Writing Is Easy. What's for Dinner?

"Writing is easy." Whoever said that... was not a writer.

I don't care if you're Stephen bloody King or the schmo sitting in front of your computer staring aimlessly at nothing while you're trying to think of what to have for dinner when you should be writing; writing is most definitely NOT easy. Writing, like anything else, requires lots and lots of hard work; that's the only easy part about it. That's the part that you hear preached at all those seminars you spent money on or all the "Writing for Dummies" books you've bought: Write every day and eventually something will happen.

I write every day, but my poetry turns into grocery lists; my verse, into that damn pop song I can't get out of my head; my short stories, into movie reviews; my novel, ah yes, my novel.... My novel is complete. It rests comfortably on the bookshelves beneath a thin layer of dust. It is not published.

You see, I completed a novel... longhand. Now I have to tackle the incredible task of editing it and transfering it onto my laptop. One might read this and think "Hey, what are you complaining about you nitwit? At least you're done! The hardest parts over with." How sweet it would be if that were true.... In retrospect I think writing the story was the easiest bit, because as soon as I started typing it out I found myself editing and changing it more than I had ever intended to. I read back some of the paragraphs I wrote and thought "Who the hell wrote this shite!? Surly not I!" And because I talk to myself in some hybrid sort of Victorian speech and dramatic theater thespian jargon, the mess seems bigger than it actually is.

I am as committed to my deadlines as Jesse James is to Sandra Bullock. Sometime back in February I gave myself one year to finish my book. Tempus fugit. I have twelve chapters completed and saved. That was over a month ago. My passion seems to have waned, my muses decided to go to France on sabbaticol (don't they have enough freakin muses over there any way!?) and self-esteem as a novelist is depleting faster than these choclate-covered strawberries before me.

There was a time when all I wanted to do was write. To have a job as a writer anywhere was a dream come true, to complete a novel was nothing short of a trophy I could place in my imaginary room of accomplishments sitting comfortably between my nobel prize for world peace and my really cool cappucino maker.

Why do I always feel two steps behind everyone else? Am I meant to walk away and start treading my own path? Or do I follow behind authors like Ray Bradbury who is as iconic to me as Bieber is to millions of young girls and even some sexually confused boys? For a few terrifying moments I thought I had lost my passion for writing, my love for it. Those moments stretched on like a nightmare where you feel paralyzed with fear and you're not entirely sure what to be afraid of.... It was then that Mr. Bradbury's words came to me in full force as clear as they did the day I heard him speak.

"Do what you love, and love what you do."

Without my writing I feel empty, lifeless, meaningless, dead.

As I look at the last strawberry on my plate I realize I have once again experienced a resuscitation, albeit a small one, in my passion for what I love. In any case, it has lasted long enough to keep me from devouring that last succulent fresa. Indeed, my hunger has transpired from fruit to words... and this schmo has never felt more ravenous.

"At Last..."

One of the most complicated relationships I have ever been in is the one I’m having with myself. It is demanding, neurotic, complicated and downright exhausting. On the other hand, it is satisfying, stimulating, interesting and considerate. If I were an outsider I would be telling myself to dump the bastard but only on the condition if I am unhappy. If on the other hand, I am happy then it might be a match made in heaven and I should throw myself into it with the gusto of a skydiver hoping against hope that the chute opens up at that most eminent moment.

Lately, I have been feeling less than secure about myself. Not having a job does things to a person like make them question their worth. Although I am infinitely happier to be away from that toxic environment I used to clock in and out of for the past five years, I am also not the type of person who can simply meander around her home watching television while eating ice cream out of the carton. I thought cleaning the house from top to bottom would help alleviate some of the pressures and guilt of being unemployed, but after all the dusting, mopping, scrubbing and sweeping I felt no more satisfied than I did when I cleaned and had a job. Sure, I finally got around to finishing the flooring and the newly reorganized closets have never looked better, but one thing I have learned is that even if I clean every second of every day there will be more dishes to wash tomorrow, there will be more laundry to do when the weekend comes around and let’s face it, living with two men means “messy” follows them around like groupies on rock stars.

The more I cleaned the more I realized that the shinier my windows were, the duller my self esteem became. Even though there was a tiny flicker of satisfaction when I finally rounded up the dust bunnies under the bed, there was still something missing. I did not know what it was until I woke up one morning after experiencing a restless and sleepless night because I had rearranged the bedroom; no amount of shifting furniture or wiping floors was going to satisfy the need for challenge raging inside of me. I had been subconsciously rearranging myself into something I am not and neglecting what I truly am, a self-employed writer; a strong independent young woman who thinks beyond how clean her home is. I was restless because I had been too busy cleaning that in the process I forgot to air myself out.

There will always be dishes to wash and there will always be laundry to do, but that moment an idea for a chapter pops into my head will be gone forever if I sacrifice it for scrubbing the toilette. I finally have what I always wanted, the ability to stay home and actually work on what I love best, my novels. There will be other jobs, there will be other chores, but I may never have this time to myself again. After all, that is the part I love best about me, the confidant person who thinks for herself and has the ability to make the best out of life even at its most sour.


I think I’ll take myself out on a date this weekend just so that I might be reminded of how lucky I am to have found someone who truly understands what it takes to have the military discipline of finishing a chapter as well as the interior designer ability of reorganizing a walk-in closet…. This, my friends, could very well be a match made in heaven.

	Etta James - At Last .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

"Writing is the only thing that when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else."
— Gloria Steinem

Friends

I am a staunch believer that in order to be truly comfortable in my own skin I shouldn't care what people think of me. I don't wear name brands to feel chic, I don't name drop to feel important, I don't wear makeup when I work out, and I don't work out seven days a week to try and attain a perfect body. All in all, I try to be as content with what I have and who I am as humanly possible...however, my boyfriend accidentally took my phone this morning and left his with me. Since he had snooped through mine not too long ago I felt I had every right to trade in my get-out-of-jail-free card and snoop through his. Most of the messages were from me until I stumbled onto one sent to him by his best friend that said, "So how are your living situations these days?"

I know my boyfriend and I know his friend. There was snide sarcasm in that question. Immediately, my mind went into feminine overload and I read it at least two more times, trying to decipher the subtext of that question. Why hadn't he asked how things were with me? What did he mean by "living situation?" Did he even know we were together? And furthermore, why didn't my boyfriend respond? Was he embarrased to say he was still with me? Did he only speak ill of me? Knowing full well he was busy at work I called him anyway and in my most polite-but-still-upset-tone asked him about it. He explained that the last time he spoke with him we had gotten into a very big argument and told him he was moving out.

"So you're telling me you haven't spoken to him about us since?"

"Nope?"

Riiiiiight.

"Fine. I'll see you later."

He hates when I hang up without saying I love him.

So I suppose my question is, should people care what their significant other's friends think of them? In college we all used to get along, because in college you are expected to live your nights like one long party and your days in recovery of those nights while still finding time to ace your finals. His friends have always been of the strange "theater type" who break out into Irish accents for no good reason and think flatuence and dirty joke are the highest form of humor. They smoke pot the way some breathe air and live in Los Angeles thinking that at the ripe old age of thirty-five they are still going to hit the jackpot with their medicore talent. I commend them for their courage, but at their age one has to ask "Is this really what I want? Aren't I a little too old to think I could be the next Robin Williams? Shouldn't I at least get off my ass, put down the bong and actually try to write a screenplay or intern at a studio to get my foot in the door?"

They literally used to sit around and critique the shit out of comedians and movies saying things like "We could do soooo much better than that shit!" Oh yeah? Then what the fuck are you waiting for? Do it already! Nope, they'd just hit the bong again and slip into another hallucinigenic coma. The sad thing is that some of their ideas are really clever and could be something.

I do not have their talent for making people laugh. I don't have the comedic skills that they toss around like confetti or even the ability to make doing nothing into an enviable art form. Although I'm not a stick in the mud, next to them I might as well be Mother Fucking Theresa. In all honesty, if my boyfriend had not been going to school to become an EMT and was still trying his hand at becoming the next Mel Gibson, I don't think he would be my boyfriend now. Thankfully, he has always been the more mature one of the group, the one who saw himself as something more than just another guy waiting tables in L.A. trying to become famous, but his friends remain the same. Sometimes I feel as if I am in constant competition with them because of the stories he's told me. He makes it sound like all they ever did was sit around and laugh. Which is probably not far from the truth.

So maybe he doesn't always bring me up when talking to them. Although I talk about him to my friends, it's not as if he's the only topic at hand. And now that I think about it, perhaps there really isn't any reason for me to feel intimidated by them or their stoned humor. Personally, farting is not my preffered type of comedy and I still have yet to smoke a joint (in my opinion, liquour does just fine as my drug of choice). Truth be told, if I really cared what they thought of me then I think I would be the one with the problem.

I may not have the most brilliant sense of humor, hell, I can barely tell a fucking knock knock joke; I may not have the uncanny ability that so many men do to fart at will and find humor in it; and I might not ever find Los Angeles as fascinating as others do, because I've done the backstage gig and eaten at the fancy restaurants without ever having had to relocate there. Guess what, it's not as glamorous as everyone thinks it is. The whole city is one big set and all the men and women merely players....

No, I should be grateful that my boyfriend and I are living together... two hundred miles away from all of that hooplah. Sure, we can visit, but we can always drive away with our heads in the clouds but feet firmly on the ground. That's more than I can say for some people....

Nothing

Her head was fuzzy
From too many drinks
Too many pills
And too little water
There was no moon to welcome the night
And so the cascade of stars slept in their cold, darkness
Alone and unperturbed
She had only a single candle to keep her company
Through the night
Her reflection in the window was as fuzzy as her thoughts
There was no warmth on that cold summer night
And so she slept
And so she slept
As thoughts appeared and faded
Like the ebb and flow of the tides
An ever changing quest of questions with no answers
Arguments with no end
Screaming with no silence
She welcomed the dark night as it swept through her
And hoped morning would never come
And so she slept
And so she slept

Change in the Weather

A strong breeze glides through my bedroom window, blowing strands of wet hair across my forehead as I sit, hunched over my notepad. The lit candle perfumes the air with traces of sandalwood and patchouli.

Yesterday was the first day I truly began to panic about not having a job; so much that I took a shot of some very strong amber liquor in a feeble attempt to calm my nerves. The feeling of helplessness, of being stuck in the middle of a vast and turbulent ocean without any means of rescue, began to creep over me like a thunderous cloud just before a tornado kisses the earth.

My thoughts became fuzzy and my hands stopped shaking, but my mind still raced with unanswered questions and dark, indistinct images of an unforeseeable future. I could feel a lump in my throat and hot tears threatening to spill forth at any given moment. The Internet, with its infinite library of information, proved useless and superfluous; nothing interested me as I swam against a tide of irrelevant sites.

What I needed was an anchor, a weight, a crystal ball showing me what my next step was supposed to be; instead, I found myself asking the inevitable question those who experience buyer's remorse ask: Why did I do it? Why had a left my job? It was secure, it was safe, it was what I knew.

I had to get up and walk, run, do anything to get away from those thoughts and questions now snapping at me like vicious little piranhas. I went into the kitchen and sat on the counter ready to make myself another drink; hell, ready to drink straight from the bottle when my fiance, my best friend, walked in smiling.

"Am I ever going to find another job?" I asked him, staring at my small hands. I could not bring myself to look at him in fear of bursting into tears.

I could feel him looking at me.

"Of course you will. You're incredibly smart." He said softly. "Besides..."

Here it came, the joke. He is always making jokes.

But instead of a punchline he said, "The hard part is over. The important thing is you're free from that place." With that, he kissed me and left.

I sat on the counter smiling, as the snake that had coiled itself around my stregnth and confidence loosened its grip and slithered away....

He was right. For so long, too long, I had allowed myself to suffer unfairly and did not see that I had become institutionalized in a place that became greedy and stressful to a toxic degree. Yes, I had had the security of receiving a steady paycheck; yes, I was good at what I did; yes, I had gained a vast amount of knowledge while there... but it was time to move on.

They say that the right thing to do is usually the hardest. They say change is scary, but necessary. They say a person must make painful sacrifices before finding happiness. They say a lot of things... and you know what? They are right.

Addicted to Love

	Florence And The Machine - Addicted to Love .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Rarely do I say a song is sexy. Rarely do I say a song stirs something in me that makes me want to slowly remove my clothes while staring through cat-like come hither eyes. This. Song. Does.

I was never a huge fan of the original, but when Florence and the Machine remade it... Hot Damn. It pulsates with sensual intensity and it works faster than any mix drink or shot I've ever had. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I read too much into it too fast, but her voice, like "honey with a touch of scotch" is just the ticket to making this soulful song a definite winner.

I had never heard of this group before and was achingly dissapointed when I found out they were at Coachella fest this year when I was not. I weep for my own loss in the privacy of my bedroom as I wear oversized earphones and sing along to the best of my ability.

Anyhow, listen to this song in the dark with only your thoughts to accompany you. Smoke, if you must. Drink, if you're lucky. But most importantly, have a single candle burning as the melody and her voice moves through you in waves of unimaginable (or very imaginable) desire move through you.... It is an experience you will remember ever after. It is a dream you will not want to awaken from, like the first time you fell in love or the last time your heart was broken. Either way, it is painfully beautiful.

The Lonely Life

We writers are an odd bunch. There are times when we can't stand the sight of each other because we are all egomaniacs who live life as if we were reading books with excerpts such as "She angirly walked away from him, casting one last glance of frustration over her shoulder as the gray morning reflected her animosity towards him...." blah blah blah. Seriously, we really do that. There are also times when we feel that no one in the world will understand us except other writers or the bottom of a bottle of liqour; however, the worst are those times when we don't think anyone in existence understands us at all and so we are forced to spend time with ourselves.

It is not that we are all introverts who only seek solace in dark corners of seedy bars or smokey cafes; we don't ever particularly mean to ostracize ourselves from humanity... it just sort of happens from time to time.

Take for example tonight: My fiance and I got new cell phones. I'm of the opinion that so long as I know how to place a call or send a text message, that's all that really matters. He, on the other hand is the type who reads the entire manual cover to cover, sits with his new gadget as if befriending a newborn child, cradling it and showing it a kindness I could never express to technology. So when he came bounding in our room like an excited little boy grinning from ear to ear as I was writing the last paragraph on yet another chapter of my life, I felt myself cringe when he said "Hey babe! I just figured out how to personalize a ringtone to your name!"

"That's nice sweetie." I said absentmindedly, hoping he would get the hint that all I wanted was to finish the last two sentences. He didn't. Instead, he sat there smiling, hopeful eyes staring at me as he grasped his phone.

"Wanna hear it?" He asked, still grinning.

"Um, in a little bit sweetie but right now I just want to finish this." Already I felt like a bitch.

"Oh... Ok." His big blue eyes seemed to swim in disappointed heartache.

Sighing heavily, I caved. "Ok." I said, hands reluctantly removing themselves from the keyboard so I could give him my full attention.

He grabbed my phone and dialed his number. Within seconds Simon and Garfunkel sounded through the speakers of his phone as they sang "I Am A Rock."

Insert pause here.

"You associate me with Simon and Garfunkel?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well... yeah! Cause you're a rock."

But I'm also an island I thought. Was this who I was. A rock? And island separated from all of humanity as life passed me by and I wrote about it?

He frowned. Oh no. What had I done now? I didn't react with the enthusiasm he had been expecting. I just stared at him, attempting that smile he hates. The smile you give to people when they give you a gift you don't really like or understand.

"I'll just leave you alone now."

"No, I like it!" I said in some vain attempt to express enjoyment, but he had already walked out of the room, shoulders slumped and head down.

I am a terrible person. I am a writer.

You see, this is why most of us drink. It's not that we don't like people, it's just that we so often live in our own heads creating scenarios, characters and entire lives that we put reality aside for hours at a time so our social graces end up getting completely flung out the window. Believe me, we know this is what we do because we write about selfish characters like this in almost every story we create!

When I write I am in a zone, nay, I am in the zone. Nothing else exists except what is pouring out of my head. I become a monster, hunched over the keyboard or notepad with a crazed look in my wild eyes and a maniacle grin floating just above my lips like the Phantom of the Opera over his organ. I talk to the pages in front of me, yelling at my characters if they take a fork in the road of their destiny I had not anticipated. I curse more than usual if suddenly they have me running alongside them on a completely different path I had chosen and I lose sight of the outcome with every step we take because I had already planned their fate two chapters before. "Are you crazy!?" I yell to creation. "What the (bleep) are you thinking? This wasn't supposed to happen! What's wrong with you!? Fine! It's your demise!"

However, what most people don't realize is that this is when I am happiest with my work, becuse it is moments like this, when I seem to be in excrutiating pain, that I am molding and creating and actually doing what I love, which doesn't happen very often becauses the muses come and go the way rainfall does in the desert. Writers are not struck with creative bouts of genious on a daily basis; it's not like we can punch a time clock and suddenly, there it is, our work laid out for us and all we need to do is organize it into neat piles. No, when we are struck by lightening, nothing else can exist because that moment might never come back again and usually never does. I wish it would, but it gets lost the way so many socks do in dryers. Then there we stand with half an idea in our hand that could have been really good if it had it's mate.

So yes, I felt bad for saying what I said to my fiance who actually does know how important writing is to me, but like me with books, gets over zealous with gadgets. Still, I would have felt worse if I had not been able to finish what I was working on.

And by the way...if you think writers are horrible people when they write... you should see us when we're not writing. Now that my friend, is scary.