99 drafts, but a best-seller ain’t one

I write. I blog. I journal. I sketch. I dream.

I have three screen plays the fight for my attention. Plus one under re-write that just won’t cooperate.

I have a journal that I handwrite in red ink. A sketch book that I draw in pencil.

I have an outline for a children’s book series, but I’m still developing the characters. And by developing, I mean dreaming.

And this blog has ten entries in draft stage. To be clear, the draft stage means it has a title, but no content. So, it’s safe to say, it’s a really rough draft stage.

I’m simultaneously reading two books that, of course, contradict each other. One book is about novel writing and the other claims that novel writing is dead.

All this while waiting to hear back from grad school to see if there’s a school out there that can mold me into a serious writer. I’m using the “stress” from the anticipation as my excuse to procrastinate. Like a virgin, I tell myself that I’m saving my best writing for a professor who will be touched for the very first time. I’m also using my daily attack of the mailbox and only finding bills to be an extra tortured writer. After riffling through the envelopes and not finding an acceptance letter, I collapse on the couch, hand to forehead, and proclaim to never write again.

I know my lack of focus has nothing to do with school. It’s not A.D.D., laziness, or Netflix. It’s my wardrobe.

The only way I’m going to get serious about writing is if I invest in all black wardrobe. Jackets, t-shirts, turtlenecks and pants. Everything. Black ballerina shoes. A little black dress, down to my ankles, for formal occasions. A few black hats and berets. A black cigarette holder. And, of course, black rimmed eyeglasses. Some accessories are essential. Weird necklaces and lots of bracelets, preferably Buddha beads to show depth. And, last, but not least, a pet. Something exotic. Possibly dangerous. Like a snake.

And, if the writing thing doesn’t work out, I can always make a career out of being a Bieber impersonator.

Why do I always feel two steps behind Bieber? (photo from thesuperficial.com)

Listen as the wind blows

I’ve been staring at this screen for five days.

Blankly. Without anything to say. Trying to come up with a topic to no avail.

For five days I’ve been brainstorming. Only to feel like I’m chasing a piece of paper in the wind.

Do you know how exhausting that is?

You should try it. Take four or five sheets of 8.5 x 11 paper with all your personal information and let it go while standing on a busy street. It’s an amazing work out. It won’t help you write anything of substance. But, at least your heart rate will have as many BPM’s as a David Guetta track.

I’ll revisit this space in a few days. Hopefully with a topic of general interest, such as hand lotion or children or phone sex etiquette. In the meantime, I’m going to let the papers fly.


It’s my new favorite word.

It could be French, pow-say. Or it’s how I call out to my friend Paul when I slur, Pawz. Or the more traditional pause button I hit when I need to prepare a snack so I can finish a movie.

It doesn’t mean stop. It doesn’t mean forget it. It doesn’t mean go back and look. It means freeze. It means let me think. It means I’m not ready to move forward.

You can pause anything, really. A relationship, a career, an adult movie when someone’s at the door. Anything. By choice.

There is one thing, however, that pauses naturally, uncontrollably and unpredictably. Writing. Writing and pause are like master and servant. I just haven’t figured out who serves who.

Continue reading “Pause”