I’ve been working on a non-fiction project since the first of the year (Sooper Sekrit Project #1). I wrote the bits and pieces of it in a notebook and nearly filled the thing up before I called it done enough to type up what I had.
So I typed up what I had.
And then I added more to the notebook, but I haven’t typed any of that up because what I’ve added isn’t done yet.
And then I jotted down some other ideas for it, but haven’t expanded on them yet.
And then I thought even more about the project.
And the only thing I can honestly say is that I have no idea what it’s going to be.
All of the bits and pieces and ideas and words and sentences and paragraphs and pages put together just add up to a mishmash of something with no real center or direction. I think it’s all good and useable and it all relates to each other, but it doesn’t exactly all go together, you know what I mean? It just doesn’t know what it wants to be.
I keep feeding it. It keeps growing. But it’s not assuming any kind of shape.
I think it might be the Blob.
I hope I can figure it out before I have to freeze it and drop it in Antarctica.
That’s right. Couldn’t think of anything else to blog about today.
1. I name cats after TV characters. Tuvok, Peter Marie, Stella, Spot, and McGee. You could count Maude, but I didn’t name her and she wasn’t intentionally named after a character.
2. I’ve got a scar on my knee from getting run over by a kid on a bike. He was a real jerk of a neighbor boy and rode up on the grass to hit me on purpose. Nobody was happy with that, least of all me.
3. I have trouble with light sensitivity. Some people with light colored eyes have this problem and I am unfortunately one of them. I’m that weirdo wearing sunglasses while driving in the rain. Even with overcast skies, the light can still bother me, particularly while driving.
4. I have a tendency to eat my food in a particular order during a meal and I usually eat one thing at a time. At least my food can touch now. Except bread. I don’t want my bread touching anything because I don’t like soggy bread.
5. My 5th grade teacher was a health nut. She’d make us go for really long walks, including on along side a business route, and do Gilad workout videos in the classroom. It was a bit excessive and I had no hope of being the teacher’s pet because I couldn’t walk around the park fast enough.
6. I won’t drink anything that are certain shades of green or blue. It’s unnatural.
7. I grew up playing with goats. My grandparents’ neighbors had them. Goats are quite silly, very playful, can scream like humans, and have this bizarre fascination with getting up onto things. They’ll stand on a coffee can if they think it’ll give them some height. That’s why I don’t get this sudden discovery of goats. I already knew all of this stuff.
Dragnet was one of those shows that I watched on Nick-At-Nite a hundred years ago when I was a kid. It shouldn’t have captured the attention of a hip, 80’s child, but as we all know, I’ve never been hip or normal.
“…I carry a badge.”
Dragnet features Detective Joe Friday (Jack Webb) and his partner Officer Bill Gannon (Harry Morgan) working a variety of cases from juvenile to bunko to homicide to robbery. The show tackled current society issues like drugs, juvenile delinquency, student dissidence, and such. It was done in a documentary style, with narration at the beginning and ending of the show saying that the stories were seen were true and the names had been changed to protect the innocent (not a whole lotta innocent people on this show) as well as Friday’s running narrative during the episode. The end of the show featured what happened to the perps they caught. Several episodes featured a bad guy at the end that you never saw during the run of the show.
These gentlemen are going to interrogate you.
The show is remembered best for the rapid fire dialogue, heavy music, and the no-nonsense attitude of the cops.
It also had some pretty memorable episodes, including the famous “blue boy” episode which dealt with LSD, which was still legal. In addition to sending people on trips and encouraging some who were waiting for take-off to smoke marijuana (which I would think would make you too lazy to take the trip, but whatever), it caused one guy to paint himself like he was going to a college football game, half blue and half yellow. This kid also had the supportive “my son would never do anything wrong!” parents that led him to enterprise in LSD and then succumb to its effects when he attempted to go out as far as possible.
It’s an interesting episode as it depicts the frustration the police had while trying to deal with a drug that wasn’t illegal, but really kinda needed to be. You also got introduced to a lot of LSD lingo that pretty much disappeared by the time I was offered a hit in high school (I declined because it was finals week and I still had to take my Bio II final and the last thing I needed was the cat skeleton coming alive and trying to scratch my eyes out).
Though the show is remembered for its seriousness, it actually can be quite funny. There’s a great episode in which Gannon and Friday are trying to watch a football game at Gannon’s house and they’re constantly being interrupted by neighbors and their complaints. I laughed throughout most of that episode.
Not to mention that Mr. Morgan’s sense of humor was never discouraged. Bill Gannon’s personal life could be pretty entertaining at times.
Mr. Webb was pretty dedicated to accuracy when it came to the show. The procedures and lingo were all by the book. That rapid fire dialogue everyone remembers was a necessity. A lot needed to be said in one episode and they only had thirty minutes to do it. Much of the exposition was done in Friday’s voice overs, but that was mostly for scene changes. The dialogue was strictly business. They couldn’t stop to explain things. Kindly, strap in and keep up, thanks.
When it comes to guest stars, this is one of those shows in which you look for the repeaters, not the big names. People like: Virginia Gregg, Sam Edwards, Ralph Moody, Burt Mustin, Henry Corden (who Monkees fans will recognize as Mr. Babbitt), Leonard Stone, Buddy Lester, Ed Deemer, Stuart Nisbet, Virginia Vincent, Robert Brubaker, and Emergency! favorites Bobby Troup, Marco Lopez, Tim Donnelly, and Ron Pinkard. And of course Reed and Malloy (Kent McCord and Martin Milner) from Adam-12 made appearances.
If you’re looking for some names you know, here are a few: Jan-Michael Vincent, Keye Luke, Scatman Crothers, Doodles Weaver, Barry Williams, Lorraine Gary, Howard Hesseman, and Veronica Cartwright.
Like I said in the beginning, there’s really no reason this show should have appealed to an 8 year old kid. Even today, people call it boring. I call it fascinating. That jam-packed dialogue (done with the aid of a teleprompter), the unexpected wit, the view of a different time. It’s nifty.
There’s a reason this show was used as a police instruction manual. It’s just that good.
I started writing a short story for my possible short story anthology. The idea came from my idea notebook and it seemed like a pretty good idea.
Until I started writing it.
Once I put down the first couple of sentences, I knew this story was a straight-up dud.
But I kept working on it until I found an ending. It came in at less than 1,000 words, but I was still able to call it done and that’s all that mattered to me.
I guess it sounds like a waste of time to finish a story that I know isn’t worth the ink I used writing it, but that’s just how I am. I’m a bit of a pack-rat. I don’t like to throw things away because I never know when I’ll need them. The same can be said of stories. Even if I have no faith in it while writing it, even if I know from the start that it’s a dud, I’ll go ahead and see it through, just in case. For all I know, I might be able to do something with it later. I might come along the spark that it’s missing. Well, if I come along that spark, but I don’t have a story to go with it, what kind of a waste is that?
So, I finish those stories that end up getting typed up and put away, just in case.
It’s not really wasted time for me. It’s a good exercise in perseverance in a way. I stuck with it until the bitter end and now I have something -something horribly crappy, usually- finished. It’s a test of how motivated I am as a writer. Can I finish this piece of garbage before I move on to work on something I really want to write? Something that usually pops into my head while I’m slaving away on the current piece of dreck haunting my life.
In the beginning, I would have just ditched it. I ditched a lot of things when I was younger because I wasn’t a writer then. Well, I wouldn’t call myself one. I’ve always been a writer, but before I admitted to myself and the world that I was a writer, things got left unfinished.
That doesn’t happen anymore.
Now I finish one thing just so I can move on to the next.
A couple of weekends ago, I drove myself crazy looking for a few of pictures of me as a kid. They’re my favorites: one of me at about three, wearing my favorite pants; one of me at about 6 or 7 months old, drinking my first beer (I was the first grandchild, so they had a lot of fun with me); and one of my R2-D2 birthday cake when I was three or four.
I finally found them, but in the process, I found a couple of other pictures of me and I was struck by them.
One was of me when I was about 17. A friend of my dad’s was a photographer and agreed to do a photo shoot of my dad, my sister, and me for free so she could build up her portfolio. Dad, who isn’t big on pictures and usually looks like he’s about thirty seconds away from a homicidal rampage in them because he doesn’t smile, agreed because it meant he could give copies to Grandma and get her off his back about new pictures of us.
I remember that day because I felt stupid getting my picture taken in a bunch of different spots at Weldon Springs and I got reamed by my boss at Taco Bell because for an establishment that served questionable food products, they had pretty strict dress code rules and I got busted because I forgot to take all of my earrings out before I showed up for my shift (I have my ears done three times, but I was only allowed to wear one pair of earrings because that shit matters, man).
The second picture I found was taken when I was 21. I was at a hotel in Chicago with my boyfriend at the time. I was sitting on the bed in just a t-shirt, putting on my make-up. My hair was a pink mess and I was suffering from a serious lack of sleep. My ex had grabbed my camera and snapped a picture of me before I could protest.
I remember that day pretty well, too. I was getting ready that morning to drive him to the airport so he could go home. It was the end of long a trip for him, the longest the two of us had ever spent in each other’s physical presence during our entire long-distance relationship.
Looking at those pictures, I wasn’t just struck by the memories. I was also taken with just how pretty I was.
I never thought that at the time. How could I? Back then when I looked in the mirror I saw what everyone else saw: a fat girl with massive breasts and too-wide hips and too-broad shoulders. I was the opposite of what pretty was. Or what I was constantly being told pretty was.
Looking at those pictures and seeing it with the perfect vision of hindsight, I’m amazed that I remained oblivious that whole time. And I’m amazed that everyone else did, too. How many boys and girls missed out because my pants size was in the double digits? Holy hell! Look at that face! How did anyone manage to resist me? Well, I admit it. I helped them out a lot in that department. A little more confidence would have gone a long way back then.
I look at those pictures and I’m struck by the missed opportunity to enjoy being pretty. I’m not pretty now, mostly because of the stuff I did when I was the ages I was in those pictures. It takes too much work to be pretty now. But back then, I did it without a second thought and didn’t realize it.
Because I wasn’t pretty like everyone else, like I was supposed to be, like society wanted me to be.
Such a waste.
**I feel like I should add a disclaimer to this post. I’m NOT fishing for compliments. I’m just saying that I was too stupid back in the day to realize I was pretty then and marveling over the fact that some distance in the form of time has finally let me see that. I hated those pictures for years because I didn’t think I was pretty. I’m finally old enough to change my mind about that.**
I completed my latest round of revisions on The World (Saving) Series. I was about half-way through when it occurred to me how little revising I was actually doing. Then it dawned on me that I was doing little revising because the story, for the most part, is done. As in, I’m not adding or deleting any more scenes, I’m not changing any more of the plot, I’m not doing anymore tinkering.
The heavy-lifting is officially done.
And that’s when I had my little moment of panic.
I’ve never been this done with a novel manuscript before. This the farthest I’ve ever gone.
I’m scared out of my mind.
It’s like a trick or something. I’m at the point in revising when I’m moving more to polishing than really revising. Now it’s all down to the nuts and bolts, the word choice and phrasing. The little things.
So naturally, I’m paranoid.
Not having ever been this far, I’m now thinking that there must be SOMETHING that I’ve missed. Some giant, glaring error. Some heavy-lifting off in a corner that I’ve walked by a dozen times, but never noticed.
Because I can’t possibly be this close to being done.
It’s a weird feeling, like when you think you’ve left the iron on (do people still iron?). You’re just sure that it’s on, but it’s not, but you can’t shake the feeling that the damn thing is still on. I cannot shake the feeling that I can’t possibly be this close to being done.
But I am.
Oh, I’m not stupid. I’m sure a good and proper editor would have a field day shredding this manuscript and exposing every single flaw it contains (and I’d be fine with that). But the fact that I’ve gotten this manuscript to the point where I could polish it up and submit it without (much) reservation is a milestone. Never have I been so close to this kind of completion. To me, it counts for something.
It also brings to the forefront of my mind that I should have an idea of what I’m going to do with this manuscript. Do I try to submit it to agents to attempt to get representation? Do I just go ahead and shelve it and start working on something else since first novels almost never get anywhere? I don’t know. I’m in new territory here.
I never thought I’d ever get this done.
And I never thought getting this done would be so scary.
Uhhh…I’m kind of at a loss of what I should be working on this month.
I’m going to finish up the latest round of revisions on The World (Saving) Series. I’m going to continue working on the short stories that I’m either going to submit or use for the self-published short story collection.
I’ve now got three sooper sekrit projects and I plan on continuing to work two of them (one of them I’ve kind of lost the heart for).
And aside from that…I don’t know.
It sounds like a lot, but it’s not really. I may take a look at a few of my other manuscripts, just to see if there’s anything I want to start working on, but I’m not sure I want to start another big revision project before I’m done with World.
Maybe I should take advantage of this slow month and catch up on my reading. I’ve been slacking the past couple of months.
I’m one of those people that has trouble with ruminations. Ruminating, if you don’t know, is going over and over and over (and over) something in your head. I tend to replay stupid things I’ve done or said in mind, sometimes for hours. It keeps me from falling asleep. It keeps me from concentrating on other things that I need to be doing. It ratchets up the anxiety to the point that I think my head is going to pop off.
For example, last week I had some text message confusion with some people I work with at the clothing store. Long story short, my phone doesn’t like group messaging, reply all is a fucking crime, and I should have put that phone list in my phone when I got it. When I finally figured out what was going on and why, I felt like a total idiot.
And so, my brain set to work not only replaying that whole fiasco out, but also trying to come up with a way to explain myself should it come up in conversation during the next floorset about how I’m a moron without looking like a huge moron.
For two hours, I tortured myself with this garbage that everyone else involved likely laughed off and probably won’t even remember the next time I see them. But I don’t like being an idiot or looking like one, so I must be punished, I guess.
Finally, after driving myself crazy, I decided to try a little meditation. I do yoga daily and though I don’t usually do the meditation portion at the end of my workouts, I will do it on occasion when I’m feeling stressed or anxious, or in this case, dumb. And it worked! I did a quick meditation and immediately felt better, the anxiety and burden of stupid lifted off of my mind.
So what did my brain do?
Marvel at the fact that I was no longer thinking about it by trying to think about it again. Like someone with a sore tooth realizing the tooth is no longer sore and then poking around to see if they find any trace of that soreness left, thereby making the tooth sore again.
Yes, I’m that kind of dingbat. Or at least my brain is.
So, of course, I started thinking about it again. And then I meditated again. And then I poked around again until I started thinking about it again. And so I deleted the evidence from my phone. And I meditated again.
And then I said, “You know what? I need a blog post for Monday. Here. Let me just write about how stupid my brain can be and how stupid I can be. THAT will fix it.”
So there. Maybe now my brain will shut up about it for good.
Meatloaf’s rock opera “I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)” is a great song, one that got a lot of airplay when I was younger. And the one thing that people always brought up (aside from the epic rock opera-ness of the song and the Beauty and the Beast theme of the video) and still bring up to this day is that Meatloaf never said what he wouldn’t do for love.
Except he did.
This is something that has bugged me since this song has come out because even as a kid I knew exactly what he wouldn’t do. If you’re not familiar with the song or you need to refresh your memory, check it out. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.
Did you hear it? It’s right there, plain as day.
No?
Listen closer.
When the pretty lady is singing and flying around on the couch, she sings, “Sooner or later you’ll be screwing around”.
And Meatloaf replies…
“But, I won’t do that.”
THAT IS WHAT HE WILL NOT DO FOR LOVE. HE WILL NOT SCREW AROUND.
I sold my first story of 2013 last week. Yay! “Someone to Hold” found a home!
And while I’m very excited about this as placing a story always gives me a satisfying rush because it’s public acknowledgement that I’m a real writer, it has given me pause on another project.
I’m seriously considering self-publishing another short story anthology. The anthology would use the seven stories I’ve been flogging around for a while that are ready to go plus five new stories written with the anthology in mind. It’d be set up like a sort of calendar. I like this idea. I thought it’d work for a late year release.
And then “Someone to Hold” found a home.
Immediately, I started wondering about the seven stories that are sitting there waiting to be sent out. Since Duotrope went paid and I can’t afford to use it, I haven’t made much of an effort to send any of them out. Now I’m wondering if I’m not selling them short by self-publishing them.
Aside from the fact that they’ll never know the joy of having someone other than myself finding them publishable, the honest fact is that even if I was paid a one-time token rate of ten bucks for one of the stories, that’s probably more than the whole anthology would make in a year (or more, if I’m going to be REALLY honest).
This anthology idea that I thought was so great is now being viewed in a different light, professionally, creatively, and monetarily. It’s amazing how one little success can throw a wrench in something else.
So now I have to make a decision. Do I want to try to sell these stories or do I want to go with the anthology idea? Which would be better for the stories? Which would be better for me? Do I want that victory rush? Or another project that collects change?
