Okay. I Give.

GM has its yearly shut down between Christmas and New Year's, and if you didn't schedule any time off during that week or choose to use up your vacation days, then you're in for the long torturous task of getting through the week.

I suppose it's pretty much like this in companies all over the place. I shouldn't feel like it's my own personal doom for being employed by a contracted digital media agency for GM. I'm sure there are many others (like the five other people that came in today) that are suffering as well.

I think today I'm just going to embrace my misery and make art out of it. Write some poems, some sad little stories of lost ponies and unmotivated sheep. This is the week for it, I suppose, though the slower things are the harder it is for me to actually do anything. I need stimulation! Excitement! Bushmill's!

Okay, maybe not Bushmill's. Besides, it's only 10:30 am and I should wait at least until lunchtime. I believe I have some vases to clean...

An Open Letter to Old Man Winter

Dear Sir:

I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that while I would gladly blame you for my lack of motivation and inspiration, you are not at fault. Though your endless grey days, freezing temperatures and chill winds may compel me to just go home after work, put on my flannel pajamas and scarf down pasta until unconsciousness hits, it is up to me to rebel against these urges and somehow be productive. So, to retaliate I will continue to go to the gym, I will force myself to write, and I will will myself to keep a sunny disposition though it would certainly be best for family and friends if I just avoided them until my mood improves.

So screw you, Old Man Winter. You can kiss my patootie, 'cuz you certainly ain't gonna beat me this year!

Sincerely,

About to Lose it in Ferndale

Pillow Book

Things that Make Me Feel That All is Right in the World

D major chord
My husband's robe
My favorite jeans
The smell of my mother's cooking
The fact that 98% of what I worry about will never happen
Knowing my girlfriend in Portland is unemployed but happily married
Baby pandas
That hug I get when I arrive home from work
8 hour jam sessions in Kalamazoo
Red wine and good conversation

Aftermath

So I'm done with my so-called novel, and I think it was a bit anticlimactic. A friend has offered to buy me lunch and celebrate, but that's about it. But I did get a lot of congratulations from people I had emailed, and quite a number want to read my book when it's done - so that's pretty special.

I think what I really need to do is reward myself in some way. A message? Facial? Male escort? Hmm...male escort..

Really, though - I owe myself something. A special moment of joy that's just for me. Maybe I'll take a survey amongst my friends and take suggestions. Meanwhile, I'm afraid and at the same time eager to see what I've created, but the advice is to lay it aside for two weeks and just rest. So that's what I'll do. Then I'll open a bottle of cabernet, sit on the couch and read my novel. There must be some salvageable stuff - the fact that I could even send a summary of the story is a positive sign.

Writing is hard work, dammit!

Where did this come from?

I have introduced the theory that the combination of cathode ray emissions and theta brainwaves can produce a portal to another world.

Great. I'm so proud of me. Onward, nonetheless! My word count is 27, 024!!

Must..write..100 more ..words...

Okay. This is hard. My "novel" is getting interesting but my imaginations is getting away with all sorts of things, but I'm told that's okay.

Today I found myself going back to paragraphs and beefing up some sections to get a reasonable word count for the day. I felt naughty, yet they were legitimate sentences that really did have something to do with the paragraph they were inserted in. Really.

I'm currently at 22,148 words. I feel like wrapping things up now but I'm only almost halfway through. I can do it. I can do it!! I CAN DO IT!!

Delirium is setting in and before I resort to inserting song lyrics, I best turn in. Writing is hard work. I am currently only armed with mango juice and a bowl of pomegranate seeds, and both are starting to run low. I had thought I might need some Xanax (being Sunday night and my usual day to have unnecessary anxiety attacks) but I'm pretty tuckered from making shite up on the fly. And now it's 11:30 and too late for sleep enhancers.

Good night, all you November novelers, wherever you are!

Because I am Clearly Insane

Since I don't have enough going on with work, music, my cake business and life in general, I thought I'd do this write a novel in a month thing organized by www.nanowrimo.org. Here is an exciting excerpt!

A presence was in the room, and she wanted to see but exhaustion was keeping her from opening her eyes. But she must be asleep – yet she knew something was standing on the left of her towards her feet, and it wanted her attention. She felt her chin dip slightly, and her head tilt to the left, but with the utmost effort. She was like taffy hardening –it was getting harder to move anything, and she felt so very heavy. Somehow she managed to open her eyes (did she? Was she really opening them?) and as she suspected there was something standing there. It was the figure of a boy, and the boy was, impossibly, made of glass. Or something like glass. He needed something, and he couldn’t quite find a way to communicate. The substance he was made of was mesmerizing; it swirled with iridescent colors and seemed to be glass and highly polished silver all at the same time. But he was trying to say something, his mouth moving, struggling as if trying to keep something inside but also wanting very much to free it. Her dream mind zoomed in to his face, and his eyes, full of fear now and terror, let her know that he couldn’t hold what was inside of him any longer. Her anxiety quickly turned to panic as his mouth burst open and became wider than his head as a torrent of sound and light came forth like the sound of Armageddon.

She screamed as well, but no sound would come out of her and she prayed for it to stop, and tried to will the apparition away and her maddening dream to end. But it kept going on until she surrendered to it, and the boy screamed as she watched, helpless and mute.

Honestly, I have NO idea what I'm doing, but apparently it doesn't matter. Just get to the 50,000 words at the end of the month, and I'm a winner! (Hooray for me!)

Chocolate

They say you respond to chocolate the same way as you do when you're in love. Does that mean if I keep eating it I'll keep myself in a state of curious excitement/giddy hopefulness mixed with despair and confusion? Maybe I'll just see what happens if I take another wee candy bar from the office manager's plastic pumpkin...

Yes, again the day is flat-lining on me and I need to amuse myself at work. Hoping some tea will revive my drooping interest in staying awake.

IDEA!!! I think I'll write some work-related topics (well, loosely related) and put them on the bulletin board. That's an outlet, right? And it might make things a little more interesting around here. It's positively driving me insane right now.

Right. Tea. Writing. How to Cuss in Other Languages has been a topic of interest to me for a while...

Outlaws

Once upon a time, you could watch a movie, the news or your favorite television show, and someone would inevitably light up a cigarette, hold it elegantly between their first and second finger, and no one would say boo about it. The cigarette was often followed by a scotch or martini, thus completing the image of worldly, cosmopolitan jetsetter. The lights would just illuminate the otherwordly wafts of exhaled smoke which would linger affectionately around Walter Cronkite's head, and one would think "Gosh, he's so sophisticated! When can I light up?"

Not so in our supposedly more health-conscious times. I was walking into my office this morning and as I passed the unofficial smoking area, which was either in front of the restaurant or right outside the entrance, I couldn't help but notice how the smokers were positioned. One, a policeman, was lighting up next to a bush, looking positively shady, and several others were in random spots surrounding the entrance. There were a couple leaning against the wall, one leg bent to lend a more deviant vibe to the scene. These people looked neither cool or sophisticated, but rather more like outlaws pondering their next crime. What would it be? A puff between conference calls? Perhaps one right after lunch? Or maybe one in the car on the way home to ease the day's tensions away?

Alas, the long-ago image of elegant, satin-gloved women and smartly dressed executives snapping open monogrammed metal cigarette boxes is pretty much over. I suppose this isn't a total loss, but I do wish certain elements of those bygone days were still around. Perhaps I'll try and get everyone to wear hats and gloves again. It' s a start, anyway, since we can't drink martinis at work. Damn!

Fie on Working!

I have been instructed to find something to distract me from my current state of grumpy and bored. So a-blogging I will go!

My mind at the moment can best be described as an immaculate highway disappearing off into the horizon. The destination not visible to my eye is the end of my work day -I must walk the pristine, uninterrupted pavement to get to this five o'clock place and thus end my torture. During this journey there is nothing but steady walking; nothing to distract me or make the trip more pleasant or exciting. Just putting one foot in front of the other as my glazed eyes follow white lines, lulled into a mental state not unlike that of a plodding mule.

I quietly observe the sun change position in the sky. I keep walking, and torment myself further by periodically looking at my watch.

3:30 pm. Two more miles.

Damn, I hate Mondays!

Hoy.

So I've decided to learn my native language this year. I think it's going well. The text book is well-written, the instructor is funny and pushes the group to start using what we learn right away. And, some hidden knowledge is resurfacing, which I find reassuring.

I'm having fun, too. But one lesson I didn't expect to learn has been humbling.

In the last class, those of us who were a little familiar with the material discussed how we knew what to say, but were afraid to for fear of saying something incorrectly and enduring our parents' merciless ridicule. This made me think of my mom. Sometimes she would say certain English words with incorrect inflections and we'd laugh and make fun of her, being kids and generally thoughtless and insensitive. But people tend to do that - find amusement as someone speaks in broken English, trying their best to be understood only to be met with bemused looks or outright laughter.

After struggling through two classes I must suggest this to those who laugh: Take a month to learn some simple conversational phrases in say, Swahili. Then walk over to a group of people exceptionally fluent in Swahili and be part of the conversation. Speak Swahili, with no trace of an accent or hesitancy. Pray that you don't call someone's grandmother a boiled root dish by putting the accent of a word in the wrong place. Who's laughing now, eh? See - it's not so easy. It's another case of putting yourself in another's shoes and this was the unexpected lesson.

I do harbor a fear, like David Sedaris when he was learning French, that when I eventually try and speak my native tongue it will sound like a hillbilly version of what is actually a very melodic and joyful language, and the person I'm talking to will assume I suffered some closed head injury as a child. But hopefully they will be sympathetic, ignore my strong Midwest American accent and maybe support my efforts to learn. So I'll just forge ahead. It will most likely be my mom, anyway - and I guess she's entitled to laugh all she wants.

It starts like this.

This sentence popped into my head the other day. I find it a compelling start to the novel I think I'm going to write in November (you'd think I have enough to do, but why not, right?) To elaborate, there's an organization that hosts a write a novel in a month activity every year, and I thought it would be a good kick in my arse to do that writing thing I keep putting off.

It starts like this.

See? Leaves you on the edge of your seat, doesn't it? What starts like this? What's going to happen? What??

Oh, I'm good. Damn good.

For some reason I'm in a decent mood. The problem of focus prevails, alas, but at least I'm not in that black mood I've been in. There must be rejoicing for that, at least. Perhaps it helped to wear black today, and I have also put on boots for the first time this year. There is something comforting about the weather turning cool enough for such apparel - all's right in the world, your jeans tell you as you step into them. They feel you up in that assertive but familiar way; I dare say that moment is a bit sexual for me. Gives me that predatory edge I lack in the summer, being so exposed in shorts and sandals.

Yes. It's going to be all right.

Butterflies

My stomach is tingling with the anticipation of my New York trip. Strange - last year I wasn't so concerned about it, but I'm already getting nervous about performing at the Knitting Factory for the CMJ Festival. We're ready, though - and it's only a half hour set, so really nothing to worry about. I think it's the travelling and making sure I have everything. And I love New York!

I think it should be a little more enjoyable for me since I know everyone a little better. Last year I was still new to the whole scene (hell, I still feel new to the whole scene) and had only really hung with band members at gigs, rehearsal or had an occasional drink with them. I'm just shy I guess - it takes me a while to feel comfortable around new acquaintances.

Rock and roll. Here we go!

Pin Stripe

I was thinking this morning as I gazed at reflection in the mirror that there's nothing like a pin stripe suit to make a girl feel special. It's slimming, sharp and streamlined, and along with my crisp, no-wrinkle white quarter sleeve shirt I'm feeling quite confident as well as sassy, as I've chosen my Brit flag choker and earrings to take the corporate edge off my look.

Which is all well and good, except that though I look like I'm ready for anything, there's nothing for me to tackle today. My high fashion is being wasted as I sit here, trying to look busy, and waiting until 2:00 for my meeting with my boss. At that time he will certainly come to find out that I'm about as useful here as a bean bag chair.

I don't blame anyone, of course. Just the odd circumstances that caused me to join this company, which in the long run is better than having no income at all. Perhaps when I get my fillings done next week, I will again be reminded of how good it is to have a job with a regular paycheck, and forget those romantic notions about quitting and being a musician/writer/cake baker of such outstanding quality that I'll be able to retire at 50, acquire a harem of young artist studs in the vicinity of 25-35, and live out the rest of my life on Maui where my body will eventually be taken away by gentle ocean waves from the shore of my luxurious yet not too overdone bungalow.

In the meantime, I blog and try and figure out how I can make this day meaningful. Louisiana is under water, and I'm trying to be happy. I think I'm not doing too bad.

The State of Things Thus Far

Fear is this odd emotion that takes many forms. Today, it has chosen to manifest itself as hesitancy and unsureness on my part in regard to my future as a successful writer.

I'm sitting in a coffee joint (the friendler, less agressive version of Starbuck's), listening to a safe music track and using my laptop for the first time. It's not really my personal laptop - it's from my workplace, and through a series of circumstances, I have acquired it and managed to keep my desktop as well. Hey, they never said I couldn't take it out of the office, right? Anyway - now I have no excuse to not pursue this elusive muse of mine. Besides, I'm in charge of writing the newsletter for my team, and so I consider this an excercise in furthering the completion of that particular task. (oooh, didn't I just sound smart just now? It must be the effects of this laptop technology. Maybe it's like wearing glasses. I'm sure I look more intelligent tapping away at this thing)

So today I have this weird sense of contentment - weird because it's not often I feel this. Things are going to be busy soon enough, and this nice bit of me time will be a priceless memory. I had things I wanted to do, but they're just not that urgent. That's what the weekend is for, right? I feel like I should get started on the novel thing for October 1 when it starts. The site said you can have an outline, you just can't use something you've started and paste it in. Can I write a novel in a month? I think it came out to 150 words a day or something like that. No stopping, no rewriting, just write. It's an interesting challenge, and I do like a good challenge. I'd love to get published again.

Okay - time to worship the muse. I'm stepping closer to the edge of the precipice and getting ready to jump....

Unbelievable

I am coming down off some blinding rage right now. My day just started with a racial comment from a co-worker, who, in response to my mentioning an article about South Korea cloning an afghan dog, asked me how they tasted. (WTF??!!)

The comment was so fucked up, and I couldn't believe he has just asked me that. In fact, I asked him "Do you realize what you just said to me?" And he didn't. He just thinks I'm being way too serious today and he was just making a joke. Yeah, ha ha. The other guy who sits in his office told me to forget what just happened, but I chose to express my wrath instead.

The adrenaline is leveling off now, and at some point he'll confront me about it with some attempt at smoothing it over. (Rotsa ruck, jackass.)

Mouse Arena

I must talk about the Mouse Arena.

It was purchased for $1 at a so-called rock and roll garage sale last weekend, along with some other nifty chokers, a $2 watch which looks stunning on me (it's quite butch, I think) and a tight black tank top with a Union Jack on it. Delightful purchases, all under $10. But, back to the Mouse Arena.

The copyright date on the packaging is 1992, a date which truly was forever ago - I don't even think the Internet was fully realized yet. The outside cover of the original packaging seems almost to be designed like an album cover, and the print is bold and stately, promising the consumer a precision tracking surface, ergonomic design, adjustable leather palm support and most importantly, a cord control system. The latter is merely a spiral of wire attached to the side of the "arena", and the photo on the cover does show how easily an untamed mouse cord can be kept safe in the confines of its coils. No naughty cord to knock your wine glass over - the testing grounds at Forminco certainly were thorough.

But I love it. It takes up a 9 " radius on my desk, but the built in wrist rest goes so superbly with my new watch, the faux black leather offering a certain luxury those silly sand-filled versions can only dream of. So p-tooey on modern mouse pads - the Mouse Arena by Forminco kicks all their sorry foam asses. And only for a $1!! Damn, I shop smart.

Blank

Something about a blank piece of paper excites me. Is it the endless possibilities of what I could fill it with that gets me giddy? The joy of getting something creative and whimsical out of me that's merely a motion of my pen away?

It's like when I come in to work, refreshed from a night's sleep and eager to see what I can accomplish that day. I sit down with my fresh coffee, go through my email, and think "Hey, this isn't so bad." Except by 10:15 my caffeine rush has fled the premises and I'm bewildered that only an hour and a half has passed since I've arrived. Already it's felt like eons have passed. Panic follows. I must get through the rest of the day, or I shall be insane by 2:00.

But back to the blank piece of paper. There must be a way of recreating that excitement of possibility, that initial stage of creation when one comes up with an idea and makes the first step toward making something out of nothing.

Creativity continues to be a mystery, an elusive muse that pops up whenever the hell she feels like it. And it's usually in the shower, or in the elevator. Or when I'm about to fall asleep. I should probably do something different to stimulate new thought in the next few days.

Wait a minute! I need to write about Jeff. It was too bizarre an experience not to record in some way. So, next transmission: Jeff and Priscilla. Coming soon!

More Thoughts on Writing

As I continue my efforts to think about writing rather than actually doing it (lame!) I bought a Writer's Digest issue from Border's. It did contain some helpful information about sticking to projects and addressing the obstacles that every writer meets when they practice their art. A big one, for example, is the fear of sucking. But guess what? It's okay to be bad! It's okay to be cliche-ridden and trite! That's what the delete key is for, right?

Right. So here we go, kids. Damn the torpedoes, I'm going forward!

Does my head hurt?

I can't tell if it's fatigue or an actual headache. All I know is I'm feeling a bit achey and grumpy, and I just want to go home, read the rest of my Sin City books in my bath robe and sip on vanilla tea.

Okay, I have to talk about this writing thing. I just sent a newsletter out for my cake company, and a friend of mine commented about my writing style and how there must be a market somewhere for my "wry sense of humor". But like any creative pursuit, I think it's hard to be heard. Mainly I'm trying to focus on just creating, but I also know I've been putting this writing thing on the backburner for a long time. Yes, it's a lot of work with little satisfaction as far as appreciation from outside parties (meaning strangers, not your friends who are being nice) but I don't think I try too hard with it. When I do, something usually nice comes of it, but for the most part I keep telling myself I don't have time.

And why do I not have time? Are there not 24 hours in the day? Let's see - 8 hours for sleep, 8 hours for work = 16 hours. That's another 8 hours for social life and personal life. Oh, and brushing my teeth. Is it really that hard to make time for a little writing?

I guess it's heartening to know that people like my writing. I do enjoy making someone laugh. I think my other crime is that I think too much about it - more than actually doing it. Then again, inspiration comes so rarely, but I definitely am aware of it when it arrives. Uually I think I'll get to it later, but by then the mood is gone.

Alright, now I'm just rambling. I think my final conclusion is to make space in my life for putting together stories, songs, observations, etc. I'm certainly not getting any younger. Write, finish something, send it out. From my research, it seems like there's an audience for everything, so what the hell, right?

Okay, now my head definitely hurts!