Day 2: Let's start with failure and go from there

Well, Dear Readers, it's been a while. Seven months + one day. My longest blogging dry spell yet. Does it help to know I write lots of blog posts in my head? Posts about all kinds of shit, like rapists and body image and vaginas and riding my bike and how my neighbors park like assholes and the vagrants who live across the alley and their fucking rooster and how I haven't been to karaoke in a while because I got roofied the last time I went. And no, that's not just an excuse for getting too drunk. It happened, and I do have a story to tell. I have told it and edited it and rewritten it and rearranged scenes and done everything except put my fingers on a keyboard, because these days I mostly just write in my head. If somebody could invent a gadget that would allow me to dictate straight from my head I would be the next Stephen King. Only what's inside my head is sometimes scarier than what's inside his.

Hold on .... the dog's barking out in the back yard ......

I'm back. Some vagrant back there yelling, "Jooooeeeeyyyy. Jooeey. JOE! Joooeeeyyy...." Drives poor Crow Cocker nuts. Earlier tonight I heard one of them yell, "If she gets on top and he gets on the bottom, that will be OK with us! Just do it! Now!" I don't even  fucking want to know what that was about. They might be playing Twister for all I know. I can't see because my garage is between them and me, so all I can do is guess, and that's not the path to mental health.

At least the fireworks have mostly abated for the night. It sounded like Viet Nam in the 60's  around here tonight. I digress.

But no, I don't digress. In just the 5 minutes I tried to sit down here and write the first blog post of July on July 2, all I did was write a paragraph and then bam. Off I went to do some other shit. Because OC that's what it's like living in this house with my 4-year-old princess granddaughter and a 90-pound autistic poodle.

I do have things to write about. But .... and yes, here come the excuses .... once I get Coraline to sleep at whatever time we stop reading -- usually 10:30 or even 11:00, all I want to do is sit down on the couch with a glass of chardonnay in one hand, the remote in the other and a bowl of chips in my lap. And I thought getting rid of cable would fix my addiction. Fucking Netflix.

And don't tell me 99% of you haven't either watched the latest season of Orange Is the New Black or are in the middle or intend to as soon as you're back from your latest vacation. You fucking know it's true.

I will confess, it's not like I don't get an evening or a day off sometimes. I do. And when I do, I either go out with other grownups or I get out my lists and try to get a bunch of shit done or I go to work, like I did today, or I sit on my ass and read a novel. An adult fucking novel. Or I go on a bike ride. Or I take the dog on a long guilt walk ... or ... or ... or ..... Sit down and write isn't even on this list, because I need to unload the dishwasher. TBH, I've lost a lot of the spontaneity that used to drive my writing. I need to regroup.

I don't really believe in writer's block, although I'll admit some people would diagnose me with that dreaded disease. I believe in "writer not putting her butt in the chair." I believe in that affliction, and I definitely have it. Not that my butt doesn't spend plenty of time in a chair. I just don't spend that time writing. Except on Facebook. Let's not talk about Facebook, OK?

I'm working on it though. I've held a couple of bootcamps here at my house for writers and visual artists recently with surprising and inspiring results. And this month I'm going to try to write a post every day here, even though I've got a day to make up already. If I succeed in writing 5 posts a week, I'll consider it a success. If you want to help me out by leaving some comments, that would be great, but if not, I'm still going to keep writing. And after this month, if not here, other places that actually pay a few bucks plus exposure.

Finally, while I'm in confession mode, I will confess that one of the reasons I don't write is because sometimes I'm so disgusted by what's going on in this country if I did start writing, I'd be up all night, every night, writing bitter vitriol and I can't afford to be in that place all the time. I have a queendom to run here, and it's hard to separate that shit from trips to the park (dog and people) and play dates and gardening and snuggling up to watch Cupcake Wars and all the other wonderful things I need to focus on instead of spilling my rage on the page. I could write an entire month of posts just on the subject of rape, but who wants to read about that every day? Not you, right?

OK, that's it for tonight. Excuses and piecrust promises, easily made and easily broken (Mary Poppins). Feel free to send me suggestions for posts. I might not take them, but I will appreciate them. And I'll try to be back tomorrow with something real to say. Pinkie promise.

Somebody proof this for me, will ya? I need to go to bed.

NaBloPoMo #24: Distractions

"Tomorrow's full moon is a special one, called a Mourning Moon, fyi.
'According to Pagan traditions, the Mourning Moon is meant to signify a time of evolution. As this moon rises in the sky, it is recommended that we let go of the baggage we’ve been holding on to. We must cleanse ourselves as we reflect on this year’s happenings. Specifically, we must let go of anything that’s weighing us down before the new year begins.'"  ~~ Facebook post

Dog shaming

All writers complain about how hard it is to put their butts in the chair and write. Many writers complain about all the things they do to avoid putting their butts in the chair and writing. I suspect I may be the queen of procrastination though, and my muse Dolores will testify. She's about ready to fire my ass. So this is my post of shame. It's the reticulated version of dog shaming, only I'm not going to put a sign in front of a photo of myself, because last time I looked I am not a fucking dog, although for some reason I bought a dog a year ago tomorrow, and he's just one more distraction from writing.

Here, in no particular order, are the things I do when I should be writing.

1. Watch Netflix. Currently mainlining The Girlfriends' Guide to Divorce. Because I didn't get enough of that particular brand of hell the first time around. It's a lot more interesting for women who are rich, gorgeous, thin and sophisticated than it is for real people like me. So far the only parallel is that the sex is disappointing, even if the characters don't know it. PiV only, which we all know isn't going to get the job done.
2. Read other people's books. And articles. And other people's blogs. I read a lot.
3. Yoga.
4. Drink wine and gobble self-hatred any food I've sworn not to eat: chocolate, potato chips, peanuts, chocolate, bread. 
5. Scroll through Facesuck, rarely stopping to read anything. No offense. How much shit about Donald Trump can one person read, anyway? Shut the fuck up about him already.
6. Message with friends ... on fucking Facesuck.
7. Write clever status updates on Facebook, and then check every 30 seconds for comments. If you only knew me by my Facebook, you'd think my life was perfect. It's not. Today I opened my recycle dumpster and saw smelled that someone had not only dumped a bunch of beer cans and trash, he'd also thrown up in there. Thanks a lot, asshole.
8. Sex. Think about sex.
9. Take Crow Cocker to the dog park. In my defense, I do get some exercise there too. And exercise is supposed to stimulate creativity. I'm not sure if picking up 3 dog shits with a little plastic bag over my hand every time we go helps though.
10. Clean the kitchen.
11. Play my guitar.
12. Play my piano. I should be a concert pianist by now.
13. Play with my purple microphone.
14. Karaoke.
15. Go to open mics. Just to listen and drink pear sangria. Not to play. And not to pick up married men, although if I were so inclined, that too could be a distraction.
16. Dote on my granddaughter. She's with me a lot, and honestly, it's hard to switch gears to writing about vaginas after I get her to bed at 10 or 10:30.
17. Cook.
18. Travel.
19. Nap. I dearly love a power nap in the afternoon. I rarely get 8 hours of sleep, so I can justify naps on those days when I can catch one. Hell, I can justify a nap if I slept 9 hours. I'm a fucking adult. I do what I want.
20. Parties, at my house or at other people's houses. I can't say no to a party.
21. Cruise Amazon and put things on my wish list. Sometimes I even buy some shit, and then I'm excited when I get a package in the mail, because I've usually forgotten what I ordered. Like that zucchini spiralizer I so desperately wanted. Still haven't used that.
22. Sit on the porch and rock and think about what I should be writing.
23. Go out with friends and make notes on cocktail napkins about shit I could write about. I've got a stack big enough to be a fire hazard.

I could probably make this list longer, but I've made my point. Stephen King claims he writes 8 hours a day, 7 days a week. Obviously he under-reports his hours. The man must have made a deal at the crossroads he's so prolific. I, on the other hand ..... I am not Stephen King. And so far, the devil is just as disinterested in me as I am in him.

I really love writing, so this list makes me kind of sad, because I really love doing most of the things I listed here too. What are your distractions? Do they prevent you from going after a big dream? Can I borrow a couple? I can always use one or two more.

NaBloPoMo #10: Mediocrity for the win

Day 10, and I'm struggling to write tonight. One reason is that it's almost 2:00 am, and I'm shot for the day. Also, I'd like to just lie on the couch under a soft blanket and watch Nashville. (Don't fucking judge.)

Another reason I can't focus on writing is that I'm feeling bitter and cynical, and I don't want to let that out here. Someone betrayed me tonight -- someone who has betrayed me so many times I've lost count. And once again, I went into the situation expecting a different outcome regardless of past lessons. Shame on me.

And third, I went out with my friend Maria tonight to a wine bar where we deliberately broke our sugar fast for one night with rich, cheesy appetizers, handmade chocolates from a local chocolatier, lots of laughter, and a new wine (to us). We ended up splitting a case of it we liked it so much. I don't mean we drank a case of it. We drank a bottle, and then we took a case home. In any case, it's an unusual wine. Light, fruity, slightly dry, but with a finish that hints of jelly beans. And it comes in a cool bottle. To top it off, it was around $4.50/bottle, which is pretty damn cheap for a wine that finishes with jelly beans. Needless to say, the combination of rich carbs and wine made me sleepy and lazy.

But I need to write, so I went to the NaBloPoMo daily prompts and randomly chose this one: What do you do better than anyone else?

The answer is nothing. I don't do anything better than anyone else. I enjoy doing lots of things -- playing music, theater, karaoke, cooking, cycling, gardening, socializing --and I'm mediocre at most of them. Furthermore, I'm not unique for being mediocre. Most people are, or at least there's somebody who's better. So I'm not the best at anything.

I am a good writer, but lots of people are better. And certainly lots of people are more focused and productive. This post proves that. I'm an excellent user of Facebook. And I'm a fantastic cuddler and reader of books. Some people think I'm a spooky good tarot reader, although there's little call for that. I do a couple of other things well, but I don't want to make myself blush. Most things though? Mediocre.

What the hell kind of question is that anyway? Is it a narcissism test? Why the assumption that everybody can do something better than anyone else? Sure, the world champion chess play can say, at least for this year, that he's the best chess player .... until someone beats him. And same with Olympic gold medal winners. Award-winning actors. Pulitzer Prize winners. Those very few people who reach the pinnacle of their professions. I'll bet even most of them feel somebody nipping at their heels though.

But the rest of us? We have to settle for being good enough .... except when we're not. Because there are also those many things that I'm shitty at. Like riding roller coasters, knitting, running, yoga (I still do it though), dealing with conflict, dating, making pie crust ... I could go on, but why? Some of those things I can avoid; others I just have to muddle through, like it or not. 

So the prompt didn't help me much. Any of you readers have a better answer? Are you better at doing something than anyone else? And don't give me some bullshit meme fodder about being the best at being you. Save that for your Victorian postcard.

The dog ate my homework

Buy me this here:
lindarohrbough.us/clocks.htm

Know what’s hard about making a commitment to write here every day? I’ll tell you what’s hard about it. Sometimes I’m working diligently writing other things that don’t fit here or that I’m not ready to publish, and it’s the last night of spring break, and then the clock passes midnight, and I realize I haven’t given my attention to my commitment here, and I’m going to make yet another excuse because that’s what writer’s do best. We make excuses. Here’s mine.

At the bootcampFriday, I worked on a piece that I’ll post here soon that’s about bar napkins and rape culture. I just need to finish it.

I also worked on two poems that I wanted to update, because I’m an idiot. See, I judged at the last poetry slam I went to. I didn’t read or slam, just gave scores to other poets. The guy who won has hosted poetry slams for years, and I’ve known him for years, so he knew if he performed my favorite poem, which is about a pocket pussy*, I’d give him a 10. So he did, and I did, and he won. Like a dumbass, I told him the next time he slammed in May, I was going to slam too, and I would kick his ass. I wasn’t even drinking yet.  Maybe I bumped up against a testosterone lick block. I’m not sure why I issued that challenge.

I’ll be honest: my kicking his ass is about as likely as my getting up the courage to join an online dating site any time soon … No, it’s less likely. But I opened my big fucking mouth, so I will at least have to take the mic and try. And that’s why I’m working on spoken word poems instead of vagina posts lately.

Anyway, I’m happy with the work I did on those two poems at the bootcamp, and I continued to polish a couple of other poems tonight with some degree of success. Meaning I think they’re finished … at least until next time I turn my critical raven’s eye on them. I don’t think they’ll win a slam, but I don’t think I’ll embarrass myself either. There's no predicting what will happen until the judges turn their score boards around, but it’s hard to beat a pocket pussy poem.

Also, I’m my own worst critic, so I never know if anything I write is good or if it’s a shitpile of introspective drivel that has so contaminated the poor innocent words they can’t ever be recycled, must less reused.

I do wish working on poetry hadn’t prevented me from writing the post I intended to write here tonight, because I’m excited about it, because LISTEN UP! Somebody sent me a Dear Reticula letter! How fucking cool is that? And it’s about dating, which we all know I’m a bitter, miserable failure at, but let’s not tell, shall we? Somebody wants my advice! So tomorrow night, on the last night of March**, I will stop working on poems and write my one and only reticulated advice column. On dating, no less. Wait for it.

* I was going to insert a photo of a pocket pussy here, but I googled pocket pussies ... and .... yeah, no. There may be a not-so-hidden metaphor here, but you're on your own if you want to look at photos of pocket pussies.

** I realize I missed about 3 days of writing this month. I do intend to make up those posts, and that’s no April Fool’s joke.