Month: January 2013

Illusion of A Dream

bedroomMy fantasy when I’m feeling my best: That I’ll come down with a cold so that I have to remain in bed, allowing me write to my heart’s content.

The reality is that when I do get a cold, my head is so stuffed that I can’t think straight. My eyes are puffed to slits, my ears are stopped and my brain floats inert in a dead calm sea of snot.

I also can’t lie in bed because the dogs want to be up there with me, which wouldn’t be so bad except that Mo, the 6 month-old Goldendoodle, wants to lie on top of me. As in: on top of my face. Sniffing my nostrils. Taking a lick of them to see what delectable delights are hidden up in there.

Bed is not the place for fiction writing, anyway. Not for me. The only good writing I’ve done in bed has been radio ads for marketing clients. In a prone position, I seem unable to daydream ways to extricate my protagonist from his latest conundrum, but I can always summon a turn of phrase that will aid my clients in hawking diamond rings, aluminum siding, or farm fertilizer.

I think it’s time for a new fantasy, wherein a writer’s garret replaces the bed. I like the garret part. But please, no Victorian illness like consumption. I simply can’t write when I’m sick.

Judging a Fish

2422570279_9bf6564524_zI’ve been reading up on several authors worth their salt and find that a number of them don’t keep a journal.

What a relief.

I think it means I can finally stop putting pressure on myself to write in a journal. At this point in my life, I seem to relate better to a keyboard. It could be that I’m just lazy because my handwriting isn’t as good as it used to be; my hands ache when I write.

I have so many journals sitting in the top cupboard of my desk, lovely handcrafted tapestries of paper that remain blank. I have good intentions when I buy them but can’t bring myself to sully their purity. I don’t want these things of beauty subjected to my railings against injustices or my self-absorbed searches for meaning and purpose.

In the end, maybe I’m just not a pretty-paper kind of writer. I’m more of a scrapper, nimble with sheets of lined notebook paper and a cadre of Post-It Notes. There’s not as much pressure to produce, but rather motivation and propulsion to get that one idea down before it dissolves into the ether.

Maybe one of these days I’ll start storing the scraps of paper and Post-Its in a journal. It’s a start.