Top Ten Lists For Writers....and Morons

What doesn't help me is reading about writing.  Does it help anyone, really?  Especially lists for writers. Top Ten Lists for Writers that are composed, essentially, of no-duhs.  

I read one today and became extremely depressed about writing in general.  I was filled with this sense of despondency about my verb usage and my abilities to construct sparkling sentences of varying lengths and styles.  I realized there was no hope for me.  I spiraled downward in a trajectory of hopelessness where I was forced to confront the realization that my stories are not fabulous.  They lack intriguing ideas.  The plots are starved. The voice resonates as loudly as the gurgle of a titmouse at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.  

I am a deluded moron, I thought, laboring at a futile task.  I might as well be in one of the seven circles of hell.   

I mean, I'm not, really.  I'm fine.  If I suck at writing, no big deal.  If my stories bite, big whoop (is that how you spell it?  I'm going for a colloquial tone here).  

One day recently, I arrived home in an unusually sunny mood.  Stoker was there, haranguing Bastet (the cat), teasing her and such (she loves it) and I said to him, "Yeah, I had a great day writing.  I got over whatever lethargy I was feeling and realized I'm good.  My stories are good.  I'm fantastic.  I suddenly realized I haven't been laboring at a futile task for the past five years. It was great."  I said it with an appropriate amount of animation.  

And he said, "Well, if you think about it, everything we do is futile. Right? I mean, it's all for naught anyway.  Isn't it?  Your writing.  My life.  Your life.  My job.  Your job.  Etc."

So there you go.  Just when I'd gotten to the crest of the hill in my emotional roller coaster, someone was there to quash it with a nihilistic lecture.  

No, it was funny, really, and I gave him hell in a funny, ribbing kind of way, because what better method to counter nihilism than with a well-timed sarcastic comment?  Eh?  Eh?

I need a good dose of sarcasm right now.  Whose idea is it to make those ridiculous Ten Tips For Writers lists, anyway?  Seriously?  

Some people thrive on the coaching style wherein the cruel drill sergeant-type hurls insults littered with a good amount of spittle at them until they rise to the occasion and emerge victorious.  That's great.  I mean, to continue the metaphor, no one wants pampered soldiers because a spoiled, indulged soldier will turn and run when they need to confront an enemy (or whatever). 

I'm not saying I need to be coddled.  I do get tired of the emotional roller coaster, though.  It's easier to give up and not try at all.  Eventually I rise to the occasion and get over the negative thoughts plaguing me.  I shouldn't read the lists in the first place and that would be a great start.  I should be less susceptible to negativity and more idiotically confident and ignorant of the possibility that I might truly suck at whatever I'm trying.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, for all I know I'm one of the tuneless, tone-deaf morons trying out for American Idol under the misconception that I'm great.  "People have been telling me that my whole life, that's why I'm here, Simon, because I'm the next American Idol."  

"You're terrible.  Dismissed.  Thank you.  Goodbye."  

Talking to Strangers: An Inordinately Long Post (Worth It; Very Entertaining)

I have a stalker.

Ok. I use that term loosely. He’s not one hundred percent bona fide stalker, but he’s around and he’s undesirable and I don’t know how to get rid of him. No, I’m not talking sarcastically about Stoker. Stoker is still one hundred percent desirable and as it stands now, he’s not around near enough.

The stalker doesn’t seem to follow me, per se. And that’s why I use the term loosely. But suddenly, I can’t go anywhere outside my office without running into him. It’s annoying.

Here’s the story. In riding my bike home from work, I was waved over to a parking lot by a guy who was in workout clothes. I thought he was going for an after work run. Or maybe they were playing a pickup game of basketball. I stopped. The dude assured me that all he wanted to know was bike stuff and then he asked me a bunch of questions about my bike. I answered his questions while still being cautious, under the impression that I was speaking with a working professional, which somehow at that time meant to me that he wasn’t creepy. Not one hundred percent creepy, anyway. When the questions got uncomfortable, I started to want to leave, like when he asked if I go for group rides or what. I thought to myself that I didn’t want him knowing whether or not I rode alone. He wanted to know where I rode, I didn’t tell him. I told him I ride with my husband, which is true.

After a few minutes, a woman appeared on the front steps of his office building. She was shouting and waving for him. “His wife,” I thought, even though that didn’t really make sense. He said he had to go and left. So I left too.

Oh, and initially, he mentioned that he was glad I had stopped. He said he had seen me riding my bike by before and he was so glad he caught me. One of the other things he said was that he wanted to get a bike and that at one point he had done triathlons. Which is cool, great for him. Apparently he had been out of the scene for a while. Fine, awesome. Go to it, man.

A few days later, I was out walking on my lunch. I went about a half mile to find a place to eat. As I was returning to my office, I stopped on a street corner while I waited for the light to change. There was a dude in the bike lane and he looked at me. I ignored him. Then he asked, “Are you the bike girl?” And what did I do?

I said yes, because I’m an idiot. Why the hell would I say yes? First of all, why the hell would I talk to a stranger? In the very first place, why would I do that? Why would I not heed my mother’s advice and the advice of the public education system and the advice of all the television commercials during Saturday morning cartoons? Why?

Because I’m an idiot. I am. There’s no way around it. My stupidness surprises even me. So I say yes to the dude’s question, “Are you the bike girl?” I say yes and nod, dumbly, because I’m a little surprised and confused and I respond too quickly, automatically. When I’m taken by surprise I tend to become a deer in the headlights, I’m very shocked that there’s a car, I can’t believe there’s a car, why would there be a car here, why is it speeding into my face? That’s what I do. I get confused. That’s what happens right before you die.*

And the dude thinks it’s divine intervention or something. He’s like, “Wow, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe I’m running into you again. My friends said that you rode by one day when I wasn’t there and there were all, ‘______, she came by again, the Bike Girl. She came by when you weren’t here.’ And now here you are.” And then he showed off the bike he got for $400 off of craigslist.com. He was so thrilled about the bike and I pretended to be impressed because I didn’t give a shit. All I was thinking about was how the hell** to get out of this.

The light changes and the dude rides his bike across the street. I wait for the cars and begin crossing the road. The dude gets to the other side and what does he do? He WAITS for me.

There’s no where for me to go. He’s on a bike and I’m walking and my work is half a mile away. He begins riding his bike real slow next to me and he begins gabbing. He chatters on and on about the bike and how he’s getting a fresh start and how he’s been out of the scene for four years and he just got to Nashville and he’s real excited about everything, to get a fresh start. I’ve got my hand in my bag and I’m texting Stoker to “CALL ME RIGHT NOW.” And I’m not listening real close, but I catch the thing about being gone for four years. So I ask him where he’s been for four years, feeling my blood turning cold.

“Prison. I was locked up for four years. But I’m rehabilitated now and I’ve got a fresh start. I don’t want to freak you out or scare you, I’ve got two sons and everything.”

I play it cool. And what the hell? PRISON? I’m not going to tell you my life story, but what is it with me and ex-cons? I’m not kidding. Somehow I seem to attract them and it’s not like I’m hanging out in bars. They find me in the oddest places. The climbing gym, college, the street. Ok, the street is a weird one. But that’s the first weird one.

At this point, I’m really concerned about how to deter to this guy. Stoker hasn’t called me and I’m getting annoyed about that. I ask the dude why he was in prison, but he pretends not to hear. He tries to tell me his life story, his name, where he’s from, that he has some kids, etc. It turns out that that office is not an office, but is rather a HALFWAY HOUSE. It turns out that that halfway house looks out on my parking lot (he was puzzling over why he keeps running into me in such a fortuitous way). It turns out that there have been a bunch of ex-whatevers oogling me as I ride by on my bicycle.

This stirs a ton of unpleasant realizations in me, as I walk along, thinking of how to get rid of him without being offensive.

And why on earth shouldn’t I be offensive? Why on earth is there a strange man riding beside me, trying to be my friend or something when I’ve already mentioned that I have a husband? Obviously there’s something wrong with him. Something anti-social about him. I hate to be an ass, but sometimes a person needs to get a brain. By person I mean this man, who clearly doesn’t have enough mental power to get out of his own experience and recognize that I’m a girl walking by myself and whether or not he’s harmless, his actions might appear otherwise.

What kills me is that I actually feel like I should try to preserve this guy’s feelings. Why is that? Why should I care? He’s clearly crossing all sorts of lines of decorum. I’m not his friend. Usually I don’t talk to strangers, and there are a lot of seedy guys hanging around Nashville, if you’ve never been here. They love to try to rope girls into conversation. Typically I mutter something unintelligible to them and hurry on. But one time I didn’t do that and it turns out that that one time just happened to introduce me to a guy who has been in PRISON.

I wrap the conversation up with that guy after he asks me my name and where I work and what I do. I tell him something along these lines, “I’m sorry, I have nothing against you, but you’re a stranger and because I hardly know you, I’m not going to tell you my name. I don’t feel comfortable telling you anything about me. But good luck with the bike, bye.”

And he rode off. Since then I have seen him several times. Each time I wish I hadn’t seen him and I worry about my safety. Has he marked me? He’s obviously being monitored to some degree, but what the hell was he in prison for? I have no idea and I didn’t listen well enough to do a search for him and find out what he did. I don’t buy that he’s rehabilitated. I’m the person who thinks that prisons don’t turn prisoners around, they make them worse. Today he rode his bike past me and waved and said in a real aggressive-sounding way, “Hey there!”

I saw him last week and ignored him so I guess that’s why today’s hello sounded like this, “Yeah, I know you’re trying to ignore me. But I don’t care. I’m going to acknowledge the hell out of you.” Which bothers me. What kind of a-hole doesn’t get it?

Oh yeah, and the world? Full of a-holes. Sometimes, and I hate to be a big whiner and complain, but sometimes it really gets me that a large portion of my thinking powers are put to trying to protect myself from men. It bugs me that forever and ever, men will always have the upper hand. I guess someone will always have the upper hand because life really is one big competition, whether or not pacificists and all those people who say to me “it’s not a competition” want to admit it. NEWS FLASH: It is too. Everything is a competition and I’m determined as hell to win it. And if it means carrying pepper spray all the time, I’ll do it. And if it means carrying a concealable bazooka, I’ll do it. I can field strip a bazooka in two minutes and forty-nine seconds. Beat that, a-hole.





*Word to the wise, don’t get confused and you’ll stay alive.
**I swear a lot when I feel like my life is threatened. Just be glad I’m not dropping F-bombs like 99% the bloggers out there.


Some really good men read my blog. Thanks for being good men. I’d make a list of your names, but it would be too long, as my entire fan base is composed almost entirely of men.

Overcoming Nightmares Brought on by a Bestseller

I don't have to explain to you how crappy it is to have a nightmare. I know you know. Last night I woke up from the most terrifying dream I've had in years. I think dream sequences are really annoying in books, so I won't get into the subject of the dream or try to explain it to you. That's too hard, plus it's irritating for readers—I mean, I'm not looking for an interpretation. I know what prompted the dream.

It was the book The Historian. Curse that book! I read from it just before falling asleep, and so far I haven't been too worked up over it or anything. I haven't even been truly scared, you know, it hasn't freaked me out. I'm less than a hundred pages in. Not too much has happened—some guy got attacked by some mysterious creature and the medical professionals thought maybe it was a dog bite.

On the neck.

Anyway, I read that part while falling asleep. Stoker was asleep already, so when I turned off the light, I was alone. No light-hearted banter to brighten my mood. I said a little prayer and then fell asleep. I woke up from the nightmare at some point during the night. It wasn't one of those dramatic things either, where a person sits up gasping and sweating and crazed, like in the movies. I just opened my eyes. This incredible fear brought on by a frightening image and turn of events in my dream—I swear it nearly killed me in real life, the fear. I opened my eyes and just stared at the door to our bedroom. I didn't know what I was looking at. I laid there, the image that woke me making my heart beat fast.

I was disoriented. I stared, trying to figure out what I was seeing in the bedroom. And then I felt vulnerable, like the thing in my dream was going to come up behind me, through the window to our bedroom, and kill me. Whatever had been in my dream had followed me into the waking world. And when I tried to close my eyes again, the image was still there.

I woke Stoker up and asked him to talk to me. He asked what was wrong and I told him I'd had a terrible dream. He wanted to know what it was about, but I couldn't talk about it.

Weird, huh? I mean, usually when I've had a bad dream, I immediately want to tell someone. I couldn't bring myself to tell him. It was too vivid. The thought of trying to recount the dream scared me. I guess it felt evil. Something like that. I told Stoker that it had to do with the book, but I didn't want to get into it.

So he said, "Oh yeah. How the historian in it is getting chased by the old guy?" And I said yes, while thinking that he'd said too much, I haven't even figured out that someone is chasing someone else. And then I got scared some more, as my mind put the puzzle pieces of the plot together and realized it must be the historian's professor shadowing him and he's the one who said "He will brook no trespasses."

"You know what that old guy is missing? In the book?" Stoker asked me.

"No," I said.

"He's missing a Glock. If he'd just had a Glock, everything would have been fine. Don’t you think?" I guess Stoker was trying to make me feel safe by reminding me that we have a gun. Ha ha.

But even a gun was no match for the sense of evil the dream had blanketed me with. I needed something to push back the fringes of darkness, it was the reason I woke Stoker up. In the middle of the night, nothing feels real except a fear like that. So we talked some more and I tried not to think of the dream. I told Stoker that we needed to talk about something happy, I needed to get my mind off the dream, because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the image that woke me.

Other people might pray or something useful like that, but we talked about The Simpson's. When Homer rides the tiny clown bike and his pant cuff gets caught in the chain and it pulls his pants off. Then Krusty says, "Burn that seat." We laughed about a bunch of other scenes, like new billboard month, and the bag of MSG that Homer buys, and how his unit is burning, but all Homer can think about is clowns. It worked, and then I fell asleep.

During the night, later, whenI woke up again, I swore I wouldn't read any more of that book. I have a mind that's vulnerable to suggestion—at least, my imagination is. I can't listen to Coast to Coast when they're talking about aliens, UFOs, or ghosts, because I have to protect myself. And I hate scary movies. But I didn't realize a book could freak me out so much, especially not one about vampires (which I don't believe in). I guess what got to me is the feeling of evil. Of being pursued. I hate that feeling.

Anyway. "He will brook no trespasses."

I can read the book during the day. Right?

Bursting at the Seams. Running Out of Time. Climbing up the Walls.

Is it just me, or am I running out of time? Today I feel like I'm about to burst out of my skin over this sense of urgency to get things done. Maybe it's a caffeine rush on an otherwise empty stomach, maybe it's the guilt over having wasted hours and hours playing Morrowind. Maybe it's because the year is nearly over, or because in four months I'm going to be 30. It may be because today my mother is turning 60 and in less than five months my grandmother will be 90. There's a nice triangular pattern there, don't you think? Beautiful.

I feel like I need to do a billion things or else I'm going to die or, worse, regret a billion things. Death is preferable to regret. I guess. I mean, why would I say it if it wasn't true? As I once told Stoker (when he told me that he felt fat), if you feel it, then it must be true (Stoker is anything but fat -- that's what I should have said, but I'm a moron sometimes). Great logic there. I know, I know.

Also, my dad is dying. Slowly. This agonizingly slow death. And I feel like I need to write him a letter telling him that I'm sorry I didn't invite him to my wedding and that I'm sorry I didn't speak to him for a year or two, that I love him, but I resented him for essentially going crazy and being a bad father (but, could he help it? He was crazy. I guess it depends on what you believe about mental illness). I feel like I'm mature enough to have known better. Maybe I need to forgive myself for that. In any case, he's dying and being cared for in a relatively nice assisted living home in Utah, and I feel this other pressure to hurry up and get his life story before he dies. To record it so that I will always have it . . . so that I know where I came from, I guess.

And I feel like I need to get more of my grandmother's story, before she dies. Because hell if she's not TRYING to die. Last I heard she was trying not to drink water because then she has to use the bathroom and she's tired of using the bathroom. What a woman. What a woman. Yeah, so she's been getting sick from not drinking water. She's very stubborn.

So, anyway. I'm about to burst.

My Only Fear: Swimming with the Fishes. And Monsters. And Gators. And Sharks. And Snakes.

On Friday evening, I was attacked by two fish. They might have been Loch Ness monsters for all I know. That's the problem with murky water, you think you're alone until something grabs your leg. Or in my case, bites it. There were no fang marks, but I'm pretty sure the fish bit me. The guy I was swimming with, Andy, checked my leg and saw no marks on it and then concluded that I'm just a random crazy woman. It was the first time I had met him.

These people I swim with on the occasional Friday evening (I've only joined them twice), are all Ironman people. They're, how do you say, HARDCORE. When I arrived this past Friday evening, a little late—because I had to run to the bike shop to pick up road tires for my mountain bike (which I will be racing with on Saturday—yeah, I'm going to suck)—I got there in time to see these hardcore swimmers leaving for their 1.2 mile swim.

So I swam 100s in the cove and waited for them to come back. I'm still a beginning swimmer, though I learned how to swim when I was 5 or something and I swam in college. But that doesn't really prepare a person for swimming a mile in open water. The problem is there's no one to rescue you.

After the milers came back, several of them went back out, for ANOTHER 1.2 miles. Andy didn't want to do another mile. He thought he'd just swim back and forth across the cove. I joined him.

The first time I swam in that cove, I felt pretty confident about having overcome my fear of the unknown. The monsters in the water. The fish. Am I a complete wimp to be scared of fish? Yeah, probably. But they have teeth. And they have the advantage: I'm in their world. If I could see the fish, I might not be AS scared of them, like when I'm snorkeling in Hawaii, or when we're checking each other out in an aquarium, or when one is on my plate and I'm about to eat it. It's when a fish bumps into my leg or swims at me, seemingly out of no where, that I freak out.

And oh how I freaked out. You should have seen me glide across the water, on my back, on my side, on my stomach. It was tough to stay on my stomach, with the hyperventilating and all that. On my back I kicked as hard as possible, to make the biggest splashes and noise, to scare off any fish or other underwater predators (sharks, snakes, whatever). I had to make it to the other side of the cove. Once there, I planned to exit the water and WALK AROUND THE COVE IN BARE FEET TO REACH MY STUFF. I didn't want to swim across, even if it was a shorter distance.

Any cold stream of water passing my legs I was certain was a fish or gator coming at me, stalking me (we don't have gators in Tennessee. Supposedly). When I finally looked up, Andy had stopped and was watching me. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" he asked.

"A fish bit me," I gurgled. I rolled onto my back and tried to swim on the very top of the water. Have you seen the old cartoons where Donald's arms move like a windmill and he barely touches the water? That's what I looked like, only I flailed more. I was about to die from the effort and the hyperventilating.

But I made it. We stood in the shallows. "Let me see your leg," Andy said. I twisted and lifted it from the water. He inspected my calf. "I don't see any bite marks, I think it just bumped you."

"Fine, it bumped me. But it scared the hell out of me." Then I ranted for a bit, like a lunatic, about my fear of murky water, and deep ocean water, and how I'm not scared of anything but that. Snakes, spiders, heights. Not a twinge of fear. But don't ask me to go on a cruise, man. I read Life of Pi and there's no way I'm going to be marooned in the middle of the ocean. Andy told me his wife is a really good swimmer, but she won't swim in the ocean. Go Andy's wife. Let's start a club.

Anyway, as you can see, the Loch Ness monster didn't get me (though I HAVE heard Nessie migrated to Tennessee. Sick of the cold Scottish winters, she said), so I made it back across. We chatted about swimming and then another miler finished and talked to us a while. He said there are also snakes that swim on the surface of these waters. I said that's fine, as long as I can see them and they're not poisonous.

Apparently they're poisonous. He avoided the remark and then the question, even after I tried to pin him down. As I was leaving, another fish had been cozying up to my leg. We collided on my way out and I swore loudly, and scrambled across the sharp rocks to the shore. I cut my foot in the process.

So, back to square one. My triathlon is on Saturday. It's in the open water. Hopefully, the 500 other swimmers scare the damn things away. Fish love a nice morning breakfast and coffee while they watch the sunrise, so I know they'll be out. It's WAR, fishies.