Banner Day

Yesterday was sort of a banner day. I actually finished a chapter of my essay book. And it was actually semi funny (though, as I've now hyper-critically edited it 300 times already, it feels less laugh-out-loud to me than the first few times I read it).

Unfortunately, I think I may have to scrap a couple essays I've written already. They don't fit in with the overall book and make me very annoyed with myself. And I don't think there's anything salvageable in any of them, so they're not worth rewriting.

If I can finish this effer by July, I will be one happy writer. My goal is about 18 different short-ish essays.

Of course, things tend to not work out as planned when I'm involved, so I'm trying to be as rigid as possible while still remaining flexible when goals are concerned.

This entry was officially less engaging and significantly more annoying than the worst of the chapters I'm garbage-canning.

Reading Breeds Writing ... Breeds Loneliness

I woke up four times last night with new sentences for a chapter in my book of personal essays swimming in my head and was actually compelled to write them down. Thanks, Kindle, for making me read again, because this is what happens: I start working when I sleep again, which is ideal when I have too much work to do while I'm awake to get everything done.

Last night, I finally finished Sloane Crosley's second book How Did You Get This Number. It was less raucously, unabashedly, un-sadly funny than the first, but I still laughed out loud repeatedly. However, the last chapter about a lengthy, deceitful and in the end, horribly lonely-making relationship (that started over whiskey and a shared brain, as all my big and small ones have since I moved to this horribly lovelorn city) made my heart hurt. And, yes, I cried.

The last time a book made me cry was maybe one of the Anne of Green Gables books (Anne of Avonlea, to be exact, I think), and it was out of happiness that Gilbert and Anne got together. This one made me cry because I related on such a deep level, and it confirmed the feeling I was having that I hadn't been able to put my finger on until the last few pages of the book: when you write for a living -- particularly when you're over-analytical, over-psychological when it comes to analyzing other humans and your experiences, which makes for the best writing anyway -- you may just be destined for a sad and lonely existence. Thankfully, that existence might be extremely funny. But it will be so unspeakably sad at times that you won't want to leave your house. And when you are particularly over-diligent and really, really serious about your craft, you might not even notice you're creating your own loneliness, or that it's necessary to feel it in order for you to spend the hours upon hours of inside time toiling to produce some brief moments of human beauty. There was a sadness and a heaviness about her book, and I know it well. It often makes me uncomfortable because I think if I met myself on the street in my deepest woe-is-me, crying-my-eyes-out (or even just so-numb-I-no-longer-have-any-eyes-to-cry-out) moments, I would be the most unlikable character I'd ever read. I would make myself uncomfortable.

And as much as, when life and love lets me down (and I don't think I can do it ever, ever again, because "this time" was as close as I can ever hope to get [cue my "Island of Almost Boyfriends" song, because they just keep getting closer and closer to being real and not "almost," to the point where sometimes I don't think they could possibly get any closer and that it must just be me and my own problems that are keeping me alone]), I want to give it all up and stay inside forever, I know the following truth she writes:

"One mathematically insignificant day, you stop hoping for happiness and become actually happy. Okay, on occasion, you do worry about yourself. You worry about what this experience has tapped into. What will be left of it when the surface area shrinks? How will you make sense of it after the compulsion to have others make sense of it for you has faded? There is one thing you know for sure, one fact that never fails to comfort you the worst day of your life wasn't in there, in that mess. And it will do you good to remember the best day of your life wasn't in there, either. But another person brought you closer to those borders than you had been, and maybe that's not such a bad thing."

so much for motivation ...

I've been having a hell of a time lately getting started on things (and finishing things). And, of course, once I sit down to do something, it's absolutely no problem (and I know this, thanks to decades of empirical proof). I'm determined to cross everything off my to-do list by Sunday at the latest. And that likely means I'm going to have to lock myself in my apartment until I'm forced to make things happen.

Sometimes, I wish computers hadn't been invented, and all I had was a typewriter. I think everything would be a lot easier.

reKindle

It is true: The joy of reading is enhanced by the Kindle (and perhaps by e-readers in general. I know, I know, most are not as good as the iPad, but, I don't need to go that far yet!). Dammit. I was hoping it was just all hype.

Also, I am starting to suspect that the joy of writing (when reading good and not trashy stuff) will be positively affected.

Stay tuned ...

Also, I will confess, I just finished reading two trashy mysteries -- something from the "Liv Bergen" series. Sandra Brannan is certainly not Shakespeare -- and she uses some crappy/novice writing conventions (mostly attached to melodramatic character self description and observation) as well as not-that-surprising twists -- but all in all, I ate her stuff up like cupcakes. It's nice to have a break from The Brainy sometimes.

Lost Ideas

You know you've been doing too much writing for online purposes (and not enough writing for "real life" purposes) when you start to have typos when you think of words in your head. My most recent typo was "writer's blog" instead of "writer's block."

I don't really believe in writer's block, frankly (with writing, as with all disciplines -- even the creative kinds -- the theory of "use it or lose it" holds true). I do believe that I've been blocked from writing down even the crap that I think up (and it's in the crap that we find ideas).

I'm hoping today trash breeds treasure, in all life areas.

Less than Banner Days ...

That would be the description of the past few days, and possibly into the future. I went for cheesy but kind of delicious Mexican last night with an old college friend I haven't seen in 12 years, so that was kind of fun. It's always weird to see people from your history enter into your present and future element and realize how much different (yet how much the same) you are from the last time they were a part of your universe.

I have some other thoughts that are less pleasant, but I'm not going to "Hang in There, Kitty"/"Dear Diary" journal.

Now that I've finished my work work for the day, I'm going to get cracking on the real, near-and-dear writing.

In pop culture news, I think I've become hooked on The Voice. I can't get Xenia's rendition of "Price Tag" out of my head, and I felt myself being intensely emotionally affected by a Fergie song ("Big Girls Don't Cry"). In my defense with the second point, I blame it on some other heartbreaking events that happened this weekend that had nothing to do with it.

And I'm sure you thought you had problems ...

Better Days

I've been gone so long. I really need to get better at this.

On this week's docket is to do some serious work on my books. I need to stop the distractions and just get it done. If I focused like I used to focus, I could be finished with at least one of my many-started ideas in just a few weeks (or less).

Also on my list is to get back into performing. It will take my mind off some of the unpleasantness that has been going on lately and get me out more without having to squander a lot of dollars.

Hopefully I'll be more prolific about this in both quality of thought and length of post next time.