Don't bother me I'm writing

I was offered this advice today:  "Try writing something cheerful and funny for a change -- you've been awfully depressing lately." To which I said, "WHAT? "Do you watch the news? Who wants to get on the computer after being thoroughly brought down by the events in the world and read this depressing sh*t?" "WHAT?" "Well, if you're incapable of having an adult conversation ... " So -- in honor of That Person I will share another humiliating tale from my childhood, and make no mention of poverty and other stuff that annoys me. Stars and Stripes Forever It turns out my daughter Lily is a real patriot. She's been strutting about singing the Star Spangled Banner and God Bless America non-stop since Veteran's Day. Her little voice belting out "for the ramparts of the free gave proof to the night that our ramparts were streaming ..." reminds of me of a rather embarrassing solo I performed at a su...

"There was no magic banner that appeared over your crib at birth saying, "Yes, this one, let's make this one's life an agonizing, lonely struggle with very little money and even less success. Let's make this one a WRITER."--Caroline Sharp  Writing is a disease--a sort of psychosis--and people who do it well share the same set of symptoms or neuroses--which ever term suits your fancy. A friend lent me a great book about writing through writers block-- A Writer's Workbook --by Caroline Sharp. In it, Sharp identifies many truths about the chore of writing--perhaps most affirming, if you identify yourself as a writer, is a tidbit from author Elizabeth Gilbert who wrote the forward. Gilbert recollects a phone conversation she had with a writer friend about not writing. The friend posed a hypothetical question: "Would you rather wash all your dirty laundry, run it through the drier, fold it, put it all away in your drawers, and then take t...

I got a phone call today about the project I described a couple of posts back -- just a follow up based on some information I requested from iUniverse.  Their consultant wanted more information about my story, and I think my tongue actually swelled up in my mouth and almost choked me to death.  It was bad enough blogging about it, but talking about it -- I've never.   "Well -- um -- it's sort of about a murder kind of. This pastor gets -- um -- murdered and the whole town freaks out, and -- um ..." It was awful. Really awful. Really, really, really awful. And I kept telling her how sorry I was for sounding like a crazy person. "I've never talked about this to anyone," I panted. "I mean not even my family or my friends, and it's just sort of hard to talk about it like this." She tried consoling me, but that's what everyone does with crazy people, because crazy people are scary. I spent most of the rest of this afternoon construct...

My friends and aunts and parents sometimes ask about this "book" I'm writing. I don't like calling it a book, because a book is something that is published, and I don't know that anyone with a printing press will ever be interested in my writing.  I'd rather refer to my project as a 50,000-plus-word story. Not that I've written 50,000 words -- that (50,000) is the goal, because a 49,999-word story is one word short of a novel. I cagily evade inquiries regarding the aforementioned project, refusing to share so little as a sentence with even my closest friends and family members. This thing is personal to me. It's part of me like my children are part of me. The idea of putting it out there turns my stomach inside out.  I can write and share a million diatribes against myself with little angst -- I prize my self-deprecating humor highest of all my attributes.  I'm not nearly so comfortable with my serious bits.  Please keep that...

In my former life as a newspaper reporter I loved interviewing children, because their quotes were always amusing if not hysterical and ridiculous. It was with that in mind that I asked Lily to help me write a story for this evening's post. And though I'm biased as her mother, I'm fairly confident her story will amuse and at times even frighten you. Our tale of woe begins in a play attic atop a a fine pink- and white-painted Victorian cottage, home to the Busher family -- Jon, Clare, Liliana, Cecelia, Olivia, Sophia and Ariana. The girls were playing Barbies with Mother Clare, who was deep in Pride and Prejudice sprawled over a lavender pouf embroidered with white and yellow daisies. The music of the girl's play voices amused Clare as she pictured Miss Bennett and Mr. Darcy sparring in the English countryside. The room was warm and smelled of cinnamon and apples. Their blissful afternoon was interrupted by an explosion of breaking glass and leaden...

Jerod's looking for the magical crack dealer our kids have hiding in the couch cushions -- a pipe pedaling leprechaun with stains on his teeth and rancid fingernails. The youngsters are restless tonight. Lily faked throwing up to avoid doing homework, and -- forgetting how close to death she was -- did a gymnastics routine on the kitchen counter. Ashlyn punched her in the stomach and laughed as I chased her all over the house demanding she go in time out -- "Go sit on the stairs. NOW." Jerod's voice is booming through the walls and floorboards, "Stop ... get down from there ... what the heck ... stupid dogs ... you're supposed to be sick ... Ashlyn Dever ... No ... that's it ... Ashlyn, go sit on the stairs." It's the kind of night when mothers and fathers look at one another with sad, defeated eyes and ask, "Why did we do this to ourselves?" The blanket that covers the hole in back of the couch is blessed with Ashlyn's ar...

There's never enough time to do what you want -- in my case write. I keep hold of this silly delusion that one day I'll have enough time to take care of my kids, convince my husband that I've done my share, and write something worth writing that never once -- in the process of typing and retyping and doing and undoing -- made me punch a wall or swear at myself in the mirror. I'm one day into a month 3-month leave, and I'm already in trouble for leaving the breakfast dishes in the sink, leaving pop cans on the counter, letting Lily abandon her shoes and socks on the kitchen floor, and not making dinner. I think I was supposed to empty the cat box too -- I didn't, obviously. I went to the bank, though, and the store. I fed the cats and took care of the dogs. I kept up with Ashlyn all day and started sorting through the stacks of junk on the kitchen counter that serves as an inbox for mail, school work and random junk. And here it is 7:30 p.m., and I'...

I'm fed up with this debate -- technology versus ink and paper, or anywhere-with-an-Internet-connection versus obsolete newsroom. It feels like someone is poking around my insides with a sharp stick -- I'm fumbling in the dark for an anchor, because my tidal surge of rage and anguish is receding with every feeling I've ever had, and I hate it. Every now then when I talk about my past life in the newspaper business, a well-meaning soul will flash me an "awe shucks" expression and explain -- as if I didn't already know -- that "newspapers are dead," or "we live in a paperless society." If you want to be a paid journalist nowadays you need better than solid reporting skills -- you need to be a blogger and a tweeter and video capture-er and a coder and a ... I tried reading an article last night about hacker journalism , and I got lost in the first two sentences. I can't argue with the business bloggers and the suit-wearing executi...

I think I've mentioned once or twice that writing sometimes feels like death -- or what I imagine feels like death, because I've never come close to dying as far as I know. It might feel more like childbirth without drugs -- which I DO NOT recommend and can say with authority feels much worse than running out of words to put on paper. So it's not as bad as death, but it's quite maddening when you want to say something and have nothing to say. I'm always curious how other writers manage their demons. Many refuse to speak on the subject, while others write long winded how-to manuals or -- worse -- advise would-be authors and journalists to do something else -- so screw them.  My demons are topics. The words come out fine when their focused on something I care about, but sometimes I really don't give a crap -- then writing is hell, like I'm standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open -- I'm starving and there's a million things to eat ...

I'm a sentence away from postal -- from chucking my computer at the wall and stomping on it until its guts are embedded in the soles of my feet. I want to set it on fire and breathe in the toxic fumes until my brain goes all fuzzy. And -- when I recover -- I want to pummel the charred corpse of my computer with a really big stick and throw whatever's left in the blender and then the microwave, because nothing drives me battier than the troll in the blank page -- the invisible bitch who screams in my face "you have nothing of value to fill in the void." I often feel like Sesame Street's Don Music, who slammed his head against the piano and sobbed hysterically over any little mistake or unforeseen challenge. My writing self is a bipolar monster with claws and fangs. She swears a lot and shouts out nonsensical words like "gr-gr-gr-gr-gr-gr-gr-gr" and "aarg" like maybe she's eating a pirate. She nags me on the bus with the what-are-you-goin...

Last night -- when I started this post fully intending to publish it by my self-imposed deadline of 11:59 p.m. Monday through Friday (Saturdays and Sundays are optional) -- I was watching How to Train Your Dragon with Ashlyn. This was worth celebrating as it marked our apparent graduation from the Deathly Hallows and Michael Myers to something light and cheerful. We've watched the first installment of the final Harry Potter story some 20 times since it's Oct.8 premier on HBO. It's the only thing to do in my bedroom as far as Ashlyn's concerned. Every Saturday and Sunday morning -- every weekday afternoon upon my arrival home from work -- Ashlyn leads me up the stairs chanting "Ha-we Potta, Mommy. Ha-we Potta."  If I'm in my room writing I can set my clock by the protests that go on in the hallway outside. The muffled giggle and thunk-thunk of a small fist hitting my door are followed by a few moments of quiet, in which I can hear her breaths getti...

There's a song I like to sing when I'm having a bad day. It mentions chain saws and ripping people's heads off and fat lips and blood stains. And that's how I'm feeling right now for no particular reason other than I'm tired and my house is a mess and my kids are noisy and my husband farts too much and I haven't gotten any substantial writing done in weeks. Boo hoo -- right? I have this block of wood that I salvaged from the scrap pile when Jerod -- my bless-ed husband -- framed in our basement in Pullman. It's about the size of a brick, and I picked it up one night after Jerod and I had a knock-down-drag-out over something really important like a wad of my hair in the bathtub or his tapered Levis that made him look like a 50-year-old Bible salesman. I wanted a bat, but all I could find was a block of wood. I kicked it across the garage a couple of times. I beat it with a hammer, and I kicked it some more. I needed a comeback to whatever zinger sent...

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...

I hear voices. Sometimes they talk all at once, and I can’t distinguish one from the other or what they’re telling me. They talk to me at work and in the car -- always at a time and place that is wholly inconvenient. I pull my hair and tell them to shut up. And then, when I’m open to them -- when I’m ready with a pen and paper to jot down every word -- they shun me except to rant on my mediocrity. During my dark years of unemployment, for instance, the voices -- and I’m only guessing here to excuse their vicious diatribes against me -- were apparently sick on vacation or robbed at gunpoint or detained at Customs. I tried to write in their absence, but my words were dull and clumsy. I consulted my good friends Merriam Webster and Will Shortz. I read a lot of books and highlighted words and phrases that inspired me. But I couldn’t write a word without my voices. I decided to give it a rest -- if I focused on something else the words would come eventually. I blamed it on television....

I return from the brink of death with this sweet recollection from childhood: I navigated a very peculiar phase in my fourth year of life on this a planet – a sort of Dr. Frankenstein period in which I attempted through various methods to engineer a playmate. It began on Christmas with the excruciating disappointment that all children feel upon receipt of their last package – that inevitable “where’s the other stuff I asked for?” moment. Santa Claus forgot to stuff a sibling in my stocking. And there hatched the first of many schemes to expand my social network. I wished to become a mother hen – which to a 4-year-old who doesn’t grasp the basic principles of procreation means sitting on eggs from the ice box. The plan was very simple. Step 1: Build a nest in my bedroom. Step 2: transfer one carton of eggs to aforementioned nest and sit. All but two of my unborn friends were smashed – tragically – in their nest of fancy throw pillows and freshly launder...

"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...

There's a 2-year-old named Ashlyn, a kitten named Maggie and a 6-year-old named Lily running laps around my room. Maggie is squeaking and the kids are screaming "mommy," and "kitty," and "mommy," and "don't do that ASHLYN," and "MOMMY." This is a typical Saturday morning minus the kitten who joined our household last night. I try to wake up at 4 a.m., but I never quite manage to climb out of bed before 6. Then there is the ritual of cursing at the empty coffee pot. I tell my husband on Fridays to set it up before he goes to bed,  but he invariably forgets the delay brew. And then I must play the waiting game with my coffee cup in hand and no caffeine to get me rolling. So, I sit down to write at 7 a.m. By this time the kids are awake, and they want attention. Jerod -- my husband -- is cleaning out the cat box and fixing something for the kids to eat, but that doesn't stop me from yelling at him, "I'm ...

Writing about writing -- or trying to write and failing -- is stupid. I have the time to write this , I should be writing something else. But This is my experiment. I'm a perfectionist, and it often happens that I sit down in front of my computer with a million ideas bouncing off the walls of my brain. They're screaming they're so excited to get the F out. I manage to pound out a few sentences before this lunatic inside of me seizes on a misplaced comma or an awkward word and takes over. An entire day will pass -- my ideas die in utero, my head hurts ... A single, perfect sentence stares back at me from the monitor, and then it's time for bed. This is my diary of drivel -- my place to rant about family and politics and whatever else is gumming up the works inside my brain. In other words, don't bother me I'm writing , will serve as a laxative for my literary constipation.