The Problem with Writing...

How can you tell someone who might be a writer on sight? In high school and college they're the ones gasping in astonishment at the A's on English papers that they knew were utter shit when they submitted them and wondering how bad the other kids' papers must have been to justify giving said utter shit a passing grade much less an 'A'. In the professional world, they're much the same, only it's reports not papers. Reports in which are found excellent grammar, a varied vocabulary and an absolute refusal to resort to legalese or business-speak bastardizations of the English language to get ideas across. Sometimes they still write creative little bits and pieces on the side but they rarely finish them. They aren't good enough to finish you see.

The problem with would-be writers and writing is that we always want our creations to be perfect. Our characters, our plots... everything must be perfect and unique. But as flawed characters ourselves, for to be human is to be flawed, nothing is ever quite perfect. And as for the tales and personalities of our characters, in order for them to be believed by the reader they must be written from experience and in human experience there is truly nothing new under the sun; not even when we place our characters OVER the sun and far, far away. So we start things over and over... and never finish them because they are not perfect. Whereas an interested reader might in fact actually be perfectly happy, and consider quite good, what we look at as our most mediocre or even abysmal efforts.

Over the years I have become convinced that writers block is one of the most common afflictions known to man. It is not only for the proven (read: published) writer who is temporarily stuck on a plot point. But is most commonly found as the mental wall that prevents many of us from even trying. I sometimes wonder if the only way anything ever gets published at all is because the writer's editor steals the files and tells them "ENOUGH, IT IS DONE," and runs away with the pages into the night. Perhaps if we all had deadlines and editors enforcing them we all might actually be able to finish what we'd started... that is after all the only reason why we finally turned in those shitty English papers isn't it?

Growing Grass

     Watching the grass grow is an under-rated activity. It clears the mind and relaxes the soul. It allows you to center your being to such an extent that you begin to believe that there may really be something to that transcendental meditation hoo-hah. Everyone should spend time watching the grass grow. Watching paint dry works as well, but it’s impractical to go looking for wet paint every time you need to relax. Grass watching is much more energy efficient, the furthest I have to travel is my front porch.

     It was the perfect day for grass-watching. Spring was exiting stage left as the leaves on the trees darkened into their summer greens. The thermometer climbed a little higher every day. It was hot enough outside to make a body lazy, but not quite hot enough to seal the house and turn on the AC. No traffic, the birds were singing, the sun was shining and I didn’t have anyplace I needed to be. Far be it from me to waste the day; I sat outside on the porch steps while my dogs drowsed around me and commenced observing the lawn. It might have been ten minutes or an hour; you lose your sense of time when you watch the grass grow, but the peace was broken by a steadily increasing racket coming from the west.

     The car crawled down the road, if one could call it a car, it had four wheels and what might have once been an engine but it was of no brand or model I recognized. Old certainly, its only visible color was rust and while the windows were not tinted by conventional methods they were so cracked and filthy I couldn’t even see shadows inside. I’d heard it coming for the last mile, clicking, clacking, loud banging sounds and the occasional explosion, as if various parts had broken loose and were waging a violent war against each other under the hood. The car sputtered to a halt in front of my mailbox; there was a loud backfire, a cloud of black smoke and then all was silent.

     The curbside door opened and a cloud of smoke reeking of stale cigars came billowing out followed by a pair of beat-to-hell turquoise cowboy boots. After a few moments, I imagine he was waiting for the smoke to clear, the owner of the boots stood up, promptly banged his head on the roof of the rapidly crumbling vehicle and sat right back down again.

     “Ehem…” I cleared my throat. “I beg your pardon, are you lost?
     “Lost?” The stranger stood up again, slowly and carefully, one hand rubbing what was swelling into an alarmingly large knot on his head the other casually laid on top of the car door. “No, no my dear I assure you I am most definitely not lost. This isn’t exactly where I expected it would be but no matter, she’s never wrong.”

      Picture a weeping willow. Now imagine all the leaves turned grey, dressed it in badly-fitting brown trousers, a tie-dye t-shirt, a tweed jacket and turquoise cowboy boots. Shrink it down to about 6’6”. Now add bright green eyes, a longish nose, a lump on the forehead and a general air of “now where did I put my…” and you’ll see almost exactly what I was confronted with. Better yet if you’ve read your Tolkien, imagine Treebeard, only shorter and greyer, with clothes on.

     Expected what to be? Who’s never wrong? I couldn’t bring myself to ask the questions out loud and could only hope that the answer wouldn’t involve either the ideal situation of my backyard with regard to catching fairies or a lecture on how my property was the best location to contact space aliens while awaiting the imminent return of Elvis. I so very wasn’t up for having those arguments again.

     So I just looked at him. “…er…hmmm… I’m sorry, do you live here?” As he spoke he stepped towards me, right hand extended as if to shake my hand. The very second he took his left hand off the car door… well… the car collapsed.

     Remember the goofy cartoons with the cute little animated cars? They’d go too fast and then they’d stop, exhausted and all four tires would splay outward and the car would collapse to the ground in exhaustion? It was like that, only without eyes and a little pink tongue but with a very loud bang, a cloud of dust and smoke.

     I evaded his hand, no telling where it had been. “Ok, um…yes I live here. No to anything you may want to ask regarding fairies, aliens or Elvis. I’ve got my cell phone right here, would you like me to call a tow truck?”

Always Watching, Do We See?

::We look like hell.::
This is not the first coherent thought you want to have starting the day.
::We really look like hell.::
That's not a good one either.
Ok, back up... why do we look like hell? Oh... Right...
Flashes of memory... out with our friend Dana at a Terry's Bar and Grill... Lots of alcohol..
::How many? Huh... no clue... a lot judging by the fur on our tongue.::
Jack walks into the bar with a cute little coed wrapped around his neck like a winter scarf, a blonde winter scarf... he's supposed to be out of town on a business trip... yelling... we're yelling...
::Did we actually call him a lying, cheating, wretched excuse for a son of a bitch? Oooo... yeah we did... ouch... oh well, never did like his mother.::
Lots of crying... then more alcohol... then nothing... until...
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"I don't feel so good."
Marianne blearily inspected her reflection in the bathroom mirror. A wreck of what may have formerly been categorized as a human being blearily stared back at her. Hair that looks like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket? Check. Red, puffy eyes with bags big enough for a round-the-world voyage? Check. Makeup streaking down from the eyes and otherwise smeared across the face? Check. Red nose? Check.
She opened her mouth and looked at her tongue.
::Ew, gross.::
Fuzzy tongue? Double-check, bonus points for the pale film and the foul taste.
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::Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. Maybe I should start with the fight instead of the morning after, but I don't remember much, alcohol effects us too. Maybe a synopsis of our relationship with Jack before that night? No, I think this is the right place, the first morning of our life PJ. Post-Jack. This is where it all began.::
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::I need a change.::
::We need a change, distraction, something new and different.::
::Marianne, we need a change.::
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Marianne splashed some cold water on her face and wiped away the last vestiges of ruined makeup with a towel. She pulled the wreckage of last night's hairdo back into a ponytail and straightened, looking squarely at her reflection in the mirror.
"I need a change," she told her reflection.
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:: Who am I you ask? I am other. The voice that whispers to the unconscious mind. I reside in the shady corners of Marianne's mind. I am part of her, as she is part of me, yet we are separate. I am her Watcher, all humans have them. I am charged to interfere only when necessary. But I must admit, I never liked Jack.

I see right through you (P1)

He's lying to me. I can always tell when they're lying. His eyes won't quite meet mine and he keeps looking down and to the left. His hands are fidgeting, his shoulders slightly hunched in an unconsciously defensive posture. In trying too hard not to give anything away, he gives away everything.

::Sigh::

"You're lying and I'm done." I stand up and walk out of the restaurant. At least we hadn't ordered yet. So I don't have to feel guilty about sticking him with the tab. Men. Why do I even bother?

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Reading people is a skill I've had as long as I can remember though I wasn't always this good at it. Being a really good Reader is typically the result of one of two circumstances: a mentor who trains you intensively in observation or as a self defense mechanism.

I am a student of the second school.

In High School I had the misfortune to be a walking trifecta of the three worse things to be. I was smart, I was sensitive and I was shy. All of these things would have been enough by themselves to create problems for me in the Hobbesian environment of the Popularity contest that is High School but I had a fourth. One more thing about me that just put me over the top (or really at the lowest of the low in social strata): I was a teacher's kid. And my parents both taught at the school I attended.

With these handicaps came the inevitable onslaught of teenage cruelties. Nerd, Geek, Bitch and slut were some of the nicer things said about me. Many of the things I heard and that were said about me were much worse.

It became a matter of survival to be able to read the intent of someone approaching me before they got there. Amongst other things it gave me a better chance of running if it seemed necessary. I learned to tell who was angry, who was teasing, who was being purposely cruel and who wanted a favor.

But the most important thing I learned was how to spot a lie. I'll tell you the most interesting thing I've learned about lying in my 33 years on this planet. Humans are infinitely capable of self-deception. But even when they've thoroughly convinced themselves of a lie their subconscious knows the truth. No matter how practiced the words and how easily they come to their mouths, if you're really observant, their bodies will be shouting the truth to you. Your body is your closest friend, but when it comes to lies and secrets it is also your greatest enemy.

 But I digress... where was I? Ah yes... the restaurant.

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I glanced back and saw what I had expected to see. My brand new ex deep in earnest conversation with the sexy blonde who had been so eagerly eavesdropping on our conversation for the past 20 minutes. She'd been careful not to stare but her sitting angle, slightly away from her table and angled towards ours gave her interest away as surely as if she'd pulled up a chair at our table.

She was going to be sorry, but that wasn't my problem. Callous? Perhaps. I prefer to think of it as a result of the most valuable lesson I've learned in life. You can't save people. People have to save themselves. You can give advice and point the way until you're blue in the face but if they don't want to follow, they won't. You wait until they ask for your help, and if they never ask... well there isn't really much you can do. And frankly, if watching his girlfriend call him a liar and walk out hadn't cued her in to the fact that he was likely a less than spectacular relationship candidate she deserved the life lesson she was going to be learning.

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Time to check in. Still walking to my car I pulled my phone out of my purse and sent a simple text. 'It's done.' it took less than 15 seconds for the phone to ring.

"Really? Just like that? Already?" came the slightly static voice of my best friend.

"You know my rule Rick, it hasn't changed. Lying to me is a waste of time and energy on their part and a source of severe irritation on mine. He wasn't going to admit what was really going on and I am disinclined to waste my valuable time, energy and emotional capital trying to make him confess what I already know."

"And how did he take it?"

"Don't you worry about his feelings, he's already being 'comforted' by a cute blonde that had been eyeing him since we walked in the door. I believe his recovery time will be measured in seconds."