which is where all characters originally come from."   ALLEGRA GOODMAN I crossed paths with a pair of   Natural Born Killers  tonight. Their voices grabbed my attention as I strode through the sunlit plaza connecting my office building with the transit center. The man -- we'll call him Mickey -- dressed in blue Adidas track pants, a wife beater and a flat-bill DC baseball cap -- was scratching violently at his face and arms.  His girlfriend, Mallory -- in a matching wife beater -- screamed at Mickey from across the bus ba...