Monday, May 26, 2008

Chip, Chip, Chip...

I write fiction. Not as seriously as I once did - I was going to try to make a living at it for years - but still pretty regularly. There are some novels floating around, a solid stack of short stories, and some poetry that sucks as poetry but might work as song lyrics, despite lacking a single rhyming couplet amongst them. I try to write a little of something every day, and don't count blogging, because it's really not the same at all.

In any case, I've been working on a story for a few months, and though I love the characters I'm writing (we're old friends) and I think it's working well, I'm blocked.

So I switched over to the typing-in and reworking of a novella that's been kicking around in my head and in longhand for years, thinking that changing subjects and tenses might help. No dice, even though it's a favorite of mine. I'm just typing words without substance, using a cheese knife to chisel a life-sized hunk of mind-rock in my way. So. Frustrating.

I've never found anything that really lifts a block, and I think it's part of why I gave up the idea of being A Novelist. Having to work around or through or over these patches would drive me crazy - especially as the work I produce when I'm trying to work through is so bad. I mean, some people write mediocre copy when they're blocked, and it can be tweaked and reworded a little and it'll fit right in with the rest of the ms. I, on the other hand, have a habit of producing absolute shit if I'm not in the right groove. Shittier than the poetry, even, and that's saying something. It's so demoralizing to think that I can't produce better, and it's what did in my nascent writing career when I had plenty of time and persistence to pursue publishing.

Ah, well. It'll break, or it won't. I'll still get to that novella, and there's enough in the new story that it could be incorporated into an extant novel if it doesn't work out on its own.

And who knows? Maybe I'll ask for a Writers' Market for Christmas.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Three Words:


If that doesn't sum up an awesome weekend in San Antonio (despite packing the wrong shoes for a "bus" tour and spraining an ankle), I don't know what does.

Predictably, I don't have pictures. We don't have a digital camera, and anyone who's seen my pre-digital efforts at photography knows I know better than to walk within fifty feet of an analog camera with picture-snapping on my mind. Cameras, plants and biscuits: Things Baconsmom Doesn't Do.

I managed to learn almost everyone's name on this trip, so now I don't have to tell stories about Tall Guy Who Sits Behind Me (Josh) and That Soprano With The Awesome Shoes (Maddie) and Guy Who I Meet At The Bathroom (Robert). I had some excellent margaritas, so-so food (I really prefer Sonoran Mexican, for all my bitching about its heat), and encountered more genuinely friendly people than I ever thought possible. I'm thinking of going back with the husband and the Baconator in the fall, when it's cooler, because I had so much fun in just 24 hours.

And no, there is no basement at the Alamo.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Hormonal or Crazy? You make the call.

So I had this big vent brewing about PMDD and how much it sucks and it makes me feel crazy blahblahblah, right?

But as I was thinking about how I wanted to rant, it occurred to me that it's not even hormones that are making me react to a crappy evening the way I am. It's narcissism.

But not regular-old narcissism, because that would be boring. Self-loathing narcissism, which sounds weird, but in a way, is just regular old ego. I'm so important that everyone hates me.

But that wasn't right, either. I don't believe everyone hates me. I just believe no one cares enough to even give me a passing thought.

So what's sadder? That my ovaries run my emotions with their tiny hormonal factories; that I think I'm so important the world hates me; or that I'm so ridiculously insignificant I don't even merit a mass email to let me know choir rehearsal's been changed?

Yeah, because that last one? Just happened. Let's see if anyone gets back to me about where the fuck I'm supposed to be on Saturday - and when - because hearing "Be at the airport sometime before two" three weeks ago isn't really my idea of an itinerary.

I shouldn't let it get to me. I was overlooked. It happens. I'm sure it happened to someone else, as well. It just triggers all this craziness and I don't know how to stop. I'm just - I'm not normal.

I'm not normal. And I fucking hate it.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008


I'm off to San Antonio on Saturday for an overnight choir trip. The bishop there invited the choir to come and sing a mass for him - so we are.

We fly in Saturday, rehearse at the cathedral, and then are free for dinner. Sunday morning is mass, followed by a reception, and then a tour of the city - including the Alamo.

Oh, yeah - that Alamo. And I'm apparently not the only smartass in the country. There's this guy, who snagged a great guard with a sense of humor. I'm still debating whether or not to go ahead and be "that girl" on the tour, but seriously - when am I ever going to go back to the Alamo?

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Dork Love

Snippet of a conversation between my husband and me the other night:

Husband: "But if you traveled that fast, wouldn't you go back in time?"
Me: "Don't go all Einsteinian physics on me. I barely understand the Newtonian principles I have to work around every day."
Husband: "Work around?"