Perforation Problems

So, I think I've settled on the topic of my first "novel." NOVEL. Even as I type that I have second thoughts. It feels like a really serious thing to have decided. Is it what I should be writing about? Is it something I can do well? Am I going to succeed at this, or fail? If I fail, does that mean I stop completely, or do I try something else? It could be a year before I actually finish this one. What if it sucks and then I have to just put it in a virtual drawer and forget about it? BUT. The thing is that I actually have to write something. And I feel reasonably good about having enough to say about this topic, and I can vaguely see the shapes of it coming together in my head into something that will mean something to people. If I do it well. If I succeed. IF IF IF IF. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Fountain Square right now, writing with my friend Sarah. It works well because whenever I mention the "IFs" she just says, "It doesn't matter ri...

Most days both Michael and I end up walking around the house to get our 10,000 steps for the day. I'm not sure that's what Fitbit had in mind when they developed their little trackers, but that's what happens when you spend most of your day on a computer – suddenly it's dinner time and the sky is growing dark and you're 7,000 steps short. So you walk in circles around your living room. I have a circuit laid out that my feet know so well I can follow it while reading a book and not have to look up. Around the kitchen island clockwise, counter-clockwise around the dining room table, then down the hall, then back in a circle around the coffee table. Then repeat. I've done this millions of times. Around and around and around. Michael's path is different. It probably says something about the way our brains work. He goes in a straight line through the length of the house, from the side door through the living room, down the hallway and to his night stand. Then tur...

Somehow At some point I forgot the sweetness of words The gems in your mouth The slow perfect shape They became coarse and mechanical Functional  Awkward Purpose-full And pulled out of my skin like plucking hairs from my eyebrows Or like someone said in a book I just read Like pulling glass out of your penis I wouldn't know that part but I can relate But tonight I'm remembering what it's like To close your eyes and say a word Two words Three Softly Full of wonder

I started out today thinking I would write about the dreams I had last night, because they were the kind of dreams that make you believe you might have actually traveled to another world in your sleep. Time seemed to move at the same pace as it does in real life, and everything felt so fleshed out and concrete. Except there were dinosaurs and a vampire. A sneaky vampire. But it wasn't scary. I was like the leader of defense strategy. In the first dream, which seemed like it lasted hours and hours, I was in a giant building and dinosaurs were attacking. Attacking UNSUCCESSFULLY, because I was building up reinforced walls and hiding people behind a secret door. But I knew that at some point I wouldn't be able to fit any more people back there, and I'd have to leave them to die. Leaders of the Dinosaur Defense have to make hard decisions. I could do it. Also the dinosaurs were bright blue and red. Then the dinosaur dream transitioned into a vampire dream, where I was in th...

Here's a question for you: If you say you want to be a writer and yet never seem to be able to make yourself write anything, are you more in love with the idea of being a writer than the actual work itself? My brain says yes, but I don't want that to be the case for myself. I've always wanted to be a writer. I feel so happy when I'm actually writing and when I've actually written, but it's been really difficult to get myself there the last 6 months. I sit down and start something and then become overwhelmed with how hard it is, how I don't know where to go next, how there are flaws in my setup. I never get anywhere, even with the simplest plot. I can't even decide what I want to write. It's paralyzing. It's like my brain is numb. I could make lots of excuses – I'm out of practice. I'm worried about making money, so I spend more time consulting than writing. Now that I'm supposed to be trying this for real, the pressure is cripplin...

Sometimes when you're on a diet and you've been really good all week, you get to a point where you're forced to shove three cookies in your face in a span of two minutes. This is no ordinary food craving – this is an uncontrollable compulsion you feel leaching into your fingers, your tongue, the roof of your mouth. COOKIE. COOKIE. COOKIE. COOKIE. There's nothing you can do about it – just gotta give in. Or maybe it's just me. I did read an article once that was about willpower – studies show that willpower really is finite, and if you resist something earlier in the day, you're less likely to be able to resist sometime else later. You only have so much willpower to go around. When I'm really watching what I eat, my entire world revolves around deprivation, so sometimes that willpower just snaps. The good thing is that now instead of running with that feeling for an entire evening, I can usually keep it to the two minute cookie feast and then I move on. ...

Someday in an imaginary world where sugar counts as a whole grain and buttercream frosting is a vegetable, and where there are no recriminations, no consequences, no reasons to feel guilty that you're shoving cookie after cookie into your face, I will join the Cheryl's Buttercream Cookie of the Month Club. And every month, delightful concoctions will appear at my door, marking the passage of time with their seasonal sprinkles and appropriate cutout shapes, and there shall be cookies, all the time, everywhere. Never again will I say, "I wish I had a cookie." It will only be, "I shall go get a cookie, because I have many." Cookies will abound and be plentiful, and everyone will be happy. Ah, such dreams for mortal men! The glory.