As I Was Saying…

tweet yallYeah, so didn’t make it back quite in the time frame I imagined. I’m just not going to get into why because it’s really just not that interesting. I mean, I know I’m not generally interesting anyway, but this is like hearing someone else’s dream not interesting. It’s like listening to someone describe a dress not interesting. Have you ever noticed that when someone describes what she’s going to wear, it never looks like you think it will? There’s a lot of that going on in my world.

And yet here I am. IT’S ALL FOR YOU, INTERWEBZ!

I just want to say that I hate spring. I mean, I hate summer more. Especially August. But summer is at least honest. You know you’re going to be miserable in summer. You know you’ll spend three months peeling your thighs off hot car seats. You know you’re going to shower three times a day because walking out to get the mail makes you sweat through your caftan. And your mailbox isn’t even at the road. You know there are bugs as big as toddlers that are just waiting patiently to suck the life out of you by biting your ankles…just like toddlers with wings, in fact.

No, I hate spring because it’s too damned optimistic. Spring is all about promise, but it’s like the promise of that pub with the sign “Free Beer Tomorrow”. And now we’re into June and it’s going to be 95° this week with 876% humidity. You know what that means? There’s nowhere for the sweat to go. So you spend a little time outside and you turn into a Syracuse salt potato but without the creamy interior. Spring is crafty like a ninja. One day you’re sweating your bippy off and the next day you’re digging for wool socks. One day everything’s all green and fluffy and the next day it’s like Colonel Kilgore decided he wanted to smell victory so everything’s charred.

Also in Memphis, as in much of this part of the world, the hotter it gets, the more we all start sounding like Blanche DuBois. The heat turns our brains syrupy and ridiculous memories start oozing out our ears so then we’re like Blanche DuBois at the end of the play. And we start using the term “branch water” too much.

I’m going to be writing more regularly this summer, although I’ll just tell you up front I’ve got some obligations that might make that more difficult in the immediate future. BUT DO NOT CRY, GENTLE READER. For just like bangs and STDs, you’re pretty much stuck with me from here on out.

Blocked, Blocked, Blocked

I’ve had sort of writer’s block recently. Okay, less a block and more…okay, you know how Han Solo was in that carbonite? And he looks like he’s all AAAAAHHHH!!!? In this analogy my brain is Solo stuck in an interminable, noiseless AAAAAHHH!!! I don’t even sit down to write and get ink constipation. I don’t even make it to the “sit down to write” part. I make it to the part where I think about sitting down and then realize I’ve nothing engrossing to say and no enthralling way to say it. So I stomp around a while, check email, read a few articles, realize I don’t know exactly what ear wax is made of and look that up (60% keratin, 12-20% saturated and unsaturated long-chain fatty acids, and 6-9% cholesterol according to Wikipedia), and then come to the undeniable conclusion that I will never write again.

This is where a fainting couch would come in handy. Or perhaps a hair shirt.

Instead of just sucking it up, sitting down, and pounding something out, I torture myself. The sensible, grown up thing to do would be to write sentences. Any sentences. The wall is blue. I should have used another brand of paint. Is that a bug? How much would my family care if they ate saltines and mustard for dinner tonight? I like mustard. Rational Brain knows if she sits down and just starts with a few warm-up sentences, Emotional Brain will slink out of her room, put down her copy of Being And Nothingness, and eventually chime in with a few good points. But Rational Brain is sort of a wuss and Emotional Brain is sort of a bully. Somewhere in the middle of Rational Brain’s list-making and Emotional Brain’s existential angst, I decide to give up and torture myself by watching multiple episodes of 30 Rock, The West Wing, and The Wire. It’s dialogue waterboarding.

I don’t want to go into a whole thing here about Sorkinese or the Tracy Jordan patois or the McNulty/Omar dynamic. These are three very different shows, but all are musicals. Listen to them with your eyes closed. They got rhythm. Maybe they don’t got daisies and starlight, but they got music. I would sell my soul at the crossroads to be able to write with that kind of dexterity. And therein lies the rub. In order to every have a tiny prayer of a chance to write like that, you know what I gotta do? Keep writing.

While banging my head on my desk is, indeed, both rhythmic and satisfying, it is not an aid to good writing. Or, for that matter, bad writing. Because I have a blog, I don’t really have to worry about marketable. I just write whatever drivel pops into my wee brain. This is a good thing, because I don’t think I could write about vampires, werewolves, or BDSM.

HANG ON! Let me write this down. Two shapeshifters meet at a bondage club…