All man’s miseries derive from not being able to sit quietly in a room alone

- Blaise Pascal

Channeling my inner Holly Golightly.

In the last week and two days I have proven – in spades and in excess – that I am capable of sitting quietly in a room alone.

Hell, I thrive quietly in a room alone.

I’m like a low-maintenance houseplant.

Or a cat with access to a dripping faucet and an open feedbag.

Go about your business and don’t worry about little old me. Just leave a light on and let a neighbor know I exist, okay?

All the same, I’m kind of appalled at my own absence.

Five days?
How did five days get by me?

Well, for starters, I’m sitting quietly – minus the ticky tacky tapping of Macbook keys – in a room alone all the livelong day (and night).

I could be on Mars for all I (or you) know.

Secondarily, I’m writing a chapter a day.

I should be proud of this, but the thing of it is, my (overly, I now realize) aggressive schedule had me writing two a day.

Two!?!?

Who do I think I am?

Joyce Carol Oates?

(I once read that on a real roll she writes 40 pages a day, so she is my Parthenon of big-time page quota writing)

Doing my laundry old school. Feeling very salt of the earth and wondering to myself, "Do I own any clothes that aren't gray?"

Anywho, I’ve been writing a chapter a day, which honestly isn’t easy, and due to my own strange (inspired?) idea to have the first ten chapters be parallel and modern-day retellings of the life of Christ ages 30 to 32, they’re tedious as well. In addition to the time spent doing said writing, I spend about two hours a day reading Biblical interpretations.

Which I kind of hate.

Okay, I hate it a lot.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I hate Jesus…but when you’re dreaming about the man in a scholarly kind of way, you’ve possibly/probably/definitely gone too far.

Anyway, I’m working like a dog and making daily progress. Despite this, I’ve been growing increasingly despairing.

“Why?” you ask.

Well, if you’d been paying attention, you’d know I’m growing increasingly despairing because I thought I could write two chapters a day, and it just ain’t happening.

So self-admonition and “mañana, mañana” kick in until today, when the landlord sneeringly asks me, “So are you getting any writing done? Or do you have writers’ block?”

“No,” I told him, “I’ve written nine chapters.”

The sheer look of shock was enough to make me realize that although I may not be JCO (see above for secret decoder ring), but I am doing pretty darn good.

And then he stammered, “Wow. You’re a disciplined writer.”

I only buy cereal that's at least four times the size of my head. And yes, the house really is as round and pink and freakishly fluorescent light lit as it seems here. I've grown accustomed...

And THEN he went and made my day (sort of) by adding that he’s happy if he writes a chapter a month.

I don’t have any clue what it is that he’s writing, but whatever.

Doing some quick math, I calculated that on his ‘aggressive’ plan, it would take me three years to write this book. So two or three months instead of one ain’t too shabby.

And it certainly isn’t three years.

So yay me.

In other news:

• The first day I got a funky tan from my ever-present necklaces, but I have hence removed now-not-so-much-ever-present necklaces and evened that mess out.

• Last night, in a fit of “I’m sick of corn tortillas and beans” I made cabbage rolls (any of you with any kind of Eastern European or Russian heritage know what I”m talking about), and they were wonderful. And I ate more for breakfast. And more again tonight for dinner. And there are still five left. Happiness…

• I was trying to trim an errant hair with oversized scissors and cut a chunk out of my eyebrow. Oh well. It’s hair. It’ll grow back.

• I have a girl crush on Ellie, the fast-talking Mexican maid. Not my maid, mind you. I do my own laundry and dishes and sweeping and cleaning. Not that I mind. It’s kind of a simplified, hand-hewn Little House on the Prairie-type existence. Anyway, back to Ellie, she’s so sweet and doesn’t seem to care a lick that I only understand about 30% of what she says. And she’s willing to try all kinds of words until she stumbles into some vocabulary I recognize. The same cannot be said for everyone…  Enough said.

• I miss TV. A lot.

• I am really damn tired (it’s a little after midnight here) due in large part to the aggressive ray of sun that shines directly on my face every morning at 7:00am and my persistent very late night bedtimes. In other words, I couldn’t let another day go by without posting something, but in just a few more words that’s all there is to say. Be good. More soon.

Eight pairs of shorts, three pairs of jeans, one pair of yoga pants, four dresses, and probably some other miscellanea I forgot?

Check.

A ridiculous number of tops and a sweater and a sweatshirt and a leather jacket although less than I originally started with and without the sweater boots I really wanted to bring?

(Although I may remedy that in just a second by purging some shorts or jeans or something in exchange)

Check.

Something like eight swimsuits?

Check.

A guitar I’ve become rather concerned they’re going to forbid me to bring onto the plane?

Check.

Sunblock and shampoo and all kinds of stuff I could probably get down there but apparently think I can’t get down there and am thus pushing the limits of the accuracy of my bathroom scale and upping the odds that I’m going to be throwing out .4 pounds of something at the airport in order to get under 50 pounds?

Check.

Three-hours of anxiety ridden sleep that now has me thinking I know what it must be like to be insane?

Check.

Knowing that I’m taking precious time to peck out a quick update to remind you that I will be in Mexico from now through March 31st writing the new book and hopefully with a reliable wifi connection – but we all know how those things work out (or don’t) sometimes – despite the fact that I have to leave for the airport in half an hour and wanted to work out at least a little bit and now obviously won’t?

Priceless.

I’ve been playing my guitar obsessively lately.

Obsessively as in six and seven hours a day.

Obsessively in that I can’t even feel the keys under my left hand right now because my fingertips are so numb.

Obsessively in that I wake up and hear the words and lyrics in my head and it starts to make me feel crazy to the extent that I have to get up and actually play it out loud.

That kind of obsessive.

And it’s super weird because I really haven’t been playing much at all before this…or for ages.

Dozer wanting something. This wasn't the picture I meant to upload, but I'm going with it anyway.

But like any good addiction, it’s easy to get back on the horse. Or fall off the horse? Is ‘horse’ slang for heroin? Why do I think that? Anyway, I’ve mismanaged my attempt at metaphor, so let me simply say that I am easily obsessed and this is yet another in a long string of compulsions.

Meanwhile, the thing of it is the music I’m inescapably hearing and playing is other people’s – Patty Griffin and Ani DiFranco mostly. And that’s because I love their music. And I sing in the same range. And because I don’t know how to write music. Or songs. Or melody. Or tunes.

And that’s what I tell myself.

And so it’s true.

At the same time, I have a friend who has insisted it’s easy. All you need are words and a hook. And it’s going to be extra easy for me because I’m already a writer. Pay no attention to the music part, because apparently that’s easy too.

And last night in a particular sweep of absurd bravado, my same friend insisted that I get on the songwriting immediately. “Write a song tonight or I will never speak to you again” was, I believe, the exact statement.

This is not Dozer, but it could be.

Of course I ignored this because, again, I can’t write songs.

But then this morning I started thinking about it, and I figured everybody’s got to start somewhere.

So why not?

Maybe try?
And see what happens?

And begin with simple inspiration, something right in front of my face. Like someone who browbeats me into writing a song and goes out of their way to try to irritate me just to laugh at the reaction and drops f-bombs like it’s Hiroshima (ooh! That’s good! That’s going in the song!) and…

That’s right.

My bully has become my muse.

And with that stated, I bring you the title and a few lines from  my very first song (no music yet, as I just dreamed this stupidity up about five minutes ago) entitled

What the Fuck Is Wrong With You?

Collaboration welcome.

Anything good that rhymes with “Someone must have dropped you on your head as a baby”?

Maybe something about lazy?

How about “I’m not sure they’ve invented the drug that can fix what you’ve got.”?

Wow! This songwriting stuff is easy!

Out like a lamb

Surely I'm not the only one who finds this image retarded.

In case you’re living under a rock or not a native English speaker or both, that’s the little ditty they say about the month of March. And today is March 1st. All day long.

Kind of wild how fast the time goes.

It’s also wild in that today it is 60 degrees and sunny here in Washington, so I guess it’s in like heaven out like hell?

In like a puppy, out like a coyote?

Who knows?

Only time will tell.

And in my case, time will not tell because I won’t actually be here for the month of March, as I leave for Mexico on Thursday.

On the other hand, in case you were wondering, the origins of the expression can be found in astronomy. It has to do with the relative positions of the constellations Leo (the Lion) and Aries (the ram or lamb) in the sky at the beginning and end of the month of March.

Oh.

Now that I researched and read that, what I wrote above doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

The original definers of the constellations had very active imaginations. I probably would have named this one Dead Orchid.

No matter.

I’m sticking with it.

Largely because I’m all about obscure and boring info lately, and partly because I’m pressed for time.

Why’s that you ask? Well, to explain further, that’s because today  - March 1st – I start my new book, and in preparation I have become (dare I say?) a Jesus scholar.

I know. Weird, right?

Weird, but true.

The new book is kind of a second coming fantasy meets tragicomedy meets blasphemous romp.

Actually, it’s not meant to be blasphemous at all, but I’m sure somebody somewhere will think it is.

And regardless, today is day one both of March and of the book. And it’s important that I get off to a good start, so I’d best get back to it.

Which means this is all there is to the blog today.

Thanks for playing!

Better luck next time!

The lion and the calf shall lie down together, but the calf won’t get much sleep.

-Woody Allen

So according to Wikipedia and abbreviated for your reading pleasure, Charles Bukowski’s gravestone reads: “Don’t Try”, a phrase which Bukowski uses in one of his poems, advising aspiring writers and poets about inspiration and creativity. Bukowski explains the phrase as follows:

Somebody asked me: “What do you do? How do you write, create?” You don’t, I told them. You don’t try. That’s very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.

Amen, brother.

I totally get that.

This blog is even like that. If I have nothing, I have nothing. And if I have something, it’s usually worth an hour of my time to write and ten minutes of your time to read. And if it’s not, then I don’t bother.

In the same way, as of late I’ve been on the receiving end of some well-intentioned cheerleading with the general refrain of”write your agent queries already!”

And I don’t disagree with the sentiment or the need for cash flow, but if I know one thing about myself, it’s that genius comes when it comes.

And when it shows up, you’d better have some paper and a pen handy, because it doesn’t hang out long.

One of the images you get when you type 'Don't Try' into Google and select 'Images.' I'm feeling it.

Here’s the deal: I have two paragraphs (think of the inner flap of a hardcover or the back page of a paperback) which which to bowl someone over and make them want to read my entire book, and it’s going to have to be brilliantly inspired prose to work. And brilliantly inspired prose of such focused brevity and import cannot be forced. It just comes when it’s ready.

Kind of like manna from heaven, it just falls into your brain ready to rumble.

So until then, I sit and wait and work on other stuff and massage the plot for the next book and hope that I’ll see my muse floating in through the window sometime soon. Paper and pen are on deck when she gets here.

It won’t be too long now.

I could’ve sworn I caught a glimpse of her the other day.

So cheat your landlord if you can and must, but do not try to shortchange the Muse. It cannot be done. You can’t fake quality any more than you can fake a good meal. –William S. Burroughs

Or, to quote literary agent Janet Reid, whose blog I’ve been reading for the last week or so:

I don’t want you to be grateful I read your queries. It’s my job, and it’s in my best interest. I NEED good queries to make a living. Fuck grateful; write better queries.