Perforation Problems

It's a little crazy how writing can be so satisfying and yet so tedious and wrenching at the same time. I'm sitting here in a cafe in OTR, drinking a latte and trying to ignore that there's a cold draft coming in from the window next to me. I know that – logically – there are moments during the winter months when I'm NOT freezing. It hasn't even been THAT cold this winter so far. I just can't remember that most of the time. The cold feels like a constant fog soaking in my fingertips, my shoulders – even my nose when I'm trying to sleep.  Today I tried to stop by a store I'd briefly talked to last summer about carrying Olive & Clyde cards – I'd gotten myself all psyched up, prepared what I was going to say, packaged cards to show the owner, even gotten some prepared for retail display in case she was up for taking cards now. But what happens once I walk downtown? The store isn't there anymore. So now I'm writing in a coffee shop instead...

Something I'm realizing tonight as I write, here at 3:23 in the morning on a random Tuesday, while Michael sleeps in another city: There's something about 3:23am, something quiet and still that lets your brain work, and you start to see that sometimes what you're writing about ends up not being what you're writing about at all. You've heard people say that before but it's never actually happened to you, until now. And you're still so, so far away from what you're writing being a finished product, and you're still worried people will hate it or hate you for writing it, but you also start to realize it doesn't matter. Right now, in the moments before you get too sleepy to make any more sense, you don't even care about it being published or that anyone ever reads it. That's not even the point. The point is that you're bringing it into being and in the process you're unearthing pieces of yourself that start to make sense. And now ...

Sarah and I are about halfway through our cheese enchiladas at the Mexican restaurant in Fountain Square when I hear someone tapping on the window next to our booth. I am immediately on guard and ready to pretend like I didn't hear it, just like I pretended I didn't hear "Girrrlll, somebody's been eatin' some cornbread" on the street in OTR last week. I keep my gaze focused on Sarah as she talks. Her words slow almost infinitesimally until finally she gives in and looks at the tapper, and I have to give in, too. There, standing at the window is a man maybe in his early 40s, wearing a bright yellow windbreaker and holding the handlebars of a bike. He points at Sarah's food and then at himself, and then makes motions with his fingers like he's putting food in his mouth. Before we even can react, he shakes his head as if exasperated with us and leaves his bike to walk towards the restaurant entrance. "Ah, fuck," I think I only said it in my ...

I just finished day 3 of NaNoWriMo, and it feels good. Great, even. I've got 5, 192 words. None of it is actually something I'd show someone – it needs a lot of revising and filling in the gaps, but it's out there! Revising is for December and beyond. I've been timing myself each time I write, which helps me keep myself relatively focused. So far I've been able to get my 1,667 words done in under 2 hours each day. Not bad, and not that huge of an undertaking, really, when you think about it. Every day has been a bit of a mental struggle, but I think the more I do it, the easier it'll be, just like when I was writing blog posts each day. It's great. I feel really great. So far so good. I think what feels the best is that I'm making it a priority. For the first time in awhile I feel like a writer.

NaNoWriMo starts on Sunday, and I'm trying to gear myself up. I want to take this seriously. I want to put writing first and not let it slide to a lower priority like I have been pretty much all 2015 so far. Sarah and I went to see David Sedaris last night. It was the second time I've gone to one of his readings – he's hilarious and self-deprecating and completely unconcerned (it seems) with what anyone thinks of him, which gives him a freedom and rawness in his writing I envy. I think to write things that matter you have to let yourself be a little raw and impolite and politically incorrect and unapologetic. I know he probably still cares how he comes across to people, but he's not let that stop him from writing what he wants without watering himself down. I get way too concerned with what people think of what I write, which means to avoid any chance of being criticized or not liked I just never show anyone what I write. That works, except it's kinda not the poin...

I’m sitting on the stairs, looking at the orderly vacuum triangles in the new carpet at 4424 Mulligan Way, waiting for the chimney sweep people to come do an inspection and cleaning. This is hopefully the last of the steps we need to take to sell this house – we’ve painted the walls, ceilings, and trim, refinished the cabinet hardware, fixed the lighting, gotten new carpet, ripped out bushes, completed a bunch of minor fixes, agreed to a new roof…it’s enough to make you want to pick a house and swear to live in it for 50 years just so you don't have to deal with selling it. I’ve noticed that, if I let myself, I turn things like this – goodbyes to places or inanimate objects – into more dramatic moments than they need to be. If I let myself I can get way more nostalgic than the situation warrants. But this is one of the places where I fell in love with my husband. It’s a place where I spent happy days and nights, where I worked on my master’s thesis on the couch, where I spent laz...

I bought a hibiscus tree early this summer, thinking I'd create some kind of backyard oasis. I never got that far, but it does bloom very prettily, even if it does sit kinda slanted in its pot. Last week I brought it inside to see if I can make it last the winter. So far, so good - it still has blooms and hasn't wilted over in depression. This means I now have 10 -- TEN -- plants inside that are not dead.  We spent the weekend camping with my parents at Shades State Park. It was pretty much perfect weather for camping, warm enough for short sleeves and the trees beautiful shades of red and gold and orange. I have an image in my head of hundreds of yellow leaves floating down through one of the ravines we hiked, looking like fall's answer to the magic of winter's first snow. We took the dogs with us, and Clyde led the way like he was a practiced trail dog, instead of a dog who spends 90% of his day sleeping. My mom's 8 month old puppy was a bit more reckle...