If you know David L. Lander as Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley, then you know why I read this book. If you don’t know who Squiggy, Laverne, and/or Shirley are, well then, I weep for you and judge you harshly. Really. Get on the stick here.
I’ve been meaning to read this book for several years, but I’ve got a great gift for not doing things I mean to do so I just got around to it recently. And I’m kicking myself for waiting as usual.
For those not in the loop, Mr. Lander, actor, writer, serial barger-inner, has multiple sclerosis, a debilitating disease in which the nerves are attacked, stripping them of their protective coating and diminishing their function. It can lead to a wide array of symptoms and outcomes including loss of balance, loss of feeling in the hands and feet, bladder issues, loss of the ability to swallow, and ending up in the wheelchair. the disease is a bit of a snowflake in that it affects different people differently. The one constant is that there is no cure. People find different ways to cope with it. I’m not just talking about medicine either.
That’s what the book is about. How Mr. Lander coped with being diagnosed and how he coped was by hiding his illness from everyone but his wife and daughter. He would have rather people thought he was a drunk than know he was sick.
It’s a funny, but heartbreaking look at his life and his head space at that time. It’s also an inside look at a devastating illness that affects millions of people. It’s cautiously hopeful and blatantly honest.
I’ll make up for waiting so long to read it by reading it again.
Something old, something new…I’m in the mood to pile a whole bunch of stuff on my plate right now and since I’m feeling so eager and willing, I’m going to go with it.
In the old category, revisions continue on The World (Saving) Series. I’m done with this round of serious business revisions, but I’m going to start from the top in a couple of weeks and go through it again. I’m getting pretty happy with the way everything is working out and I don’t think I want to do any more major changes to the story. Thank goodness.
Also in the old category, revisions on Night of the Nothing Man. I’m tightening things up and getting picky with the sentences. The goal is to have it up on Smashwords before the end of the month, which I’m pretty sure is going to happen without much trouble.
In the kind of old, but kind of new category falls a couple of short stories. They’re Outskirts stories that I’ve already written and intended to get up on the blog a while ago, but never got around to revising to completion. That’s going to happen.
In the totally new category, I’ve got an idea for another short story that I’d like to write and put up in the freebie section. Free reads are good reads.
And finally, in the classified files, work on the sooper sekrit project continues and I’ve added sooper sekrit project #2. In my continued effort to broaden my abilities, I’ve started work on a script. I’ve only completed one before and actually had quite a lot of fun doing it. I’ve got an idea (don’t ask) and I’m going to run with it and get some practice in.
Getting some of these things done is not an option. I’m running out of room on my plate to add anything else.
Upon reading David L. Lander’s book Fall Down Laughing, there were a couple of sentences in one of the final chapters of the book that really struck a cord with me.
“When I was asked as a kid what I wanted to do for a living when I grew up, I remember answering the question by saying that there was a great job for me out there, it just hadn’t been invented yet.”
He goes on to say that the jobs he’d had, The Credibility Gap and Laverne and Shirley, didn’t exist until he walked in and invented them.
“All my life I had traveled the path of invention, making it up as I went along.”
I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone else explain the way I look at my life so accurately. I didn’t think anyone else did it like me. That’s not a brag; just an admission of loneliness and isolation.
I’m surrounded by people that did things by the book. I can’t even find the book, let alone read it. There’s really no one to relate to when it comes to discussing my world. To them, I’m a slacker, a failure, an idiot. I should have gone to college and gotten a real job and gotten married and had kids and all of that stuff that I was supposed to do, that normal people do.
But in my head, I knew that wasn’t going to be my bag. I knew there was a job out there for me, but it hadn’t been invented yet. I just didn’t put that thought into those words. And I didn’t know what that job was.
I still don’t know what it is.
I haven’t invented it yet.
Okay, yes, I am a writer and I do work several day jobs to support myself, but that all isn’t the same thing. Mr. Lander was a writer and an actor and worked day jobs, but his job hadn’t been invented yet. Do you see what I mean? My job hasn’t been invented yet.
I’m working on it.
I’m writing. I’m learning. I’m trying. It’s not easy. I mean there are some things I’m just not good at, things that make inventing a job even harder. Mr. Lander definitely possesses some skills that I don’t.
But that doesn’t mean that it’s not going to happen. I’m going to fail a lot, but I’m going to get it right eventually. I’m going to invent that gig that’s meant for me. It’ll probably end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster, but I’ll love it just the same.
I’m that person that’s excited when back-to-school time rolls around. Not because I have kids that I’m anxious to unload on some poor teachers; we’ve already established that I am child-free (though if I did have kids, I’d be totally looking forward to back-to-school time). But because notebooks are on sale for 10 cents a pop.
Yes, I’m that person that will spend a buck to get 10 notebooks. No, I don’t usually need them. But I NEED them.
I can never have enough notebooks. Single subject, college ruled, covers of all colors. I need them even if I already have some. I cannot take a chance of running out.
I like notebooks because I am a scribbler. When I get an idea that’s too big for my idea notebook, one that pops into my head a little more fully developed and pesters me a little bit longer, I’ll entertain it by expounding on it in a notebook. Even if I know the idea isn’t going anywhere, even if I really don’t want to fully commit myself to it, I’ll still write it down. I’ll do character sketches and timelines and outlines. Whatever that pleases the idea and gets it out of my head so I can work on it.
And then when the steam runs out, I put the notebook away and move on. I might come back to it, but that’s usually just to rip out the pages, put them away in a folder, and use the notebook for my next idea.
I don’t consider any of this wasted. There’s no telling what bits and pieces I might be able to use for something else. Or what idea as a whole might be worth something after I’ve left it alone for a while.
The notebooks are definitely not wasted. I get my mileage out of them. I may have killed a lot of trees in my time, but their deaths were never in vain.
Speaking of, I should check the dollar store the next time I’m there to see if they’ve got any of the notebooks I like.
My mother used to tell me all the time how lazy I was. It rated right up there with selfish and stealing as an unforgivable sin. I hated it when she called me lazy. There are so many implications in that word, all of them negative, and none of them that I wanted to apply to me.
But now that I’m older, I admit it. I suffer from extreme bouts of laziness at times.
There are some days when I’m absolutely unstoppable. I start early and check off my To Do list in short order, no matter how difficult. I get everything done before noon and then celebrate with reruns and Internet porn all afternoon.
And then there are days when I am so filled with don’t-want-to that I’m still working at nine o’clock at night because I refuse to leave a To Do list unfinished. The effort that it takes just to get started is more than I want to expend, even though I know that once I get going, I’ll get it all done in no time.
It is laziness, I know. Don’t-want-to laziness that I’ve carried with me all of my life. In my head, all of the projects seem bigger and harder than they really are. I think about how much I don’t feel like doing something and so I put it off until I can’t put it off any more. And then when I finally get around to doing whatever it is, I get it done in less time and usually with less difficulty than I imagined and I kick myself in the ass for not getting it done and over with sooner.
For example, I need to do my taxes. But I don’t feeeeeel like it. I know it’s not difficult. I know it’d probably only take me 20-30 minutes to get it all done. My taxes have never been that complicated. I might as well just get it done and over with.
But, like I said. I don’t feeeeeel like it.
That feeling rules me sometimes. That kind of laziness. I don’t feel like it so I don’t. Sometimes I make myself. Sometimes I don’t have a choice. But, if I have a choice, then I’ll make the choice to put it off.
So, yeah, my mother was right. I am lazy. I’ll probably always be lazy.
But so long as I have those excellent productive days, I’ll keep breaking even.
No, I don’t have kids. But I know enough parents that I think that I’m qualified to make this comparison. Other writers have. Why should I be left out just because I don’t have any kids?
Oh, but I do.
My stories are like my children in a way.
I gave birth to them. I nurtured them, sometimes getting up in the odd hours to make notes or jot something down, not going out with friends to stay home with the story, and worrying about it when I’m working on something else.
I do my best to raise them right, try to bring out the best in them, encourage their strengths and try to improve their weaknesses.
I get annoyed by them, aggravated by their unceasing demands for attention when all I want to do is take a five minute break. I get frustrated when they won’t do what I want them do and sometimes, I just don’t like them very much.
But, in the end, I love them. And there comes a time when I have to hope that all of my hard work will be rewarded when I send them out into the world. I have to hope that others will read them and know them and love them as I have. I have to hope that the world will be kind and they will be accepted.
And then I thank my lucky stars that they’re only stories. They don’t have feelings, so they can’t be beaten down by rejection because they’re likely to get rejected a lot. That’s the way of the writing world.
However, they also don’t ask for money. If it all works out right, they make me money. And it’s legal.
The other day my niece, the middle one, asked me what my all-time favorite song was. Without hesitation I answered.
“Sunny Girlfriend by The Monkees.”
“I don’t know that one,” she said. “What’s your second all-time favorite song?”
“As We Go Along by The Monkees.”
Frustrated, she sighed loudly as nine year olds in that house are prone to do and said, “What’s your all-time favorite song that’s NOT by The Monkees?”
Now, had she not put that stipulation on it, I was readily prepared to answer “You Told Me”, but with that stipulation, I had to think.
And I found myself stumped. Put on the spot like that I couldn’t think of one song that I could call my favorite that wasn’t by The Monkees.
The question has since haunted me.
I love music. I’m not one of those snobby, educated music lovers. I just like music, period. If I like the tune, put it in my ears and I’ll groove. I like all kinds of stuff. Country, rock, hip hop, rap, pop, whatever. Name a genre and I can probably think of a song in it that I like. There are very few artists that I can honestly say I don’t like. Most of the time it’s just because they haven’t put out a song yet that I like. I even like a Nickelback song. I’m still waiting on Justin Beiber to do something I want to hear, though.
The point is that a music lover such as myself, with such non-discriminating tastes, whose iPod plays 80’s synth then Southern rock then big band then gangsta rap then disco should be able to think of a favorite song that’s NOT The Monkees.
I couldn’t do it and I still can’t. Not really.
The closest I could come to answering the question was hours later when “Car Wash” by Rose Royce came on the radio. That’s a song that I will drop everything to groove to. It makes me want to put on booty shorts and roller skates. I love that song.
But, though I love it, I couldn’t think of it when I needed it. So it can’t very well be my favorite non-Monkees song, now could it?
I don’t think I have one. I think my moods dictate my preferences too much. The Monkees are my all-time favorite band so that music isn’t as affected by my whims. Everything else, though, is up for grabs.
And you know what? I kind of prefer it that way.
If the middle niece asks again, that’s what I’ll tell her.
Three in the afternoon was a dead zone for me. There really weren’t any reruns that I wanted to watch, so I’d usually just put on Me-TV until my next round came on, putting the TV on mute and listening to the radio (oldies, of course) while I worked and waited.
It just so happens that The Wild Wild West is on at three. And after several weeks of looking up to see what was going on and being completely baffled by what was onscreen, I turned on the sound. That didn’t always help, but what I did find was a new rerun for me to love.
The show features secret service agents James West (Robert Conrad), our dashing and daring hero, and his partner Artemus Gordon (Ross Martin), a master of disguise and gadgets, as they do the bidding of President Grant in the 1870’s, protecting him and the country from various fiends and schemes. They travel the country on a special train that’s stocked with every gadget they might need, most of which didn’t come into existence until after the time. And no matter how busy they were saving the country, they always found time to romance a girl or three (seriously, I don’t know how they found the time to do their sworn duty with all the tail they got). It’s a Western with a steampunk/Bond flavor.
The one real repeated villain the show had was Dr. Miguelito Loveless (Michael Dunn), a brilliant but dangerous and slightly mad man who often went to toe to toe with James West and though his plans were often spoiled, he always managed to get away. He was usually accompanied by his companions Voltaire (Richard Kiel) and Antoinette (Phoebe Dorin). Oh, and Dr. Loveless just so happened to be a little person.
Though the show was primarily an action gig, there was comedy supplied from the wit and quips of James and Artemus, usually poking at each other. It added a nice balance to all the death defying and saving of the country. The chemistry between Robert Conrad and Ross Martin is really quite delightful and makes the episodes without Mr. Martin more noticeable (Mr. Martin had a near-fatal heart attack during the fourth season and was replaced by Charles Aidman, Alan Hale Jr., and William Schallert for several episodes while he recovered). The replacement agents were all fine, but they just weren’t Artemus Gordon.
They can also pull off fringe and chaps without looking like pro-wrestling gimmicks.
It’s also worth noting that since this is an action show, the two leads did get in on that action. Mr. Conrad did most of his own stunts until he fell 12 feet from a chandelier and sustained a concussion that ended filming on season 3 a couple of weeks early. Mr. Martin also broke his leg during an episode a few weeks before having his heart attack (though I don’t think he did quite as many of his own stunts as Mr. Conrad). Something you don’t see much of today.
In addition to our favorite villain and fellow agents, other guest stars included Victor Buono, Suzanne Pleshette, Robert Loggia, Harold Gould, Dabs Greer, Boris Karloff, Carroll O’Connor, Burgess Meredith, Ida Lupino, Ricardo Montalban, Robert Duvall, Ed Asner, Harvey Korman, Martin Landeau, James Gregory, and Leslie Nielsen.
This show is fun. Along with the wit and the action, you get some really nifty gadgets, complicated, diabolical plots, James West goes shirtless every other episode, and Artemus Gordon gets to be a dozen different people on any given day. What’s not to love?
Other writers talk about having muses. Their muses abandon them and show up in the middle of the night, begging for attention. They show up with nothing but a blank page or they leave them with pages and pages of finished work.
But I don’t have a muse.
I think it’s a neat idea. Like a little, disagreeable fairy that helps channel your creativity. It’s something to blame on the bad days and something to champion on the good days. It makes writing feel a little less lonely to know that there’s this little writing devil with a halo sitting on your shoulder.
But I still don’t have one.
I show up and I write. Some days go better than others, but in the end, it’s just me.
This doesn’t make me any better because I don’t believe in invisible helpers. In fact, I feel a little deficient because I don’t have one. Call me a little jealous. I’d like a little sprite to discuss things with on my writing journeys.
Instead of muses, I just have characters. Some are persistent little things that won’t leave me alone. And I do talk to my characters a lot. I ask them questions and hope they’ll cooperate and answer them. That’s how I develop the stories sometimes. I just sit back, look that character straight in the eye, and ask them, “What gives?”
Okay, all of this takes place in my mind (I save the talking to myself for hashing out dialogue to make sure it sounds real). Sometimes those interviews go well. Sometimes I find out the characters just want to exist and they really don’t want to do anything of interest.
I suppose talking to my characters is the closest I’ll ever get to having a muse. They show up, kind of like a muse does, and they help me write their stories. Sometimes they’re more helpful than other times. Sometimes they can be really annoying pricks.
But in the end, when it comes to the actual work, they step back and let me put fingers to keys and pen to paper. When it comes to the actual work, it’s all on me. I’ve got no muse to bail me out there.
If you know David L. Lander as Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley, then you know why I read this book. If you don’t know who Squiggy, Laverne, and/or Shirley are, well then, I weep for you and judge you harshly. Really. Get on the stick here.
![writing santa 11.30.09 [334]](https://i0.wp.com/farm3.static.flickr.com/2786/4151707061_7b63f6cd30_m.jpg "writing santa 11.30.09 [334]")
Kiki Writes About... 