The Rise and Fall of Literature and Hope for the Future

Sometimes, I do my best of thinking while driving; that's to say, I'm not thinking about the act of driving, but everything else... which does explain why a few people prefer to not drive with me (among other reasons, including the lack of breaking ability in the passenger seating areas). That aside, I was on my way to someplace this week when I found my mind and car weilding around a large series of objects. Of far more interest, obviously were the non-steel and brick objects. Over the Memorial Day holiday, my Hemingway weekend produced a great deal of writing of which I was and remain very happy with--but since then, I've not done a whole lot. It isn't writers block so much as it is mental blockage and the two are distinctly different.

Writers block is the difficulty and/or absence of the ability to create an idea and put it to paper. I've heard others liken it to the "well being dry" or as I have always been found of "dead air." Mental block is more that the ideas are there, they are working in the head, but the mind is refusing to allow the body to sit down and allow them to leave... it is the writers Guantanemo (albeit temporary, unlike the real situation).

It was in this train of thought that it came to me: Anybody can come up with a plot idea, and anybody can put words down on a piece of paper, but not anybody can do them simultaneously and with alert interest or intrigue to others aside from the scriber. And perhaps, that fact alone is precisely why the mind works in the way that it does... the ideas are ready yet, they are still being flushed and the language tested?

And then I got to thinking about Virginia Woolf, and the idea of a room of one's own... and while I took some liberty with her intent, part of my mental backlog is that I don't want to sit at my drafting table and write these days... but I also don't want to bother with a change in scenery. I know I must... as a writer you have to find a place in which you can write and a space comfortable enough for the duration. To some extent, it is why my Hemingway weekend works; there is a defined sense of space and expectation and reckless abandon. Of course, that would lead one to think that it should then be done more often than yearly... and perhaps there is some logic in that, but the Hemingway weekend is one which is draining and then there is the sangria.

Writing is an interesting space; many writers need "things" when they write... and at one time I thought I was particularly weird (eh, no comments) when I would get up in mid sentence and grab a lei, a tiara, decide a different glass was necessary... they are distractions, but unique to the creative process for me... and I've learned since, to many others as well. Does it seem off that one might suddenly need to wear strappy stilletto shoes while writing? Perhaps, but I find that it makes just as much sense as a runner who needs to wear a certain token going into a race or hunters that need to have certain good luck charms on them.

It is the space of the writer... and our space is slowly being crowded out. Crowded out by noise, a lot of noise. When novelists write their books with the thoughts of who will do the screenplay later, we have failed. But I had some hope yesterday. I haven't picked up a new fiction release in some time and thought--I want to or NEED to read this... I've been going back to books published 10+ years ago, or reading non-fiction... but on the shelf at Borders between something stupid and something released with the movie cover sat what inspired me as hope toward the future... "Michael Tolliver Lives." Armistead Maupin spun off his Tales of the City character for a new novel, independent from Tales, but gives us a truly rich jewel. It has been the first time since perhaps the release of Thompson's The Rum Diary that I've been truly excited to read something new in the world of fiction.

Irreverent musings on a summer day

Earlier today, while driving, I had a brilliant diatribe for this space... it always happens when driving--I become absolutely a brilliant composer in my head, and by the time I park, take care of everything and have a few minutes... it is GONE. Well, not the fiction--not usually, just my thoughts on life, because they are oft fleeting and typically not worthy of notation; but I'm fairly certain that I probably had the key to something like the fountain of youth and it is forever lost in the dire need to stop off for vegetables and eggs. And if any of you try to tell me that a healthy diet is the key to that fountain... there might be an accident.

Of one thing I can assure you, cats are not the key to living a youthful existence sometimes. Bowie has spent the last several minutes crying like he's dying... and you know why? He is afraid of his reflection in the mirror. I remove him from the bathroom counter and he's back up there, screaming bloody murder. He is a fierce and mighty jungle beast instill fear into the hearts of those in his path, and that includes him.

To counter Bowie, I turned up the speakers on my iPod... yegods, if the neighbors don't already hate me they now have Bon Jovi at arena level decibels. At least I'm not nekkid... at least, not anymore, earlier on the patio might have been another story... and I wouldn't say nekkid as much as I would say topless... there is a subtle difference.

And now, the crisis of dinner... I have stuff to make, I even found some relatively exciting and new recipes; I did go grocery shopping last night and to farmers market this afternoon... but the crisis is not what to make, but IF to make... Lately, I don't want dinner; I'm hungry, but all I really want is copious amounts of Diet Coke or Diet Mountain Dew. I am willing to fore go food for this all driving want. I know it is bad, I know I should cook something healthy and eat and forget the soda, but I am thinking, I will be in the drive thru getting a soda, or at the 7-11 and not eating dinner again tonight. It makes me worry, one of the memories very strong for me is of my grandma--who rarely ate anything beyond a donut and the rest of her day was spent consuming coffee and cigarettes and a pace I've yet to see paralleled. I don't intend on taking up smoking, but I swear, there are some days I would just not eat and would drink coffee or soda all day so I wouldn't have to bother... that is, of course, if you threw in a few jelly candies or a cookie... I'm not a donut girl.

On that note, today is the kinda day that after sitting out on the patio reading a Shape magazine, one should go and wash one's car--and get a soda.

Mahalo.

Pink Ice

So, there I was today, in a store, shopping for life's necessities when I was deterred by the aisle containing the nail polish. It seems, recently, I'm much happier when I have nicely lacquered nails... probably related to my MLC... but nonetheless, I purchased two very fine bottles of polish, making 4 bottles this week alone.

Now to provide some relevance into why I needed the fourth bottle (as if the third bottle was not obvious--I didn't have silver, duh!): Several weeks ago, I started writing a new series of chapters for what may turn into a small book, tentatively titled Pink Ice. Our main character finds herself in the midst career boredom and a bottle of nail polish triggers a series of events that comprise the storyline. The polish is a silver pink and thusly called Pink Ice... today's 4th bottle of polish was a nice silvery pink, and it was called Pink Ice... fortuitous, no?

As you can image, I was terribly excited and felt that I needed to have that as a token to my story. When inspiration comes at $2 a bottle, you really don't pass it up. Especially when you consider that the polish gracing my nails currently runs upward of $8 a bottle and is called "deeply in love" a sentiment that neither describes me or the color very accurately... Pink Ice seems a little more apropos.

And a few comments on my outing tonight... first, it was Top of the Park for a salsa dancing lesson and listening to the Cuban music that followed (oh and there were some awesome white man dances going on to that Cuban rythym, I do have to say). It became overly crowded and I could no longer handle getting pushed in the crowd for no other reason that people are rude. A cappucino from Beaners (take that Starbucks)... and I was off to Meijer... and let me just say, screaming children do not belong in a grocery store after 9... they are tired, let them sleep and not scream for 20 minutes in the meat department. If you pre-teen falls because he isn't skilled with his stupid roller shoes, yelling at him probably won't help and only makes you look like an ass. Finally, and I can't stress this enough, showering is essentially everyday... and if you think you might not pass--take a second one before you enter a grocery store--or any establishment for that matter. Just sayin'.

Pink Ice, signing out.

Back, Baby!

I'm back from my trip to my mom and dad's for a long weekend. Mom's gardens are in fantastic blooms--my allergies are still also in fantastic bloom--I got a lot of pictures, and this is just one.

There were frogs in the pond this morning, too. Quite cute, just sitting there resting... the chickens (yes, the have chickens, turkeys and bunnies... I will have to share the saga of the bunny farm at another time) were also happy this morning clucking and eating watermelon rind. We got a nice boat ride in on Friday evening. My brother stopped in for a few hours also...

Saturday found us going to garage sales--it was, after all, Father's Day weekend as such, you subject yourself to the insanity of garage sales with my dad. There are rules and guidelines... first, there is ALMOST no point in going unless you get there early and on the FIRST day--otherwise, the "good stuff" will already be gone. Second, you have to drive for 20 minutes and then almost talk yourself out of going once there because of distance, the caliber of stuff that might be for sale, whether or not the sellers are "bums." Finally, and apparently, the last rule I had nearly forgotten, but was reminded of when dad veered into the opposite lane of the highway, turned around in someones yard and then sent me flying from one side of the backseat to the other is that the rules of driving are suspended when searching out garage sales.

Saturday wrapped up with my taking the folks to dinner to celebrate their 20th anniversary. They decided on the new "Greek" restuarant in Cheboygan. Actually, I have to say it was more "Greek fusion" that is, Greek fused with Cheboygan. Moussaka was good, and suspiciously more like eggplant parmesan than any moussaka I've tasted... Gyros from what I could see were served up on a ciabatta bun... the Greek salad description surprisingly did not include feta, rather, "Special Feta Greek Dressing." I had the veal, it was quite tasty, dad had the shish kabobs, which were also quite good. Mom and I veered away from the Spinach pie as it was described as having ricotta, parmesan and mozerella cheeses with Greek spices--it was concerning. Also concerning was that the waitress came to the table and informed us that they were out of baked potato... Er, baked potato? Well, okay... but I was a little surprised by their spicy feta hummus... which might have been good, but we passed. All in all, the food was good, but certainly not what I would really call Greek... perhaps Greek inspired. One bonus on the dining experience was that in the hallway to the dining room were a series of photographs of the building of the Machinaw Bridge. For those not aware, this is the 50th Anniversary of the Bridge... and in acknowledgement of that, Mike Fornes, a local writer and journalist I've admired for many, many years has a book on the Bridge coming out this August. Mr. Fornes was very supportive of me as a writer when in high school, and for that I will always be grateful. I look forward to his latest endeavor.

I did make it to Mackinaw over the weekend as well, and got myself some Oreo Popcorn from the Popcorn Factory... yeah, I know, how do you take a relatively healthy snack like popcorn and turn it into a snack worse than 3 Snickers? Glaze it with sugar and toss in crushed oreos... but it was yummy!

So, busy weekend... but I am back. The kitties have almost forgiven my absence--fresh catnip, lots of treats and even more air conditioning seems to have helped with that effort. And now, a little TV and then a little sleep before the craziness of a Monday sinks in.

Whadda week!! A migraine down and a week of crazy work... I finished my Friday off with a bout of cardio and strength training and am feeling back to normal! Which is just in time... tomorrow is my last long training walk... this time next week, I'll be in DC--probably having dinner with a friend and getting ready to get up BRIGHT and EARLY on Saturday. And by early, I truly do mean early as in 4 or 430.

I'm also taking on a garden this summer; and for those of you thinking... Did she just say SHE was going to garden. Yes, I did. I realize that is outside the realm you would normally picture me in... and it completely is. I've been asked what I am going to grow and really the only thing I've planned to buy for this garden so far is a hat, some gloves and those cute gardening shoes. If nothing else, I'll be properly accessorized--which is always my key to success in everything. CLEARLY with the right straw hat and shoes, veggies and herbs will grow in abundance. Isn't that how it works? Nonetheless, I'm terrifically excited about the prospects and look forward to my experiment with nature.

This week also found a sad--very sad--realization that Cocoa Krispies make me quite ill. I had blamed the migraine, but migraine-free, Cocoa Krispies make me very ill... bummer.

The highlight of my week, however, is that I have a brilliant new idea for a new story that I've almost worked through in my head to the point that I am ready to write. With any luck, I'm looking at a Pulitzer, but I'd settle for a movie deal.

In due time

Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.
~Kurt Vonnegut

It was high school when I first read Vonnegut, only because he was on the "LIST" in which in order to read for class, you had to have a piece of paper signed indicating that your parents were aware and approved of your reading the book. In this case, it was Slaughterhouse Five. The very fact that Vonnegut was on that list, I came to conclude, was ironic. Indeed, all on that list I ended up reading "unofficially," as my teacher called it (how you unofficially read a book for your own edification, I have no idea still), created some form of that same irony.

One might think that putting a bunch of books on a list that required parental permission would encourage students to read these books... or at least that is the current logic... bring it up, mention it, talk about it, say it isn't allowed and somehow, teenage pregnancy ensues. But that wasn't the case with those in the class of 1993... ambivalence prevailed (as did pregnancy), and I believe it still does among most of whom with I graduated.

I was raised that you read books. I never needed permission to read anything. As such, I adamantly refused to seek written authorization for these listed books. To this day, I still cannot understand why Catcher in the Rye is so controversial and such a point of contention. Perhaps, though, I am the abnormal one... comparatively, it didn't seem nearly as shocking as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which I read for first time around the same time. Profanity, sex and teenage issues are not nearly as shocking when you are 16 as profanity, drugs and the American Dream being lost. (Note: Hunter Thompson was not on any list in high school--I found him via my own "research.")

Still, we lost a true original this week... there aren't many left.

On becoming a hula champ and other Friday endeavors

By this morning, I was up to a full minute on the hula hoop, and by this evening, the skills are coming fast... I'm up to about 2 minutes. I love the challenge of it.

The cats are less afriad of it now, having managed to turn it into some kind of spotlight by which to be admired. All except Vinnie, who eyes it with suspicion, but not as much suspicion he reserves for the ceiling fans. And Bowie, who, as it was falling from my last hula round swiped it with his paw, and pulled it into the papazan chair so he could lick and bite it.

I've had an idea in my head for a painting for about 3 weeks, so I took the time today to put it to canvas... or at least start to. It is far more formal of an abstract than I've done in the past and therefore took some thinking, sketching and a lot of thought about whether I still could color in the lines. And, I'm very happy with how it has come along so far. There is a poem in that painting when it is done... I can feel it, and for me, that it a good sign.

Took some mental health time today, and it has made a world of difference. It has felt good to be at home by 4 rather than just getting home right about NOW... I got in a decent workout--nothing extreme or lengthy, just about 45 minutes... did some grocery shopping... ran an errand and came home to make dinner. An actual dinner, cooked in the oven... tomorrow will be cleaning and a much bigger workout before my brother arrives. I'm excited to see and spend some time with him this weekend.

The Evil Bunnies Approacheth

Here we are, on the edge of religious holidays galore... Passover, Easter... but what does it REALLY mean? Evil bunnies.

Yep, evil bunnies hopping all about, leaving random eggies, stealing chocolate. It is a little known fact that these evil bunnies appear once a year... mostly, to taunt cats. My one cat, Vinnie, is scared of his own shadow and he seemed frightened by an Easter Bunny that flashed on TV on night, and since he likes it when you talk to him, I made up a story about Evil Bunnies... which causes his ears to lay back flat to his head and his eyes to bug out. I have no idea what he's thinking... but I think it is the premise for a children's book. Some might argue that it is blasphemous... they'd probably be right. I'm no Shel Silverstein, but it isn't as whacked out as some of his works, which can be downright scary and are considered children's poetry... well, except for his work in Playboy. It's all in the illustrations... I just need someone for a knack for illustrating... and since I doubt Ralph Steadman is willing and available, I know some guys.

You don't say?

In a move that is pure Hollywood irony, screen writer Joe Eszterhas comes clean to say that sex in scripts doesn't sell. You may not recognize the name, but you might recognize the movies he's written: Basic Instinct, Basic Instinct II, Sliver, Flashdance, Showgirls... yeah, sex just doesn't sell.

Speaking of screenwriters, someone should tell the writers of tonight's episode of Bones that the following line belongs in the category of "things you should not and would not say to your boss: We just did it in the supply closet an hour ago. I couldn't he more pleased.

Yeah, sex just doesn't sell.