Tuesday, October 13, 2009

All character, no plot

Today I write you from a strange place; a place full of silence. Normally, my son takes a nap while my daughter commandeers the computer to while away the time at Disney and Nick Jr.com, but today, everyone but me is asleep. Makes me wonder what the heck I'm doing typing when I could be napping!

My little lovely lady isn't feeling very well today, and we already had one attack of The Barfing. I don't do so well with The Barf. I'd pretty much rather clean up giant exploded diapers filled to the brim with poo than touch a single droplet of vomit. Even the word vomit makes me want to....well, you get it. So when Princess ran down the hall crying, I knew The Barf was coming. And come it did. Poor, poor princess.

Then my neighbor called and was all "Call your doctor it could be the H1N1" and I was all "I'm on it!" and now, after talking to a chatty nurse who explained that right now, The Barf isn't high on anyone's worry scale, I'm typing away in the House o' Silence.

I am also sitting next to a lovely blue can of Crisp Linen scented Lysol. I have Lysol-ed, bleached, and vacuumed. I don't know if vacuuming does shit all for germs, but it calms me, dammit. And a calm Mommy is a happy mommy. Or that's what the xanax my therapist tells me.

I was thinking, while trying to NOT think of The Barf, of how I spent (and by spent I mean took out a loan I'm totally ignoring) a ton of money on a degree and lots of awesome classes all about writing and my most prolific writing is, um, here and Facebook. Not, as one might suspect, the Great American Novel. This means, basically, in all my awesomeness I do not have a book, and have not been on Oprah. Yet.

I took all sorts of high level poetry classes, because, well, The Angst told me to. I learned very important things: Finding One's Authentic Voice, The Difference Between Sentiment and Sentimentality, and that on a very, VERY good day I could have a poem compared to Sylvia Plath. Weep, my angsty-women, weep for my talent. Poetry appealed to me back then because, well, clearly. I have no attention span, and I get frustrated with important points of The Novel - things like, oh, plot, for one.

See, I'd get all into my character development - I'd do interesting quirks and fun names and all sorts of things and they'd be realistic and identifiable, and then I'd have to have some sort of idea of what these really cool characters were doing and that's when it all began to unravel.... This happens almost every time I try to write any sort of story. All those years I could have taken fiction-writing classes, and I opted for poetry and the requisite lit stuff. Brilliant!

I would treat you all to one of me poems, but you would just walk around in a haze of envy all day, and that wouldn't be very nice would it? I'm being totally facetious here. Really.

If you want to know any sort of awesome literary trivia, depending on the time period and if I actually paid attention and hadn't been out on a flavored long-island bender the night before, just ask. On the other hand, if you're waiting for my debut book to appear on Oprah, well, it may take a bit longer than expected. I haven't given up, no, just looking for a plot. Story of my life...

Comments, questions, plot ideas?

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