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I read this amusing article today about one writer’s writing process. His process is not unlike mine in that it happens whether or not I’m in front of a computer, and it is interrupted by all sorts of mundane activities; however, Mr. Lennon failed to mention that this inattention to physical writing has a lot to do with the pain of it.
Oh, it’s not so bad once you’ve struck a bit of gold, but mostly it’s like having poison ivy without the soothing calm of calamine lotion. Doing laundry, cleaning closets, taking out the garbage, eating, smoking, biting one’s fingernails, calling all those near and dear and some who aren’t, removing cat hair from sofa cushions, eating again, … ad infinitum… are all ways to diminish the pain of turning a blank document into one filled with compelling verbiage. It’s damn hard. One paragraph can take all day, especially if you’re a writer-editor like me. I write two sentences and then edit. I’m amazed whenever I complete anything. Heck, this little blog post is going through my write-edit-write-edit process, and so far I’ve spent 30 minutes on it. Crazy! Imagine the time it takes for me to draft a research paper. I shiver when I think of it. I know somewhere in me there is a doctoral dissertation, but I don’t think I could manage the extra weight I’d gain from taking all of the necessary breaks; however, I imagine my house would be very, very clean.
Aah look, P. J. O’Rourke on avoiding writing.
My friends at MadSilence have roared in favor of my blog. I’m quite pleased and very appreciative of this recognition, especially when it comes from folks who really know how to write interesting, creative, and clever posts. You can learn more about “A Roar for Powerful Words” at The Shameless Lions Writing Circle.
The Challenge:
146 words regarding:
As Jack Bauer’s personal tailor, you’re used to special requests, like sewing a Glock P36 into the sleeve, or exploding cufflinks that have to be added after 5:30 on a Friday (what a jerk!) but today, he takes the cake and asks for:
* * * * * * * * * * *
Jack: Since I started tracking down cyber criminals/computer geeks, I’ve lost muscle mass. I can’t see Senator Clinton like this [waves hands in front of his body]. Pierre, add some padding to my clothes! Give me some pecs, thighs, and boost the ol’ gluteus maximus.
Pierre: Eim not zum tailure fur tranZzexuals. Zees iz beeneeth moi. Ew muszt find unuther taylure. [brushes lint from his suit jacket] I vill not du zees.
Jack: You’re being over-sensitive buddy. I know you’re an ARteest; this is why I’m giving you this assignment. You’re the only man who can turn this around in 24HRS.
Pierre: I em very gude, aren’t I? [slips his thumbs behind his lapels] I avv dressed zee fineszt men in ze vorld. I vill do zees…only if ew let moi…add a codpeez.
Jack: They say a suit makes a man. This one sure as hell will.
(119 words) See WC #14 set-up here.
Kid: You’re at the ultimate hot spot for outrageous entertainment and fine dining.
Me: Whaaa?
Kid: That’s what my pa told me to tell you.
Me: (sitting up, pushing the kid aside) Your pa? Did he (holding skirt out) dress me too?
Kid: Dunno. Nawp. Couldn’t say.
Me: Go get me your pa, boy! Scoot!
Boy returns with tall, gangly, sun burnt man.
Man: You’re at the ultimate hot spot for outrageous entertainment…
Me: (interrupting) Yeah, yeah, heard that (pulling hay from hair). Now, why don’t you tell me about these clothes!
Man: Well, I thought you looked better without ’em, but the boy here said we just couldn’t let you run around in apple butter.
Me: Oh my.
Challenge #12 comes from Indie Bloggers. Below is my response to this challenge.
Scene: A flotilla of black limousines blocks the street to a row of brownstone apartments. People are collected in various groups on the sidewalk. A woman in a red t-shirt and blue jeans struggles through the crowd to reach the entrance of an apartment. Just as she reaches for the door handle a man in a navy, pin-striped, Brooks Brothers suit and electronic head gear taps her shoulder.
Man: Miss! Are you…are you Harriet Prescott?
Harriet: (She pushes a wisp of hair from her eyes.) Me? Yes. I’m Harriet.
Man: (He points.) You see that limousine up front?
Harriet: You’re kidding right? Sure, I see it. How could I miss it?
Man: It’s President Bush.
Harriet: Get outta here! That isn’t the president. Who paid you an exoribitant amount of money for this craziness? Was it Jack?
Man: (He becomes severe.) Miss Prescott, I assure you it’s the President. He’s here to take you to the white-tie state dinner honoring Queen Elizabeth.
Harriet: You’ve been smoking crack, haven’t you? I don’t believe you. Now, if you don’t mind I have things to do.
Man: (He speaks into his headset.) Sir, Harriet isn’t willing to attend the dinner with you and Mrs. Bush. (beat) No, I told her it was for the queen. (beat) Mr. Cheney said what? (beat) Ok.
Harriet: (She speaks with great impatience.) Look, I’m going in!
Man: I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that.
Harrient: Uh, why the hell not?
Man: The vice president has stated that if you don’t attend the dinner he’ll prepare a nuclear attack against Iran.
Harriet: You people are effing crazy.
Harriet went into the building. The man signaled the fleet for help and then went inside. Harriet rushed up the stairs to her apartment. She entered and locked the door. She dialed 911 on her mobile. Dispatch answered.
Dispatch: 911. Please tell me how I can assist you.
Harriet: (She rapidly fires her reply.) There are four limos in front of my apartment building. Some weird guy is telling me the president is in the first one. He also told me I’m under orders to attend a state dinner with the president, and if I don’t our government will nuke Iran.
Dispatch: Get outta here! You’re kidding right?!
Harriet: No. NOOO. I’m not kidding. Please help me!
Several male voices are heard outside of Harriet’s door. Next there’s loud banging.
Harriet: They’re trying to break my door down. (She turns her phone to the banging sound and then returns it to her ear.) Did you hear that?
Dispatch: We’ve just got a report that the president’s fleet of limos is on Newcastle street. Do you live on Newcastle?
Harriet: (Excited.) Yes. Yes! That’s my street! Please send some officers. Please.
Dispatch: I think maybe you should consider going to the dinner. If our government nukes Iran…well…imagine the consequences.
Harriet: Whah…
The door rips from its hinges. Four pin-striped automatons enter Harriet’s apartment.
Man: Let’s say you go with us peacefully.
Harriet: (She sighs and replies with great resignation.) You people know NOTHING about peace.
Marilyn’s last words on film were, “How do you find your way back in the dark?”
Scene: Outside, rain is coming down in sheets. Thunder rolls like half-full oil drums across a ship’s deck. Lightening radiates and cracks the sky. Electric power has ceased. The old pendulum clock in the corner of the living room counts time.
(Rummages through a kitchen drawer.)
Me: Ah! Flashlight.
(Turns on flashlight. Moves the beam across the room. Stops beam on what appears to be the back of a woman’s head.)
Me: What the…
(Moves across the room with trepidation. Stands in front of A WOMAN.)
Me: Holy shit! It’s…it’s…you.
Marilyn: I didn’t mean to startle you. (She raises a flute of champagne to her lips and sips the bubbly inside.) Quite the weather you’re having. I hope you don’t mind that I left my wet clothes by the door.
Me: (Now realizes Marilyn is without clothes. First had to get over the shock of seeing her! Now shocked by her nudity!) Uh, no. Uh, hmm…let me get you something to wrap up in.
Marilyn: That. Would. Be. Terr.i.fic. (She purrs.)
(Exits to master bedroom. Picks through clothes.)
Me: What would she wear? (Holds up tatty terry robe.) Like hell she would.
(Reenters living room.)
Me: How’s this? (Holds up silk negligee meant for wedding night. Never worn.)
Marilyn: That’s lovely. Thank you.
Me: If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get the champagne?
Marilyn: (She reaches on the other side of the chair and holds up a bottle of Dom Perignon 1953, her favorite alcoholic beverage.) I traveled with a bottle. The glass I found in your bar.
Me: Would you mind? I’ve never tasted Dom Perignon. I’d kinda like to see what the fuss is about.
Marilyn: (giggles) Absolutely. Get a glass.
(Walks over to bar, extracts champagne flute. Returns to Marilyn, now clad in the sexy nightie.)
Marilyn: (She pours Dom into my glass and refills hers.) I’ve been trying for ages to make it to this side. I worked the puzzle out tonight; otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it back in the dark.
Me: You’re going to have to help me out here. I’m a little confused; you being dead and all. This whole thing…well…kinda boggles my mind. If there is a “this side,” then what is the “other side?”
Marilyn: I can tell you that it’s not what everyone imagines it to be. There are no angels, unless of course you count Clark Gable and Abraham Lincoln, and there are no devils. There are a lot of golf courses.
Me: (Hysterical.) I worked at a golf course when I was a teenager. Golfers are the most incredible assholes!
Marilyn: (Smiles.) Yes, and they have the most hideous fashion sense.
Me: What else?
Marilyn: Well, you can get three square meals a day, but they’re very bland. It’s always oatmeal, grits, mashed potatoes, and something they call chicken nuggets.
Me: They have McDonald’s on the other side?
Marilyn: How did you know?
Me: Just a guess.
Marilyn: There really isn’t a whole lot to do. If only we could have sex. I’m still looking for the one man who can give me an orgasm. I’ve always been a faker.
Me: Why no sex?
Marilyn: It’s that whole bland thing. Imagine a world where everything is beige.
Me: (Biting a nail.) Uh, then how do explain the Dom Perignon?
Marilyn: A woman always has her little secrets.
Me: So, how did you get out?
Marilyn: It was easier than I ever imagined. I had been trying too hard. Tonight, don’t laugh, I did what Dorothy did in “The Wizard of Oz.”
Me: Follow the yellow brick road?
Marilyn: No. I turned out the lights, closed my eyes, and repeated three times, “There’s no place like home.”
Me: But, you ended up in my living room. Well, more accurately, my doorstep and then my living room.
Marilyn: When have you ever had a perfect trip?
Me: You’ve got a point!
*Coming soon: Conversations with Elvis, Kurt Cobain, & Anna Nicole Smith*
I discovered Indie Bloggers this evening. Each week they present a writing challenge. This week’s challenge is audio-based. Below you’ll find my answer to challenge #11.
Harriet thinks to herself as she squeezes her way through the gallery, “Did I leave the iron on? No. I couldn’t have. I checked twice.” She approaches a Van Gogh, the only piece that excited her enough to make the journey across town in the rain. She digs through her purse to find her glasses. Once they’re resting on her nose she takes a closer look at Van Gogh’s sweeping brush strokes. “It’s sad no one recognized his genius when he was alive,” she muses. Several people draw near. One rather large man stumbles in his rush and bumps into her. Harriet glares at the intruder. The oaf pays her no attention. She turns back to study the painting; her mind screams, “I did leave the iron on!” Harriet tosses her glasses in her purse and picks her way to the nearest exit.
