The Intrepid Writer: Jax, I need your opinion on this scene.
Jax: Y-a-w-n.
TIW: Jax, I feel stuck. The story is going nowhere. I know where I want to be in three or four chapters. Bridie needs to be assigned to the Exercise Prep Detail, but...Jax? Are you even listening to me?
Jax tilts head in imitation of rapt attention, gives a slow, languorous blink.
TIW: Jax? This part where the Range Officer discovers the body and calls the cease fire, remember that part I read to you this morning? Well I was thinking that maybe Bridie could ...Jax?
Jax, left leg extended with his toes pointing to the North Star, begins grooming his nether regions.
TIW: It sucks, doesn't it? Pumpkin didn't like it any better when I tried it on him yesterday. DELETE. DELETE. DELETE...
~~~~~~~
Candle burning, wine glass at my elbow, AC/DC on the stereo with some vintage Foreigner waiting in the wings...and I got nothing. Okay, not nothing. I've captured about 1000 words today, some good, some...bleah... I need another 200-ish to finish this scene.
Eyes closed, deep breath in - pause, release...
Ohm....
Ohm...
Oh Seshat, wherefore art Thou, in my darkest hour?
Thoth...why have you forsaken me?
Open my eyes and take another sip.
The cursor still blinks its accusation: no-thing, no-thing, no-thing...
...Cuz I'm BACK in BLACK, yeah - huh - yeah - hu - uh!
Must . . .
keep . . .
slogging . . .
away . . .
... Fill my eyes
with that Double Vision...
la, la, la,
....Tonight's the night I'm gonna push it to the limit...
What's this?
Now you're messin' with a
Son of a Bitch...
Nazareth? On the oldies channel? I'm getting old just sitting here staring at a blinking cursor. Maybe some more Hair of the Dog?
and the slogging continues....
Casual Duty Progress Report
| |
27,139 / 100,000 (27.1%) |
26 January 2008
23 January 2008
Exactly What I Need
Feeling down today, out of sorts, sticky. I wish I was doing something else, but I'm not really even doing anything right now. I should be working on my next chapter. Instead I'm surfing. I just surfed across an ad for an online article:
TOP 10 Internet Home Business Ideas You can Start and Run in Your Underwear
So I considered my underwear. Not just today's foundation garments, the entire contents of my underwear drawer. No wonder I'm feeling down -- I need new underwear! I actually have two drawers: one for bras, one for panties. Oh, and one for long underwear, too.
When I think about underwear, and I usually don't, I think about underwear with names: bikini, boxer, thong, boyleg, tap, teddy, camisole, chemise, corset, bloomer, petticoat, tanga brief. Maybe that's my problem My underwear doesn't have a name. It's just the regular kind. Not fancy. Not wildly colorful. Not complicated. Not itchy-scratchy. Not covered in rhinestones or diamonds.
If I had Victoria's Secret lingerie, I'd suddenly grow 3 inches taller and lose 50 lbs. My life would be ... well, I guess it'd be different somehow.
I'd eat exotic food.
I'd drive a tiny red sportscar from Italy.
I'd carry a designer dog in my designer bag.
I'd wear pointy shoes with high heels that hurt my feet.
I'd evade paparazzi.
I'd drink poufy drinks from glasses with long stems. On the veranda.
I'd comb my bangs from the other side.
I'd send my laundry out.
I'd blow kisses to my adoring fans.
I'd wave to all the little people from my balcony.
I'd fly First Class (or on my private jet).
I'd shop in posh shops on Fifth Avenue.
I'd read important books.
I'd render opinions.
I'd think deep thoughts.
I'd protest the mistreatment of the mistreated.
I'd initiate trends.
I'd tend my garden.
I'd expect doilies.
I'd take tennis lessons.
I'd hope for world peace.
I'd wear dangly sparklies.
I'd cultivate a throaty laugh.
I'd dab my tears with monogramed hankies.
I'd sleep on 1,000 threadcount linens (not sheets - linens).
I'd lunch. And sup.
I'd twirl my wine before sipping to ensure it demonstrated legs.
I'd beg off, instead of canceling.
I'd offer my regrets.
I'd assume airs.
I'd extend my condolences.
I'd decline.
I'd become inclined.
I'd speak with "h's" in the middle of my words, "Dah-ling."
I'd deliberate.
I'd dabble in the arts.
I'd condone actions.
I'd enter grandly on red carpet.
I'd wear gloves, and maybe hats.
I'd sit up straight, with my legs together and ankles crossed.
I'd retire to the next room.
I'd pick up my pen and write my next chapter.
Well, now I know exactly what I need.
TOP 10 Internet Home Business Ideas You can Start and Run in Your Underwear
So I considered my underwear. Not just today's foundation garments, the entire contents of my underwear drawer. No wonder I'm feeling down -- I need new underwear! I actually have two drawers: one for bras, one for panties. Oh, and one for long underwear, too.
When I think about underwear, and I usually don't, I think about underwear with names: bikini, boxer, thong, boyleg, tap, teddy, camisole, chemise, corset, bloomer, petticoat, tanga brief. Maybe that's my problem My underwear doesn't have a name. It's just the regular kind. Not fancy. Not wildly colorful. Not complicated. Not itchy-scratchy. Not covered in rhinestones or diamonds.
If I had Victoria's Secret lingerie, I'd suddenly grow 3 inches taller and lose 50 lbs. My life would be ... well, I guess it'd be different somehow.
I'd eat exotic food.
I'd drive a tiny red sportscar from Italy.
I'd carry a designer dog in my designer bag.
I'd wear pointy shoes with high heels that hurt my feet.
I'd evade paparazzi.
I'd drink poufy drinks from glasses with long stems. On the veranda.
I'd comb my bangs from the other side.
I'd send my laundry out.
I'd blow kisses to my adoring fans.
I'd wave to all the little people from my balcony.
I'd fly First Class (or on my private jet).
I'd shop in posh shops on Fifth Avenue.
I'd read important books.
I'd render opinions.
I'd think deep thoughts.
I'd protest the mistreatment of the mistreated.
I'd initiate trends.
I'd tend my garden.
I'd expect doilies.
I'd take tennis lessons.
I'd hope for world peace.
I'd wear dangly sparklies.
I'd cultivate a throaty laugh.
I'd dab my tears with monogramed hankies.
I'd sleep on 1,000 threadcount linens (not sheets - linens).
I'd lunch. And sup.
I'd twirl my wine before sipping to ensure it demonstrated legs.
I'd beg off, instead of canceling.
I'd offer my regrets.
I'd assume airs.
I'd extend my condolences.
I'd decline.
I'd become inclined.
I'd speak with "h's" in the middle of my words, "Dah-ling."
I'd deliberate.
I'd dabble in the arts.
I'd condone actions.
I'd enter grandly on red carpet.
I'd wear gloves, and maybe hats.
I'd sit up straight, with my legs together and ankles crossed.
I'd retire to the next room.
I'd pick up my pen and write my next chapter.
Well, now I know exactly what I need.
22 January 2008
Bouts, Fits, and Jags
I'm warning you right now, if you dismiss this post as yet other menopausal diatribe bemoaning the "natural" symptoms of diminished estrogen levels in my blood, I'll cry.
For several years (okay, maybe it's more like 25 or 30), I have shamefully tried to hide my ocular incontinence. (I thought I made up that term, but it already exists in Googleland.) I'm talking about spontaneous tears, emotional lability or crying for no apparent reason.
I handled this phenomenon the same way I usually handle any sort of problem in my over-intellectualized, over-compartmentalized and discombobulated life. I researched it. A guy named Tom Lutz wrote a book called, "Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears." I read about the physiology of tears (lachrymology), the psychology of tears, the manipulation of tears, and the social dimension of our eye's natural lubricant. Go ahead and google "spontaneous tears" and you'll find more articles about episiotomies than you ever thought possible. Yeesch!
I cry when I'm under too much stress, as a pressure release.
I cry when I'm really angry.
I cry when I'm sad, or happy.
I cry when my legs hurt.
I cry when I'm just driving down the road and the sun is shining.
I cry when I think about my deceased parents, the soldiers stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan, the babies starving in Biafra, or mistakes I've made along the way.
I cry when I'm reading or watching TV or when I look at a photo of The Pieta.
I cry on Tuesdays and sometimes on Saturdays.
Sometimes I just pull a dark cloud over my head and weep. I don't seem to be able to wail, keen, moan or bawl. Snivel? I can do that one. I guess I can understand crying because I'm hurt or sad or mad, but those seemingly random Tuesday afternoon jags frustrate the hell out of me.
So where is the shame in crying? I guess I feel that tears signify a loss of control over my own emotions. As a child, I remember being punished for crying. As an adult, I've learned that tears are an expression of emotion, a moving of energy. By punishing that expression of emotion, I was taught to disconnect from the original feeling that created the emotion.
When I find myself about to cry, I immediately cut off any connection to what I'm feeling and struggle to hold back my tears. The harder I try to stop, the more I need to cry. Pressure builds up inside. I choke. It hurts. I mean, I hurt -- my muscles, my throat, my heart, my belly, even my breasts hurt. The painful feeling comes in waves and spirals through me, knocking me down inside. So what is my response? Squeeze my eyes tight and hold back the outward manifestation of that feeling -- the tears.
The feeling gets squelched, but it doesn't come out. I can imagine all those disconnected schnibbles crashing around inside me, knocking into my organs and pinching against my nerves. Or maybe they just sort of rise like helium balloons and bounce around my throat trying to get up to my brain.
Pat Torngren writes that the human mind protects itself. "Memories of pain and unmet needs are repressed or "gated", so we won't get overwhelmed and die. Once the danger is passed, the mind allows it to reconnect to the consciousness for healing."
This sounds hokey, but in reality it is similar to the way my body tries to heal itself by fighting infection or clotting blood. Maybe my mind is trying to allow some unexpressed feelings to come out and make room for something else. Like joy, perhaps? Torngren goes on to say that feelings of being stuck or sick may be our pysche's way of leading us to a healing point.
In other cultures, such as the Andaman Islanders, tears are seen as an expression of collective loss. They celebrate a reunion with a loved one with a ceremony or ritual wailing, called the "Welcome of Tears" to express the sadness from the time spent apart. In Greece, Italy, Eastern Europe, China and the Pacific Islands, ritual wailing is common. Crying can be seen as nourishment, tears as a gift. Students of women's mysteries believe in the beauty and sacredness of tears. For only $12.99, you can buy a CD of women wailing. Don't laugh, but I considered clicking on the link.
Somewhere in the middle of this post, I decided to try a new tactic. No more shame associated with crying. My tears may be a signal that I feel safe enough to open up and heal old wounds.
I suggest we all buy stock in Kleenex.
For several years (okay, maybe it's more like 25 or 30), I have shamefully tried to hide my ocular incontinence. (I thought I made up that term, but it already exists in Googleland.) I'm talking about spontaneous tears, emotional lability or crying for no apparent reason.
I handled this phenomenon the same way I usually handle any sort of problem in my over-intellectualized, over-compartmentalized and discombobulated life. I researched it. A guy named Tom Lutz wrote a book called, "Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears." I read about the physiology of tears (lachrymology), the psychology of tears, the manipulation of tears, and the social dimension of our eye's natural lubricant. Go ahead and google "spontaneous tears" and you'll find more articles about episiotomies than you ever thought possible. Yeesch!
I cry when I'm under too much stress, as a pressure release.
I cry when I'm really angry.
I cry when I'm sad, or happy.
I cry when my legs hurt.
I cry when I'm just driving down the road and the sun is shining.
I cry when I think about my deceased parents, the soldiers stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan, the babies starving in Biafra, or mistakes I've made along the way.
I cry when I'm reading or watching TV or when I look at a photo of The Pieta.
I cry on Tuesdays and sometimes on Saturdays.
Sometimes I just pull a dark cloud over my head and weep. I don't seem to be able to wail, keen, moan or bawl. Snivel? I can do that one. I guess I can understand crying because I'm hurt or sad or mad, but those seemingly random Tuesday afternoon jags frustrate the hell out of me.
So where is the shame in crying? I guess I feel that tears signify a loss of control over my own emotions. As a child, I remember being punished for crying. As an adult, I've learned that tears are an expression of emotion, a moving of energy. By punishing that expression of emotion, I was taught to disconnect from the original feeling that created the emotion.
When I find myself about to cry, I immediately cut off any connection to what I'm feeling and struggle to hold back my tears. The harder I try to stop, the more I need to cry. Pressure builds up inside. I choke. It hurts. I mean, I hurt -- my muscles, my throat, my heart, my belly, even my breasts hurt. The painful feeling comes in waves and spirals through me, knocking me down inside. So what is my response? Squeeze my eyes tight and hold back the outward manifestation of that feeling -- the tears.
The feeling gets squelched, but it doesn't come out. I can imagine all those disconnected schnibbles crashing around inside me, knocking into my organs and pinching against my nerves. Or maybe they just sort of rise like helium balloons and bounce around my throat trying to get up to my brain.
Pat Torngren writes that the human mind protects itself. "Memories of pain and unmet needs are repressed or "gated", so we won't get overwhelmed and die. Once the danger is passed, the mind allows it to reconnect to the consciousness for healing."
This sounds hokey, but in reality it is similar to the way my body tries to heal itself by fighting infection or clotting blood. Maybe my mind is trying to allow some unexpressed feelings to come out and make room for something else. Like joy, perhaps? Torngren goes on to say that feelings of being stuck or sick may be our pysche's way of leading us to a healing point.
In other cultures, such as the Andaman Islanders, tears are seen as an expression of collective loss. They celebrate a reunion with a loved one with a ceremony or ritual wailing, called the "Welcome of Tears" to express the sadness from the time spent apart. In Greece, Italy, Eastern Europe, China and the Pacific Islands, ritual wailing is common. Crying can be seen as nourishment, tears as a gift. Students of women's mysteries believe in the beauty and sacredness of tears. For only $12.99, you can buy a CD of women wailing. Don't laugh, but I considered clicking on the link.
Somewhere in the middle of this post, I decided to try a new tactic. No more shame associated with crying. My tears may be a signal that I feel safe enough to open up and heal old wounds.
I suggest we all buy stock in Kleenex.
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