Thursday, November 29, 2012

The Plan Must be Modified

I don't know about you, Readers in Israel, but when I was a wee sprite of a lass, I pretty much assumed that the world was my oyster and I'd eventually lounge around my mansion as I enjoyed brilliant works of literature and petted my collection of Himalayans.


Well I did. I know a lot of people dream of becoming successful and having a beautiful house and fantastic career, and traveling around the world at their leisure. I didn't dream of it, I assumed it.

Critical error, as it turns out.

Also rather uncharacteristic of a Strategic Planner, such as myself. (The Man, if you're reading this, I am a planner, and the fact that I occasionally forget to purchase your requisite chocolate at the store is in no way indicative of a lack of planning, but rather the unwillingness to fight the approximate 20 oldsters who read the cereal boxes and block the chocolate selection.)

Now, as I enter the twilight of my youth (okay, I agree, even for me I'm being a bit...dramatic) I'm wondering more about the how rather than the what. The Powerball here was something like 500 million and of course we bought a couple tickets, despite my general belief that the only sort of odds I beat are the ones you don't want to (see also: only 10% of patients with gallbladder-ectomies -whatever- suffer from stomach problems. Guess who isn't in the other 90%?!) I thought, hey, suuuuure it could happen.

Rest assured that Your Favorite Writer (and Planner) has a plan already in place should I win any sort of large lottery. Butofcourse.

When we were in Charleston, SC for Thanksgiving, I found a lovely house that I think would be fabulous for me. I mean, it's in the historical district on the Battery and overlooks the harbor and Ft. Sumter. Sure, it's also over 5 million dollars, but if I have to rip up the leopard print fucking carpet (no, you read that right. Really. In a house with a French provincial kitchen. Leopard print carpet on the stairs.) then I am not paying the full 5 million. Clearly. Proving once again, and emphatically I might add, one can buy a house in the historical district that overlooks the harbor, but one cannot buy taste. Seriously.

And taste, dearest Readers, I have in ex-CESS. (Not Inxs, like the 80s band, I might add. Never really got into that. Granted, I was a mere elementary school student, but I was a metal head, even then. As I should be.)

I mean, I would surely keep the chandeliers, OBVIOUSLY, but the carpet's gotta go. I'm also not a huge parquet wood fan. There are options, certainly. Granted, I also don't have the 5 million, nor whatever would pay the un-GODLY property taxes, but those are mere details. I'm nothing if not *dazzling* at working out details.

The Plan, as it stands is thusly:
1. Write awesome book
2. Have publishing house publish awesome book
3. Bestseller
4. Movie rights
5. Go on Ellen, enter dancing to Sorry for Party Rocking

I know, it has numbers (in my head they're bullet points) and seems very plan-like in nature but as usual, Readers, we have the same issue. I have no plot. I thought about writing a non-fiction, semi-autobiography but basically I'd piss off everyone I know and/or love. Or at least half of them. Then who would visit me in my house in the historical Battery district?!

Then I return to the idea of fiction and plot. I just finished a marathon session (on mah Nook as we drove home in Tom Cruze) of Dennis Lehane novels (that I love with a scorching passion) and it makes me crazy.

Have no doubts, Friends, I can write. I can write like a mutha. I used to get going and I couldn't type as fast as my brain (or the muse, the MUSE) was pouring forth a veritable torrent of prose or poetry.

Being the uber-intellect I am, in college I took what I was GOOD at. I didn't take what daunted me. I was super daunted by the fiction-writing classes. I knew that the writing, the character development, the prose, the conversational tone, none of those were my problem. The plot. The mother-loving PLOT of it all. I'd begin, get halfway through, and peter out - end up metaphorically sentencing my characters to a benign death-by-desertion. I'd give up. The lack of clear plot would defeat me every time.

Note to self: ask therapist about the pathology of quitting something/s you love. End note.

I wonder where in the hell these prolific authors of mine (Mr. King, Mr. Lehane, Ms. Evanovich) come up with their plots when even ONE is seemingly beyond me.

The Muse is off musing somewhere else. Clearly.

She's coming around again, though. Like an old girlfriend, who drunk-texts you from a bar to see if you're still into her. I can tell. I'm not done with this yet.

How else would I end up HERE?

Maybe I should start vacuuming. That's usually when I start to have raw text appear in my head. Hey, other authors drink or lock themselves in their garrets. I sweep the carpet.

But not the leopard print carpet. Mein Got.

Comments, questions, what's your plan, and will you visit me on the Battery?