December 2005 Archives

"It's a multiple of a lot of different things."
Then somewhere down the line, you find yourself saying
"It's a syndrome."

You're giving 75/25. Or 65/35.
Holding back.

Not out of laziness but from some sense
that things are finite and you don't want to spend it all.

When the phone rings, you answer it on the fourth ring.
Or you go to an adult valentine-making class and you say "nice to meet you."
But you don't make valentines for everyone. Just two or three.

Your basketball buddies don't even bring it up.
The way you've stopped saying
"That’s what I'm talking about" with your trademark vigor.

So you head on out to a petting zoo -- any petting zoo.
Because animals can't tell the difference.

Except that maybe you're easier to sit on nowadays.
That goat is so heavy.
Come on now, you big old goat.

Move.

If you love yourself even a little, check out TMBG.com -- They Might Be Giants home on the web.

I have enjoyed this band for, like 19 years. Gack! After sort of burning out on them, I went to a recent show and I was shocked at how much fun I had. They opened with a sequence they call the "Venue Songs." And man, I'm telling you, I was so thoroughly entertained by these tunes, I actually bought them. Shake before my love!

And now they're posting free videos from this set, one per week, on their ever-lovin' web site. Gack gack! So-called Cars fans (and you know who you are), don't miss "Vancouver." Is all I'm saying. Click through to the main site for lots more free goodness. It's like all of a sudden they're the Crazy Eddie of cerebral pop goof-rock vibrations.

People have been wondering for some time now who the new Ralph Macchio will be. They say: "Who?"

Well, I have the answer, and I'm going to share it. But I think it will come as a big surprise, so brace yourself.

I am the new Ralph Macchio.

Ralph knows already, and he's not happy about it. But so what. And maybe you're not happy either. But I'll tell you what I told him. I said: "Suck on this, Ralph."

He had his chance. It's my turn now.

It's my turn to be Ralph Macchio.

A few years ago I finally figgered out a really obvious thing: that writing's only one part inspiration/ability. Duh, I know. But there I was, waiting for the spirit of F. Scott to sieze control of my spine, to toss me into my deskchair and start my finger bones pounding out Gatsby II: The Reckoning. And it weren't happening.

Through fits and also through starts, I figured out a few get-yourself-to-write techniques that seem to help. For a while now, I've meant to blog about these, to keep track of them, to share them, and to see if anyone out there wants to jump in with a technique or three of their own. One of my habits changed recently, so I thought that might make for a good opportunity to kick this off. I'm talking of course, about notebooks.

I subscribe to the big-notebook, little-notebook school o' thought, wherein a little notebook is kept in pocket to jot down random ideas, dialog, observation, and shtick that arrive at unexpected moments (this came from Anne Lamotte, author of my beloved Bird by Bird) who talks about always having a few index cards shoved in your back pocket.) The big notebook is for what Julia Cameron (author of The Artist's Way) calls "morning pages" -- three pages a day, written every day, to uncork whatever ferment you've got in ya.

For the last six months or so, I've dropped from doing morning pages most days to writing three pages once or twice a week. Part of the problem was that three pages was a big enough forced-writing mandate that it only fit into my two chunks of scheduled writing time on the weekend. Also, it had pretty much devolved into pure journal. Which is not entirely a bad thing. I like having a running record of life as it's lived. But it wasn't really what I was looking for.

So I made two minor changes about a week ago that seem to be helping: (1) I cut down my per-page obligation to just one little page a day. A small enough bite that I can work it into my commute, or my the-kids-are-being-read-stories-by-my-better-half time. (2) Journalling is still part of the process, but each day I make sure I also write at least one paragraph of fiction. And I try to keep it a little random. No more of that "there's a guy, and he's sitting in a coffee shop stuff" I tend to write when, as a guy, I find myself sitting in a coffee shop.

So far, it's an improvement. I wrote all but one day over the last week. And with the no-pressure-groove that comes with the one-page minimum, I find I'm shpieling a bit and ending up with a few extra pages most days. All told, I have something like 16 pages from the last week instead of the usual 3-6. Oh yeah, it helped that I also went to a smaller size notebook....

So OK, enough about me. What about youse? Any writing techniques you care to share today, notebookly or otherwise?

I have seen you eat eggs, and it's a fearsome sight.

If I was an egg, and you looked in the window, I would start to cry. I wouldn't have any legs, so I'd just rock back and forth, thin tears tracing down the hard shell of my face.

Now maybe you'd surprise me and not eat me. Maybe you'd wipe off my shell and make me your pet.

But still, if you ever ate eggs in front of me, with a fork or something, that would gross me out. And I'd be like: "Dude, don't eat eggs in front of your egg pet."

And you'd say: "Don't worry, I only eat dead eggs."

Like that made it OK.

The absurdity of sports was really bothering him now.
The idea of rooting for this team or that team.

Some group of people wearing a costume
similar to a costume
he used to react favorably to
when he was young. Or at least younger.

Some subset of super-athletes whose contracts matched.
Whose agents got along.

"You might as well root for a cloud,"
he thought.

"Or for some portion of a cloud."

He's walking around
like he's just eaten an orange.
Always.

This gives him strength.

My stomach doctor, who looks a lot like Elliott Gould -- I mean, even more than I do.
Anyways. He's someone you don't want to startle you.

And he's also. I mean.
For reasons I really don't care to discuss.
Let's just say.

He's someone you don't want to picture 15 feet tall.
Someone I don't want to picture 15 feet tall.

Anyways, so I'm driving to work.

And there he was, by the freeway, as you get on the bridge. 15 feet tall.

And when I told him I saw him, the next time I saw him, he was so proud.
That I saw him.

Just picture Elliott Gould in a white doctor's coat.

Proud.

The horses are grazing over at the World Trade Center.
Tourists form a wide circle around the field

translating plaques out loud to each other
looking down at the grass-covered pit

before strolling over to the local Fire Department
where the hay stacks are piled higher than feels safe.

Squinting through dark glass into the station
past the truck, past the pole

they're looking for a cow they can rope or a lunch bell to ring
in this unexpected land of big sky.

Guest: Studies have shown that two-thirds of what people buy, they weren't planning on buying when they walked into the store.

Host: So you're saying, if I go into a store to buy a pair of socks, I'm going to walk out with three things I didn't want?

And I screamed at the radio: "No! No that's not what he was saying! You idiot! That would be 3/4s! Or, if you counted each sock individually, 3/5s!"

And I drove my car into a pole.