The bone-jarring cold of the weekend past is naught but a memory, replaced by the warm, fuzzy thoughts of the benefits received; much as the pain of childbirth is forgotten once the child is in your arms for the first time. And in the same way, I am more than willing to repeat that weekend, cold and all.
The gain from a weekend writing retreat is usually worth whatever effort or discomfort is involved. Sometimes I think we learn more in that uncomfortable place…new surroundings, new people, new ideas…than we do wallowing in our familiar zones of complacency. I’ve always been a proponent of the idea that personal change is good. It promotes growth and stimulates creativity. The more changes you make in your personal world, the better. Change at work can be good too, as long as it is done to make things more efficient, more profitable, and more effective and is not being done just for the sake of change or by personal whim.
Getting out of the comfort zone is a real necessity for writers. Move to the front porch with the laptop, go to a coffee shop (it’s not as distracting as you might imagine), go sit on the beach. The sound and the sight of water always bring out a creative mood in me, but only if I’m well rested. If I’m sleep deprived, the water sights and sounds send me off to la-la-land. Just make sure that it’s someplace where you’re not looking at the house that needs cleaning, the laundry that needs doing, and the bills that need paying. It’s also best to move as far away as possible from anyone for whom you feel responsible, be it spouse, child, sibling or parent. Just their presence can be a flow-stopping distraction.
With the weekend weather as nice as it is today…take a walk and just enjoy. When you get back, set up your laptop on the porch or sit in a lawn chair and soak up the sun’s warmth as you let your mind take you where the writing wants to go!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Writing without Guilt?
The weekend is half over. Several projects are moving forward. I have changed the baby quilt plan to making a huge plush zoo critter. At least I know the creation won’t clash with the décor. I’ve decided on the ideal centerpiece for the king-sized bed quilt. I found a pattern for a stained glass window that will work beautifully as the focal point of the quilt. I hope to have the entire pattern of the quilt laid out on graph paper before I head back to work on Monday.
Then I have to take my sewing machine to the shop for service and repair work. The poor thing is at least 30 years old and really needs an overhaul, if they still make parts for it. Hopefully it won’t need to be replaced. I’ll purchase the requisite materials, threads and batting soon. I may even have all the parts cut and ready by the time the machine is ready for me.
Mindful of the fact that I can’t just let my writing and associated book projects go while thinking about other things (like quilts), I will be dedicating at least an hour a day strictly to book projects. I need to get the Postcard Rx website up and running. I need to redesign my business cards, and I have a novel to finish writing.
I hope to get several hours of undistracted writing done while on an out-of-town overnight next week. It is amazing how much more focused I become when I leave the family at home and go someplace where the dishes, the laundry, the bills, and the ordinary demands of daily life don’t exist. When I’m at home, just being around those things has me putting my writing on the back burner.
It’s guilt pure and simple. Logically I know that I shouldn’t feel guilty about spending time writing, but life doesn’t always let us make decisions about how we’re spending our time and guarantee that we won’t get those little niggling doubts. The only way to remove those feelings of guilt is to remove one’s self from the atmosphere that creates them.
I have actually been so desperate to write that, in the days before laptops, I disassembled my desktop computer, packed it in my car and reassembled it in Vermont, three times. My sister was part owner of a ski house and let me stay there for a week at a time in off season so I could get away. The place was ideal. It sat halfway up Sugar Bush on the East face. The unmarked driveway to the house was almost impossible to find, and once there, no people or vehicles were seen or heard…day or night.
Unfortunately, she sold her interest in the house when they moved from the East Coast to the Midwest. My biggest regret is that I didn’t ask to start using it much earlier than I did.
Then I have to take my sewing machine to the shop for service and repair work. The poor thing is at least 30 years old and really needs an overhaul, if they still make parts for it. Hopefully it won’t need to be replaced. I’ll purchase the requisite materials, threads and batting soon. I may even have all the parts cut and ready by the time the machine is ready for me.
Mindful of the fact that I can’t just let my writing and associated book projects go while thinking about other things (like quilts), I will be dedicating at least an hour a day strictly to book projects. I need to get the Postcard Rx website up and running. I need to redesign my business cards, and I have a novel to finish writing.
I hope to get several hours of undistracted writing done while on an out-of-town overnight next week. It is amazing how much more focused I become when I leave the family at home and go someplace where the dishes, the laundry, the bills, and the ordinary demands of daily life don’t exist. When I’m at home, just being around those things has me putting my writing on the back burner.
It’s guilt pure and simple. Logically I know that I shouldn’t feel guilty about spending time writing, but life doesn’t always let us make decisions about how we’re spending our time and guarantee that we won’t get those little niggling doubts. The only way to remove those feelings of guilt is to remove one’s self from the atmosphere that creates them.
I have actually been so desperate to write that, in the days before laptops, I disassembled my desktop computer, packed it in my car and reassembled it in Vermont, three times. My sister was part owner of a ski house and let me stay there for a week at a time in off season so I could get away. The place was ideal. It sat halfway up Sugar Bush on the East face. The unmarked driveway to the house was almost impossible to find, and once there, no people or vehicles were seen or heard…day or night.
Unfortunately, she sold her interest in the house when they moved from the East Coast to the Midwest. My biggest regret is that I didn’t ask to start using it much earlier than I did.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
It's that NaNo time of year!
Yes folks, it's that time of year when the wanna-be novelists put their fingies to the keyboards and click-clack away! And once again, I am acting as municipal liaison for Lake County Ohio...an emissary for the deviants who created National Novel Writing Month back in 1999. What started as your basic lunatic idea, attempting to write a 50,000-word novel in one month, has become an annual international phenomenon.
When I wrote my first novel, it was an exercise. I wanted to see if I could actually write a complete book. It took an entire year of voicing my thoughts into a hand-held recorder while driving or waiting for kids, then typing it up during my lunch breaks at work until it was all in one cohesive document. I was determined to prove to myself that I could do it. And I did.
Most people out there who just "know" they have a book in them don't have the drive to get it down on paper or computer. The task seems overwhelming.
They begin to create, and by the time they've massaged the same chapter a hundred times, they give up. The point of NaNoWriMo is to get it on paper. Just write with abandon: no editing, no rewriting. As NaNo's are fond of telling people "Editing is for the OTHER 11 months of the year." (You have to do something while you're waiting for the next year's event, right?)
I will be the first to admit, this is probably not the most "normal" way to write a book, but is there really an acceptable way to create? I know someone who was so desperate to get her book written that she would write on a notepad in the bathroom while sitting atop the throne. It was the only place in the house that she could get away from the kids and the husband and have a few minutes to herself. She wrote that entire book in her bathroom.
A novel written in a month can't be very good, you say? Amazing as it may seem, there have been several NaNo's who have cleaned up their NaNo manuscripts (taking advantage of the OTHER 11 months of the year) and managed to get book deals and publication.
So if writing that elusive novel has always been your dream, but you lack the motivation to attack the daunting task, join your fellow lunatic writers at http://www.nanowrimo.org/ and get that book written this month!
When I wrote my first novel, it was an exercise. I wanted to see if I could actually write a complete book. It took an entire year of voicing my thoughts into a hand-held recorder while driving or waiting for kids, then typing it up during my lunch breaks at work until it was all in one cohesive document. I was determined to prove to myself that I could do it. And I did.
Most people out there who just "know" they have a book in them don't have the drive to get it down on paper or computer. The task seems overwhelming.
They begin to create, and by the time they've massaged the same chapter a hundred times, they give up. The point of NaNoWriMo is to get it on paper. Just write with abandon: no editing, no rewriting. As NaNo's are fond of telling people "Editing is for the OTHER 11 months of the year." (You have to do something while you're waiting for the next year's event, right?)
I will be the first to admit, this is probably not the most "normal" way to write a book, but is there really an acceptable way to create? I know someone who was so desperate to get her book written that she would write on a notepad in the bathroom while sitting atop the throne. It was the only place in the house that she could get away from the kids and the husband and have a few minutes to herself. She wrote that entire book in her bathroom.
A novel written in a month can't be very good, you say? Amazing as it may seem, there have been several NaNo's who have cleaned up their NaNo manuscripts (taking advantage of the OTHER 11 months of the year) and managed to get book deals and publication.
So if writing that elusive novel has always been your dream, but you lack the motivation to attack the daunting task, join your fellow lunatic writers at http://www.nanowrimo.org/ and get that book written this month!
Friday, August 7, 2009
Searching for my "Desert Place"
In a talk I recently attended, it was suggested that everyone needs to find a “desert place” in which to think, contemplate, and be alone with one’s self. The speaker said all humans needed this “desert place” and compared our need for it to Jesus going off into the desert to be alone. Although that is a nice analogy, I somehow think that if he did go off it was really to get away from all the people who were following, idolizing, and attempting to learn from his every utterance rather than a retreat to think and contemplate!
In the present world, we are so bombarded with noise, people, work, and a million other things that accumulate in the form of stress that we are hardly aware that they are pressing down on us. We’re like the frog in the pot of water that gets cooked because it doesn’t realize that the water is slowly getting hotter. Like the frog, our minds become lethargic with the heat of the stresses we are subjected to, and sometimes those unfortunate enough to be lacking in personal, spiritual or mental strengths succumb.
As a writer, I have an enormous appreciation for anyone who admits the need to find that “desert place” and makes the effort to go there. I find that coming home from work does nothing to relieve stress for me. It is difficult to pursue my writing, when a messy kitchen, a bathroom that needs cleaned, a load of laundry that needs doing, or bills that need my attention are all within my field of vision. The very presence of these things adds to the load of stress. Finding a “desert place” that eliminates those things is a respite of huge proportion.
I should warn you that physical “desert places” can be pricey. I try to get away twice a year, in the spring and fall, for a weekend. I pack my computer and drive far enough away to feel the stress fall behind. I still have to sleep, eat, and plug in, so I research my destination before I head out. Other than the comfort of the bed, it doesn’t matter whether I stay in a Motel 6, a Hampton Inn, or a Marriot Resort. I choose what I can afford at the time. As long as the bathroom is clean, it has air conditioning, and Internet access, I’m a happy writer.
Some people out there, rather than make a complete journey to find their “desert place,” resort to other options found closer to home. I know a few writers who spend hours in local libraries. They claim that the quiet atmosphere is enough; and it may be for them. I tend to look up every time there is motion, and all the libraries near me are small enough that there really are no places in them that shield you from the movements of other patrons. The same goes for coffee shops. Sometimes when I need to really get away but can’t leave town, I head out to a local winery. If there is no rowdy crowd, I can have a nice glass of wine and make some writing progress, but usually there's too much noise and movement.
My last resort is to close my office door; put on headphones; listen to soothing, quiet, instrumental music; and pray that the phone doesn’t ring!
Someday, I will find the perfect, affordable writer’s retreat. Perhaps a month in an isolated house on the lakeshore or ocean would do. Many years ago, I spent three of the most productive weeks of my writing life (one week at a time) while house-sitting a ski house in the Green Mountains of Vermont. You couldn’t see the house from the road; there were no neighbors; you couldn’t even hear a car or truck go by on the road below. I even saw a moose! It was marvelous for writing, because the only distraction was my intermittently growling stomach and the physical need for sleep. I would love to have that opportunity again. I’m sure most of the writers I know would wish for the same.
Tonight, I’m resorting to the headphones. You've got to do whatever it takes! I entertain any and all suggestions!
In the present world, we are so bombarded with noise, people, work, and a million other things that accumulate in the form of stress that we are hardly aware that they are pressing down on us. We’re like the frog in the pot of water that gets cooked because it doesn’t realize that the water is slowly getting hotter. Like the frog, our minds become lethargic with the heat of the stresses we are subjected to, and sometimes those unfortunate enough to be lacking in personal, spiritual or mental strengths succumb.
As a writer, I have an enormous appreciation for anyone who admits the need to find that “desert place” and makes the effort to go there. I find that coming home from work does nothing to relieve stress for me. It is difficult to pursue my writing, when a messy kitchen, a bathroom that needs cleaned, a load of laundry that needs doing, or bills that need my attention are all within my field of vision. The very presence of these things adds to the load of stress. Finding a “desert place” that eliminates those things is a respite of huge proportion.
I should warn you that physical “desert places” can be pricey. I try to get away twice a year, in the spring and fall, for a weekend. I pack my computer and drive far enough away to feel the stress fall behind. I still have to sleep, eat, and plug in, so I research my destination before I head out. Other than the comfort of the bed, it doesn’t matter whether I stay in a Motel 6, a Hampton Inn, or a Marriot Resort. I choose what I can afford at the time. As long as the bathroom is clean, it has air conditioning, and Internet access, I’m a happy writer.
Some people out there, rather than make a complete journey to find their “desert place,” resort to other options found closer to home. I know a few writers who spend hours in local libraries. They claim that the quiet atmosphere is enough; and it may be for them. I tend to look up every time there is motion, and all the libraries near me are small enough that there really are no places in them that shield you from the movements of other patrons. The same goes for coffee shops. Sometimes when I need to really get away but can’t leave town, I head out to a local winery. If there is no rowdy crowd, I can have a nice glass of wine and make some writing progress, but usually there's too much noise and movement.
My last resort is to close my office door; put on headphones; listen to soothing, quiet, instrumental music; and pray that the phone doesn’t ring!
Someday, I will find the perfect, affordable writer’s retreat. Perhaps a month in an isolated house on the lakeshore or ocean would do. Many years ago, I spent three of the most productive weeks of my writing life (one week at a time) while house-sitting a ski house in the Green Mountains of Vermont. You couldn’t see the house from the road; there were no neighbors; you couldn’t even hear a car or truck go by on the road below. I even saw a moose! It was marvelous for writing, because the only distraction was my intermittently growling stomach and the physical need for sleep. I would love to have that opportunity again. I’m sure most of the writers I know would wish for the same.
Tonight, I’m resorting to the headphones. You've got to do whatever it takes! I entertain any and all suggestions!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
What about Voice Recognition?
Since I’m in a public place at the moment, I have to type, rather than use my computer’s voice recognition program. I wasn’t even aware that this computer was already wired with such a tool until last night. What a pleasant surprise! I’ve thought a lot about using voice recognition when I write. It’s rather like recording your own voice, then having someone else type up the dictation. It takes substantial input to train the computer to type what you’re saying. My diction is taking a quite a beating, as are my memory skills (remembering the appropriate commands). But, hopefully, the effort will be worth it.
In the old days, I wrote my first (and thankfully still unpublished) novel by dictating it into a mini cassette tape recorder I had purchased from Radio Shack. I spent a lot of time in those days, sitting in school parking lots waiting for one or both of my kids to finish whatever practice they happened to be attending. I didn’t own a computer then (we’re talking 1990-91) so I would take my little recorder to work and spend every lunch hour typing up the previous day’s recordings. It took me a year to get that one novel down on paper. Now I’m thinking of doing something similar…talking into a digital recorder that holds 8 hours worth of my ramblings and then putting it in front of the microphone and hitting the playback button!
I wouldn’t be the first. Saying that better writers than I have used voice recognition to get their thoughts down on paper would likely be an understatement. For example, many years ago, NYT best-selling science fiction author, David Weber, managed somehow to break both wrists. Rather than stop writing, he downloaded an early version of Dragon Naturally Speaking and began to dictate all his work. I believe he is using it still (but I think he has upgraded his version). I’ll even add some shameless promotion here by saying that if you are a sci-fi fan and haven’t read his work, start with On Basilisk Station…the first in his best selling Honor Harrington series.
My second published book, The Commoner’s Guide to Dog Breeding, was a collaborative effort with David Savage of England. We did the entire book by e-mail and phone. He would send me these completely strange Word documents. It took me months before I realized he was legally blind! He was dictating to his computer using an early version of IBM’s Via Voice Gold that was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to translate his horribly Cockney accent into actual written word! Figuring out what he was really trying to say was challenging at best. In spite of David’s accent and the poor translation of it by Via Voice Gold, the book was still successfully written and published.
For several years now I have been thinking about purchasing Dragon’s latest version and implementing it on a regular basis. So my questions to all of you are…have you used a speech recognition program? If so, which one and did you find the results satisfactory? Just click on the comment link below and let me know!
In the old days, I wrote my first (and thankfully still unpublished) novel by dictating it into a mini cassette tape recorder I had purchased from Radio Shack. I spent a lot of time in those days, sitting in school parking lots waiting for one or both of my kids to finish whatever practice they happened to be attending. I didn’t own a computer then (we’re talking 1990-91) so I would take my little recorder to work and spend every lunch hour typing up the previous day’s recordings. It took me a year to get that one novel down on paper. Now I’m thinking of doing something similar…talking into a digital recorder that holds 8 hours worth of my ramblings and then putting it in front of the microphone and hitting the playback button!
I wouldn’t be the first. Saying that better writers than I have used voice recognition to get their thoughts down on paper would likely be an understatement. For example, many years ago, NYT best-selling science fiction author, David Weber, managed somehow to break both wrists. Rather than stop writing, he downloaded an early version of Dragon Naturally Speaking and began to dictate all his work. I believe he is using it still (but I think he has upgraded his version). I’ll even add some shameless promotion here by saying that if you are a sci-fi fan and haven’t read his work, start with On Basilisk Station…the first in his best selling Honor Harrington series.
My second published book, The Commoner’s Guide to Dog Breeding, was a collaborative effort with David Savage of England. We did the entire book by e-mail and phone. He would send me these completely strange Word documents. It took me months before I realized he was legally blind! He was dictating to his computer using an early version of IBM’s Via Voice Gold that was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to translate his horribly Cockney accent into actual written word! Figuring out what he was really trying to say was challenging at best. In spite of David’s accent and the poor translation of it by Via Voice Gold, the book was still successfully written and published.
For several years now I have been thinking about purchasing Dragon’s latest version and implementing it on a regular basis. So my questions to all of you are…have you used a speech recognition program? If so, which one and did you find the results satisfactory? Just click on the comment link below and let me know!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Tiger Boy Rides Again!!!
Every year about this time, when the weather gets hot and sticky, and the thing I most want to do is go take a swim; I open the top drawer of my dresser, reach waaaaaaaaaay back and pull out the gaudiest bathing suit I have ever owned. You will note I say owned, not worn. I lovingly call it Tiger Boy for reasons that will soon become clear. I perform this ritual every summer. Then, unable to actually bring myself to wear it, I place Tiger Boy back in the drawer until the next year.
It all started about 25 years ago. I am what you might call a "substantial" woman, but I was more than twice as "substantial" back then. Buying clothing of any kind was the bane of my existence. I detested it. I made most of my own clothes, simply because I couldn't find anything to fit when I did drag my bulky form to a department store. But there are always occasions when something sewn at home just won't do. And it was one of those times.
So a friend and I made the dreaded trek to the mall and wandered into a store that had a large-women's department. I knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I would find something to fit for the upcoming occasion, but I dragged things off the racks anyway and headed to the dressing room.
I'll never know what possessed me to stop and look at a bathing suit that was hanging on the return clothes rack next to the changing area. It wasn't all that bad looking, at least on the hanger. It was a bit gaudy; it was a very large size and, when I took it in my hands, it was incredibly stretchy. For reasons beyond my own understanding, I decided to try it on.
I went into the dressing room and dutifully donned one item after the next. As expected, I found nothing that looked decent for the occasion. After trying on the last blouse, I took the swimsuit off the hanger. It was a rather disgusting dark yellow color with a narrow black strip down the length of each side and was covered in black tiger strips. I stepped gently into the suit. I was amazed! It went up over the thunder thighs with no problem and gently stretched over my mountainous front and rear girth! It fit! I couldn’t believe it. I was ecstatic! I had not owned a real swimsuit in years!
Then I turned to look in the mirror.
Oh…my…God!
I was staring at a 450-pound tiger atop two pasty white legs! The sheer absurdity of it struck me like a bolt of lightening. I began to roar with laughter.
My friend and the clerk were standing outside the dressing area. "Are you okay" they asked. But I couldn't reply. I was laughing too hard. And as I stood there laughing in front of that mirror, all those lovely tiger stripes began to jiggle up and down. Needless to say, I was literally screaming with laughter, tears streaming down my face. But the harder I laughed the more those pesky tiger stripes jiggled. I am sure you can see how this might be a problem; a vicious circle of laughing and jiggling had begun.
I can't say for certain how long the episode lasted. The clerk knocked at the dressing room door to make sure I was okay, but that just made me laugh all the harder. My friend kept asking what was wrong and got the same hysterical laughter in reply. I do, however, remember what brought the episode to an abrupt halt…
I laughed so hard, I wet the suit.
Barely able to breathe by this time, I changed my clothes. I took the price tags off the swimsuit and emerged from the dressing area with the balled-up suit clutched tightly in my hand.
"I'll take it," I said, handing the price tags to the clerk.
"Here," she said, "let me put that in a bag for you."
"I think I would prefer to do it myself," I replied as I snatched the plastic bag from her hand.
I have no idea if the clerk ever figured out why I was acting so strange, but my friend and I drove home in absolute hysterics. We’ve laughed about the incident for years.
Tiger Boy remains in the back of my drawer, a monument to that episode.
Laundered once, but NEVER worn.
It all started about 25 years ago. I am what you might call a "substantial" woman, but I was more than twice as "substantial" back then. Buying clothing of any kind was the bane of my existence. I detested it. I made most of my own clothes, simply because I couldn't find anything to fit when I did drag my bulky form to a department store. But there are always occasions when something sewn at home just won't do. And it was one of those times.
So a friend and I made the dreaded trek to the mall and wandered into a store that had a large-women's department. I knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I would find something to fit for the upcoming occasion, but I dragged things off the racks anyway and headed to the dressing room.
I'll never know what possessed me to stop and look at a bathing suit that was hanging on the return clothes rack next to the changing area. It wasn't all that bad looking, at least on the hanger. It was a bit gaudy; it was a very large size and, when I took it in my hands, it was incredibly stretchy. For reasons beyond my own understanding, I decided to try it on.
I went into the dressing room and dutifully donned one item after the next. As expected, I found nothing that looked decent for the occasion. After trying on the last blouse, I took the swimsuit off the hanger. It was a rather disgusting dark yellow color with a narrow black strip down the length of each side and was covered in black tiger strips. I stepped gently into the suit. I was amazed! It went up over the thunder thighs with no problem and gently stretched over my mountainous front and rear girth! It fit! I couldn’t believe it. I was ecstatic! I had not owned a real swimsuit in years!
Then I turned to look in the mirror.
Oh…my…God!
I was staring at a 450-pound tiger atop two pasty white legs! The sheer absurdity of it struck me like a bolt of lightening. I began to roar with laughter.
My friend and the clerk were standing outside the dressing area. "Are you okay" they asked. But I couldn't reply. I was laughing too hard. And as I stood there laughing in front of that mirror, all those lovely tiger stripes began to jiggle up and down. Needless to say, I was literally screaming with laughter, tears streaming down my face. But the harder I laughed the more those pesky tiger stripes jiggled. I am sure you can see how this might be a problem; a vicious circle of laughing and jiggling had begun.
I can't say for certain how long the episode lasted. The clerk knocked at the dressing room door to make sure I was okay, but that just made me laugh all the harder. My friend kept asking what was wrong and got the same hysterical laughter in reply. I do, however, remember what brought the episode to an abrupt halt…
I laughed so hard, I wet the suit.
Barely able to breathe by this time, I changed my clothes. I took the price tags off the swimsuit and emerged from the dressing area with the balled-up suit clutched tightly in my hand.
"I'll take it," I said, handing the price tags to the clerk.
"Here," she said, "let me put that in a bag for you."
"I think I would prefer to do it myself," I replied as I snatched the plastic bag from her hand.
I have no idea if the clerk ever figured out why I was acting so strange, but my friend and I drove home in absolute hysterics. We’ve laughed about the incident for years.
Tiger Boy remains in the back of my drawer, a monument to that episode.
Laundered once, but NEVER worn.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Juan Valdez and High Colonic? Who knew there was a connection?
Research has always been the bane of my writing life. It is, however, an absolute necessity when writing non-fiction. And though you may be secretly snickering about the research I did for Virtual Strangers; sitting smugly with your cup of joe; I will ignore the hisses and whispers long enough to percolate a little true story that gives a whole new meaning to "good to the last drop."
Virtual Strangers is about on-line relationships. In order to research the topic, I interviewed countless Internet users who were involved in such activities. And, in an effort to gain first-hand information, I traveled to several introduction sites and posted my own profiles to gauge the number and types of responses one might expect when choosing this venue for meeting people. These profiles ranged from general and/or suggestive to ones specifically designed to screen out all but those in upper echelon professions with advanced degrees. E-mail responses from each profile were directed to different addresses, making it easier to determine the kind of response to a specific type of profile.
Needless to say I was flooded with responses ranging from the incredibly mundane to the exceptionally bizarre. It was an avalanche of information falling on the head of a rather typical working wife and mother who was, for the most part, ignorant of such things, but gearing-up for a rude awakening. I ingested caffeine by the two-liter bottle as I filtered through the vast numbers of e-mails. Each night, I sorted them, by profile, into three categories: 1) worth contacting to interview, 2) worth answering if I was actually looking, and 3) wouldn't answer on a bet.
The "wouldn't answer on a bet" pile ran the gamut from complete boredom (one-liner's like, "I'm Gary. Write to me, Babe") to those who spent inordinate amounts of time, and page after page, attempting to seduce by extensive descriptions of whatever deviant behavior was their flavor of the week. I had no idea that the variations on this theme were more extensive than the coffee menu at Starbucks! At the end of this sorting exercise, I would take that particular pile of e-mail and toss it into the incinerator with one notable exception.
A single letter caught my eye. The gentleman in question sent me a lengthy dissertation, complete with pictures, regaling me with example upon example of why he thought I should allow him to introduce me to the stimulating and highly erotic pleasures of…coffee-retention enemas??? They were wonderful to share, he said. They cured all his ills, and, as a bonus, had rid him of his migraine headaches.
I have to confess that by the time I finished the reading of it, I was laughing so hard that Depends would have been a welcome addition to my wardrobe. Vivid images of Maxwell House and Folger's Crystals on the same shelf as Fleet's in the drug store came suddenly to mind. Café "oh lay" would require sloshing bags of ground roast hanging from IV poles. Beano would not just be for gas anymore. And, "Oh miss, I'll have a danish and a bag of frothy crappachino, and can I make that a bottomless cup, please?"
Quite frankly, I had experienced a few enemas in my youth, and it would be a cathartic stretch clean around the equator to say I found anything the least bit pleasurable in the procedure. On the other hand, I will say that, as a migraine cure, he might actually have hit on a useful discovery…after all, the amount of caffeine in a pot full of coffee, traveling directly through the intestinal walls into the blood stream has got to do something stimulating, right? In the end, Juan Valdez could become a very rich, headache-free man!
Tears rolling down my face, lungs ready to explode and ribs in dire need of ibuprofen from uncontrollable laughter, I looked at the letter in my hand. This guy was a nut job. I knew that. I should not respond. I knew that, too. But as surely as I knew those things, I knew I would answer it anyway. I could not help myself; such unswerving java loyalty demanded a reply. Through a haze of tears and rib pain I wrote the following…
Dear Mr. Mugbottom (name changed to protect the innocent),
I am writing to thank you for your interest in and response to my profile. I enjoyed reading your letter, and, I have to say that I found your descriptions of the coffee-retention enema procedure, its benefits and results, to be most educational and highly enlightening.
I must tell you, however, that although I, personally, have never had the dubious pleasure of experiencing a coffee-retention enema, considering the smell and taste of the stuff, I can't think of a better place for it.
Would you care for a doughnut with that?
Thank you for your interest.
Needless to say, the gentleman in question did not respond again. But I may never recover. I succumb to instantaneous hysterical laughter every time someone asks, "Wanna go do coffee?"
Virtual Strangers is about on-line relationships. In order to research the topic, I interviewed countless Internet users who were involved in such activities. And, in an effort to gain first-hand information, I traveled to several introduction sites and posted my own profiles to gauge the number and types of responses one might expect when choosing this venue for meeting people. These profiles ranged from general and/or suggestive to ones specifically designed to screen out all but those in upper echelon professions with advanced degrees. E-mail responses from each profile were directed to different addresses, making it easier to determine the kind of response to a specific type of profile.
Needless to say I was flooded with responses ranging from the incredibly mundane to the exceptionally bizarre. It was an avalanche of information falling on the head of a rather typical working wife and mother who was, for the most part, ignorant of such things, but gearing-up for a rude awakening. I ingested caffeine by the two-liter bottle as I filtered through the vast numbers of e-mails. Each night, I sorted them, by profile, into three categories: 1) worth contacting to interview, 2) worth answering if I was actually looking, and 3) wouldn't answer on a bet.
The "wouldn't answer on a bet" pile ran the gamut from complete boredom (one-liner's like, "I'm Gary. Write to me, Babe") to those who spent inordinate amounts of time, and page after page, attempting to seduce by extensive descriptions of whatever deviant behavior was their flavor of the week. I had no idea that the variations on this theme were more extensive than the coffee menu at Starbucks! At the end of this sorting exercise, I would take that particular pile of e-mail and toss it into the incinerator with one notable exception.
A single letter caught my eye. The gentleman in question sent me a lengthy dissertation, complete with pictures, regaling me with example upon example of why he thought I should allow him to introduce me to the stimulating and highly erotic pleasures of…coffee-retention enemas??? They were wonderful to share, he said. They cured all his ills, and, as a bonus, had rid him of his migraine headaches.
I have to confess that by the time I finished the reading of it, I was laughing so hard that Depends would have been a welcome addition to my wardrobe. Vivid images of Maxwell House and Folger's Crystals on the same shelf as Fleet's in the drug store came suddenly to mind. Café "oh lay" would require sloshing bags of ground roast hanging from IV poles. Beano would not just be for gas anymore. And, "Oh miss, I'll have a danish and a bag of frothy crappachino, and can I make that a bottomless cup, please?"
Quite frankly, I had experienced a few enemas in my youth, and it would be a cathartic stretch clean around the equator to say I found anything the least bit pleasurable in the procedure. On the other hand, I will say that, as a migraine cure, he might actually have hit on a useful discovery…after all, the amount of caffeine in a pot full of coffee, traveling directly through the intestinal walls into the blood stream has got to do something stimulating, right? In the end, Juan Valdez could become a very rich, headache-free man!
Tears rolling down my face, lungs ready to explode and ribs in dire need of ibuprofen from uncontrollable laughter, I looked at the letter in my hand. This guy was a nut job. I knew that. I should not respond. I knew that, too. But as surely as I knew those things, I knew I would answer it anyway. I could not help myself; such unswerving java loyalty demanded a reply. Through a haze of tears and rib pain I wrote the following…
Dear Mr. Mugbottom (name changed to protect the innocent),
I am writing to thank you for your interest in and response to my profile. I enjoyed reading your letter, and, I have to say that I found your descriptions of the coffee-retention enema procedure, its benefits and results, to be most educational and highly enlightening.
I must tell you, however, that although I, personally, have never had the dubious pleasure of experiencing a coffee-retention enema, considering the smell and taste of the stuff, I can't think of a better place for it.
Would you care for a doughnut with that?
Thank you for your interest.
Needless to say, the gentleman in question did not respond again. But I may never recover. I succumb to instantaneous hysterical laughter every time someone asks, "Wanna go do coffee?"
Friday, July 24, 2009
If You're Gonna Plagiarize, then Plagiarize Only the Best
Several years back, before I was an honest-to-God "published" author, I used to get away from the house, the teens, the husband and the ever-blaring TV by heading off to a local coffee shop in the evening. It was quiet, except on open mic nights, and served one heck of a cup of hot Oregon Chai with whipped cream and cinnamon. It was a great relaxing place to sit undisturbed and edit manuscripts.
Open mic night was always a crapshoot. Sometimes they had good singers and musicians; sometimes they had bad ones, sometimes totally unbelievable ones. But one thing was certain….you never wanted to attend on the one Tuesday night a month when open mic hosted…BAD POETRY NIGHT!
I always avoided bad poetry night like the plague, but once in a while I would forget and end up subjecting myself to some of the most incredibly vile and inane phrases ever to pass for poetry. But since I always had my manuscript in tow, I would sit and edit, ignoring the readers of the bad poems as much as possible.
The woman who ran poetry night was a local, self-proclaimed expert who, if I remember correctly, taught creative writing at one of the local community colleges. She was old, very short and a bit on the trollish side. She had one heck of an imagination, because the themes of all her poems, at least the ones I had the displeasure of hearing, were about her incredible sexual escapades.
On one extraordinarily memorable occasion, I was plodding right along on my editing chores, dutifully ignoring the troll's sex poems. When she finished, she introduced a rather odd little man who lumbered up to the microphone.
"I am going to read Eckle Sates." He said quite loudly.
Oh no! Not another one of these weird ones! I rolled my eyes in despair. The poem didn't even have a decent name…and what the hell was Eckle Sates anyway? I dreaded the upcoming reading and forced myself back to the task at hand…but my focus was blasted out of the water when he began his poetry reading.
"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven….A time to be born, a time to die…."
I spit a mouthful of chai across the table. The strange little man proceeded to read the entire of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, Verses 1 to 8, and I snickered the whole time while mopping up the mess with a thick stack of napkins. Eckle Sates indeed!
The poetry fans glared toward my table with obvious disdain. I’m normally not rude, but I honestly could not hide my reaction. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as he finished. My relief was more than little premature. What I heard next sent me skittering to the ladies room to avoid utter and total embarrassment.
One member of the audience stood up and headed toward the stage. He walked up and greeted the strange little man as he stepped away from the microphone, patting him on the back and shaking his hand. In a clear and very serious voice he said...
"Wow, John, that was really great! Keep writing!"
Open mic night was always a crapshoot. Sometimes they had good singers and musicians; sometimes they had bad ones, sometimes totally unbelievable ones. But one thing was certain….you never wanted to attend on the one Tuesday night a month when open mic hosted…BAD POETRY NIGHT!
I always avoided bad poetry night like the plague, but once in a while I would forget and end up subjecting myself to some of the most incredibly vile and inane phrases ever to pass for poetry. But since I always had my manuscript in tow, I would sit and edit, ignoring the readers of the bad poems as much as possible.
The woman who ran poetry night was a local, self-proclaimed expert who, if I remember correctly, taught creative writing at one of the local community colleges. She was old, very short and a bit on the trollish side. She had one heck of an imagination, because the themes of all her poems, at least the ones I had the displeasure of hearing, were about her incredible sexual escapades.
On one extraordinarily memorable occasion, I was plodding right along on my editing chores, dutifully ignoring the troll's sex poems. When she finished, she introduced a rather odd little man who lumbered up to the microphone.
"I am going to read Eckle Sates." He said quite loudly.
Oh no! Not another one of these weird ones! I rolled my eyes in despair. The poem didn't even have a decent name…and what the hell was Eckle Sates anyway? I dreaded the upcoming reading and forced myself back to the task at hand…but my focus was blasted out of the water when he began his poetry reading.
"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven….A time to be born, a time to die…."
I spit a mouthful of chai across the table. The strange little man proceeded to read the entire of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, Verses 1 to 8, and I snickered the whole time while mopping up the mess with a thick stack of napkins. Eckle Sates indeed!
The poetry fans glared toward my table with obvious disdain. I’m normally not rude, but I honestly could not hide my reaction. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as he finished. My relief was more than little premature. What I heard next sent me skittering to the ladies room to avoid utter and total embarrassment.
One member of the audience stood up and headed toward the stage. He walked up and greeted the strange little man as he stepped away from the microphone, patting him on the back and shaking his hand. In a clear and very serious voice he said...
"Wow, John, that was really great! Keep writing!"
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