Perforation Problems

I should be working this morning – I've got a long list of projects marked ASAP and URGENT with exclamation points – but I'm tired and sleepy and not really feeling much of anything. Also I know these projects are not really ASAP and URGENT. It's not like I'm helping get homeless people off the street or feed starving children. I'm revising copy for websites. So I thought I'd take a moment and try to write a bit. Feeling creative has been hard and writing hasn't come easily lately, even when I take time out to do it. My words don't seem to come out right at the moment. I guess the muscle is getting weak, which is all the more reason to fight my way through it. I spent last week in New York City and had a couple moments, as I usually do in new places, where my fingers itched for a pen. Sitting on the bus from LaGuardia I wanted to describe the man sitting next to me, in his pinstripe pants and wool blazer, a fedora perched on his head as he read John ...

If left to my own devices I stay up too late. I don't do the dishes, I don't put food away. I leave pairs of my shoes all over the house, in the middle of the hallway, next to the coffee table, by the back door. Why do I wear so many different pairs of shoes? On Tuesday night I tried to clean up, thinking it'd be a productive way to get my 10,000 steps for the day. But by Wednesday night it was messy again, so what's the point? I've gotten a lot done this week, both for clients and for myself (cleaning the printer heads on the O&C printer, picking up a card order, buying supplies for camping this weekend, laundry, going to yoga class, putting away all the clothes that were piled on the guest room bed, cleaning the guest bathroom for Clyde's dog sitter), but now on a Thursday afternoon it doesn't feel like enough. Productivity when you work for yourself is a tricky thing. When you go to an office, you end up feeling like you're doing your job just...

Somewhere in my house, maybe in a box in the attic, is a tape recorder with an hour of my great grandma's voice. A few years before she died, I decided in the middle of one of my obsession-with-genealogy phases that I wanted to make a record of what she knew about our Irish ancestors, one of whom had stowed away on a ship during the potato famine to make his way to America. I remember putting the recording aside and thinking, "This is important – I'll want to keep this." Having a record of Grandma T's voice seemed precious even while she was still there. And yet somehow I've let it get stowed away in a box in the attic. It's depressing to think of how many stories get lost, either diluted by time and memory, forgotten, or made inaccessible once we're gone, locked in the shadows of our brains without any way out. My grandpa tells me stories all the time – he's an amazing storyteller, with the knack of making you see what he saw and hear the voices...

My hands were cold, so I'm writing this while underneath a blanket. All the way under a blanket, with the screen of my laptop tenting the fabric and creating a bright glow to light my little cave. It's a good 10 degrees warmer in here, so even though Michael just scratched at my roof and essentially said, "What are you doing, weirdo?," I'm going to stand by my work environment choices.  After my poetry spasm the other day, I've been thinking about how one brings about a creative mood. I've always agreed with the thought that creativity is a muscle -- you have to exercise it, or it's harder to use -- but now I'm reminded that you also have to surround yourself with inspiration, as well. You have to get yourself in the mood, if you know what I mean. Heh heh. So basically I have to search out creativity porn.  Ugh, now it's getting too hot in my blanket cave. I made a "window" with my leg. Guys, being a writer is hard.  Let's g...

I was sitting on the couch tonight, reading The Mermaid Chair and obliquely watching the Olympics, avoiding writing because it just seemed like so. much. work. So heavy, so hard. It's been rough, lately. This endless winter. Whine, whine, whine. And then an iPad commercial came on, and that, of all things, knocked me out of it. Welcome, commercialism. But I'm grateful for it. I'm sitting there, half reading, half letting my mind wander to all the little worries floating around my brain, when I hear familiar words. Have you ever had that feeling, when you hear a phrase you know, a song, a line from a poem, a quote from a movie, and it turns something inside you, something warm, something that says, "here's what's worth it, here's what's true, what's beautiful, what's important." I guess it's joy. It was a voiceover from Robin Williams' character in Dead Poets Society , quoting Walt Whitman. One of my favorite movies, and one tha...

I remember reading this last year, but it came up again this week when a friend posted it on Facebook: http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/30/the-busy-trap/ A few standout quotes: "It’s hard to find anything to say about life without immersing yourself in the world, but it’s also just about impossible to figure out what it might be, or how best to say it, without getting the hell out of it again." "Idleness is not just a vacation, an indulgence or a vice; it is as indispensable to the brain as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived of it we suffer a mental affliction as disfiguring as rickets. The space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of inspiration — it is, paradoxically, necessary to getting any work done." "My own resolute idleness has mostly been a luxury rather than a virtue, but I d...

Today's pictures are subpar. Michael and I went to see The World's End, and I snapped a picture of the movie theater as we walked over from the pizza place where we had dinner. Lately we haven't been so great at time estimation -- for the second time in a row, we ended up at the theater too early. I took this second picture while we sat outside, waiting for the theater to be cleaned.  The movie was good,  the kind where at some point you realize everyone in the theater is laughing, and you're laughing, too.  That's enough of my fascinating movie story. I'm supposed to be writing right now, but I'm procrastinating. Why is it that writing has to be such a cruel bitch? I say I want to write, and I associate such good feelings with having written, but when it comes down to actually doing all the things I say I want to do, I balk. It's too hard. Am I worried I won't be able to do it? Am I worried I'll find out once and for all that t...

A friend tweeted this comic the other day, which is based off of a commencement address  by Bill Watterson (the creator of Calvin & Hobbes). It echoed many of the thoughts I've been having lately as I try to figure out where I want to go in my life, especially the following: "You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if we don't discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we will live passively and unfulfilled [...] "Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement [...] You'll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you're doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you'll hear about them. To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and ...

"I haven't told why I wrote the book, but I haven't told you why I sneeze, either. A book is a sneeze." -- E.B. White, from  http://www.lettersofnote.com/2013/08/a-book-is-sneeze.html

Someone shared this in a writing group I'm a part of on FB today:  25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing I can specifically relate to #2, 3, 4, 6, 8... lots of them. But I think #7 in particular:  7. STOP THINKING IT SHOULD BE EASIER  It’s not going to get any easier, and why should it? Anything truly worth doing requires hella hard work. If climbing to the top of Kilimanjaro meant packing a light lunch and hopping in a climate-controlled elevator, it wouldn’t really be that big a fucking deal, would it? You want to do This Writing Thing, then don’t just expect hard work — be happy that it’s a hard row to hoe and that you’re just the, er, hoer to hoe it? I dunno. Don’t look at me like that. AVERT YOUR GAZE, SCRUTINIZER. And get back to work.

I caught the tail end of a Tell Me More interview with Katherine Petterson ( Jacob Have I Loved , Bridge to Terabithia ) on the way home tonight. She sounded like someone I would like to be friends with. Here's the interview . Some favorite parts (paraphrased by my incomplete memory): She says if you say you'll wait to write until you have time, you'll never write. You'll never have time. She started writing when she had four kids. If you can write for 10-15 minutes a day, eventually you'll have a book. This reminds me of Kate Chopin, who wrote as she raised her kids and never had time to do much editing or revising. When she finishes a book, sometimes she thinks, "I'll never have a book-worthy idea again." But then something -- a phrase, even -- gets her thinking, and though it won't be the whole novel, it's a place to start.

"Welcome to earth, young man. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, Joe, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of: Goddamn it, Joe, you’ve got to be kind!" Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country My brother sent me these 22 Rules of Storytelling from the Pixar writers. My favorites: 5. Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free. 9. When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up. 11. Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone. 17. No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on – it’ll come back around to be useful later.

I spent some time writing tonight and got pretty much nowhere at all. I had all my supplies: computer in case I wanted to type, notebook and pen in case I wanted to write, ice tea in case I was thirsty, Clyde on my feet in case I was lonely...and nothing. All of the sudden the entire thing seemed completely overwhelming and impossible. Who am I to think I could even begin to do this? Do you know how much goes into a book from start to finish and how completely unprepared I am? I stared at my paper and felt the terrifying void of zero. inspiration. Whenever this happens, I usually start writing random words and thoughts down (even if it's just "I don't know what to write. Write, write, write. Nope, nothing to write.") in the hopes that something will lead me down an interesting path, but everywhere I went tonight I just came up against a brick wall that said "HALEY. YOU'RE STUPID." So after some written rambling focused on how much I don't kn...

Life – I am of both of your directions Life Somehow remaining hanging downward the most but strong as a cobweb in the wind — I exist more with the cold glistening frost. But my beaded rays have the colors I’ve seen in a paintings — ah life they have cheated you Marilyn Monroe,  Fragments: Poems, Intimate Notes, Letters Discovered here (an excellent site, btw)

Someone posted this on soulpancake.com in response to the question, "Is Poetry Dead?" Feeling Fucked Up by Etheridge Knight Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split and I with no way to make her come back and everywhere the world is bare bright bone white crystal sand glistens dope death dead dying and jiving drove her away made her take her laughter and her smiles and her softness and her midnight sighs— Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and democracy and communism fuck smack and pot and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck the whole muthafucking thing all i want now is my woman back so my soul can sing “Feeling Fucked Up” from The Essential Etheridge K...