Tag Archives: Writing

What a Difference 10 Mgs Makes

What a difference 10 little milligrams makes. The clouds have parted, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the cat is meowing. I’m back to writing again. Got 14,000 words in on the NaNoWriMo frontier.

Last week I deteriorated into a spineless, humorless, irritable, irrational, brainless blob of quivering ectoplasm. It would have been easy to get a job as an extra in a horror movie portraying the green slime dripping down the wall. That’s how I felt, anyway. If I was going to portray slime I would insist on being hot pink slime, if in my right mind.

Unless you’ve fallen down that dark cold depression rabbit hole it’s difficult to imagine. The only thing I did know last week was that I did NOT want to do anything, go anywhere, eat anything, go to bed, get out of bed, watch TV, take a bath or see what color the sky was. Zero, zip, nada. Everything was shades of gray. Going outside was scary because I might hear the wind blow and that would make me sad. We are just dust in the wind right?  I felt already ground to dust.  The kind that would not giggle if tickled by a feather duster.

Then after a talk with my beloved head shrinker, we decided to up my meds by a measly 10 mgs. Yee haa! I’m me again. I recognize that woman in the mirror. I’m back to my old self. Laughing, singing, dancing, designing silly hats in my mind, writing about anything and everything that suits my fancy. Mr. Husband and I went to dinner and a movie last night. I’ll have you know I put on makeup, my new boots with the punky silver buckles, and even a bra! How cool is that?

The Immortals @ IMDB.com

The movie we went to see was “The Immortals.” It was the bloodiest, high tech, computer enhanced, festival of gore and guts, with absolutely no point what-so-ever, that I have ever seen in my entire life. Proves that old point of “just because you can – doesn’t mean you should”… make the film, pay money to go see it, try to figure it out. I thought it was going to be about Greek gods. Well it was, but that was just a backdrop for the non stop carnage. I have now seen a man cleaved in half from side to side, top to bottom, decapitated, dismembered, or detongued. I looked through the 2 halves of a split body to see another man run through with a trident in slow motion. And that was the light stuff. Not for the faint at heart. I don’t recommend it.

Discredit Your Inner Idiot

Self - Talk to the Hand

Discredit Your Inner Idiot. Go on you know you wanna! I’m fixinta do it right now. (In case you haven’t noticed I’m experimenting with made up words today.)

It’s rainy day, so my decision to leave the house will just have to wait. Instead I’ve decided to find a pair of pliers and a hammer to go to work on my inner critic.

Inner Idiot: Why start a blog? You know you never finish anything?

Real Me: Shaddup! Been blogging for almost a year now. The only thing I’ve done this consistently in my life is travel and drink beer. OK, I also read Sci Fi and tend to scare myself to death reading Steven King books when I’m home alone.

Inner Idiot: Sooo you want to be a writer. Who do you think you are?

Real Me: Uh…me? Been writing all my life, just didn’t share it that often. Actually I’m a published writer. A story I wrote got published in a national magazine for kids when I was in the 5th grade. God, I wish I could remember what the name was. Also wrote stories for the school newspaper in high school. There has just been a brief 40 year dry spell. Now that I think of it, during the corporate years, I wrote entire books. They were non-fiction. Scintillating subjects like – User Manuals, Standard Operating Procedures, Employee policy, history of a company, successful proposals to fund projects, business plans, etc. Not edge of your chair, nail-biting, stay up all night kind of stuff, but hey! I AM a writer. So bite me!

Inner Idiot: Oh come on! Every time you fire up your Kindle you are confronted with pictures of fossilized great writers from days of yore. What makes you think you can stand on the shoulders of greatness?

Real Me: Seriously? Can’t those Kindle people put a picture in there of a person is has not been in the ground for 50 years? Why do you have to be dead to be considered creative? And further more, I’ll bet cash money that I’m every bit as weird as Mary Shelley (author of Frankenstein), just in different kinda way.

Inner Idiot: *Sigh, and rolls eyes* Everyone wants to be a writer. It’s an easy way to explain inactivity, if all you do is stay up late at night and stare at paper.

Real Me: Well…No, actually not everyone wants to be a writer. Percentage wise, not that many do. Come to think of it, I’ve never met anyone, in person, who wants to do this. And I’ve met a lot of people.

Inner Idiot: Well, maybe I’m beating a dead horse here.

Real me: Yea, you are. I shall sashay forth and do my thang. Nice talking to you, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

_____________________________

NaNoWriMo update: Fell a little behind the last day or 2, but I was ahead already so I have plenty of wiggle room.

Rediscover Writing

Rediscovery @www.ecofriend.com

I only speak when I have something to say. But, when I have something to say, I talk a LOT. If I go for long time without talking Mr. Husband gets nervous and asks me if something is wrong. Is it a non optional social convention to speak to someone on a regular basis if you’re living in the same house? I guess it is.

Growing up in a non-traditional household with many siblings allows more privacy of thought. And perhaps more eccentricities to develop. I could go days without talking and my mother, busy with 4 other siblings was too busy to notice. When I did have something to say it had to be short, sweet and to the point or her attention would start to wander. The loud bangs, occasional screams, smell of something burning perhaps, thundering that sounded like a herd of buffalo running through the living room, and all the other distractions of a house full of wild children do that to a parent.

I discovered then and rediscovered recently that if I put my thoughts and wild fantasies down on paper, I can talk as much as I want without driving someone nuts. Unless they sign up for it by reading the story. Recently hodge-podged a mini book of a work in progress, converted it to an eReader format and put it in my Kindle. I sat down to read it with a cup of coffee. Surprised, I got wrapped up in the story and was disappointed when it ended abruptly. Putting it aside, I had then one of those Eureka/Duh moments. I can take this adventure anywhere I want it to go because I am the one calling the shots. That is to cool. Such elegant simplicity. I feel like I discovered fire or the wheel.

Excuse Me-That’s Not in My Story

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Image via Wikipedia

It’s wonderful when things fall into place. Eureka moments. Standing in my bathrobe this morning, little thought bubbles floated towards me and popped on the end of my nose.

It occurred to me that as I write my story, for the last 50 years my story was writing me. The bit player, the extra, the walk on with one line. occasionally the supporting actress. Frequently the protagonist, the comedian, the villain, a dumb blond.

I was off-center, out of balance. Spent my time reading other people’s stories. Reading so much I didn’t take time to write my own. Made a few attempts when I was girl. But they were labeled too weird, too flowery. The main character’s name was misspelled. They’re made up for God’s sake.

Friends in the story disappeared over the years. Lost touch, died. “Did you hear what happened to Susie?” Slowly I let my dreams be written out of the story. So long ago I don’t remember what they were. But they will come back, or new ones will form in the empty spaces.

Yesterday, husband and I were debating a plan. It got heated. Finally snapped out  “that’s not in my story.” Husband stared at me speechless. Who said that? Wow, I said that.

Husband and I married with pre-conceived scripts, even if they were subconscious. Marriage is supposed to be like this. “Blah, blah.” A wife is supposed to….what? Cook and clean, spend your money? The man is supposed to kill the bug!

When we were dating we created all kinds of wild stories together. Husband played Dungeons and Dragons with his friends for years. He can spin amazing and complex tales.

I’m looking forward to co-writing our story. I’m done standing by the wall and letting it pass me by.

Curiosity Snagged the Husband

Short Story

Image via Wikipedia

Mr. Husband is usually blissfully ignorant of anything I do that doesn’t involve him, until now. Since I started this blog, writing has become fun again. A few days ago, a writing exercise turned into a short story. Its incredible fascinating and I’ve spent every waking minute of free time on it. Camped in my new laz-z-boy lounger I bought about six months ago (why this happened is another story), I scribble away. Eventually it sifted into my consciousness that the hub-man was walking back and forth through the den on his way to the kitchen staring at me quizzically, each time walking a little more slowly.

Curiosity overwhelmed him on about the 7th pass. “Whatcha doin?” he says in a sing-song voice.  I looked up at him, “writing” and went back to the notebook. A few seconds tick by, “whatcha writing about?” “Oh nuthin, just a short story”. Hubby wrinkles his forward and cocks his head like our mini schnauzer. “Why?” A truly heartfelt question. “Well I just felt liking doing it.” A few more seconds, “What you writing about?” “Just stuff, it’s a short story, babe. If you’re really nice to me I might let you read some of it.” He rolls his eyes and goes back to the bedroom to resume his Xbox football game. He is, of course, the greatest coach of all time in this fantasy league, and master of his universe.

I paused and thought . Hmm, maybe I should continue to be vague, at least it gets him up and moving around. When he runs out of excuses to go in the kitchen, he might just start putting some of his stuff away that lies cluttered around the den. He won’t be able to stay out of here if I’m wrapped up in this, instead of worshipping at his feet. Why didn’t I think of this before?

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