Tag Archives: writing

Dear Writers,

Posted on May 28, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m in deep.

Can’t sleep, can’t eat… as much, can’t focus on anything else. I’m going to bed well after midnight and waking up by 4:30am raring to go, excited to get back to my hard uncomfortable computer seat and write and edit, hone and cut and fix.

My butt is numb half the time but I barely notice. I’m writing and I’m in love… with my characters, with the process, with creating something outside of myself.

I’m so tired, but like my character who has started a passionate affair that is as good for her as it is bad, neither of us can stop. We are addicted.

It has always been this way for me; whether writing bad teenage poetry, heartfelt essays, journals on my children’s journey to life or longer works of fiction, when I’m in, I’m in. I love that moment when you realize something great is happening, your story is evolving and you’re into the action. You may be writing it, but you can’t wait to find out what happens next.

It’s a genuine gift to enjoy the process of writing; the agony, the thrill, the total obsessive consumption that has you by the balls and keeps squeezing no matter how many gives you say.

Yet it’s totally reclusive and really the height of narcissism. Apparently, I prefer to just hang out with the thoughts in my head, the stories and people of my own creation than do anything else. What is more alienating and totally self-absorbed than that?

But there’s always a rub. You’d like to hope that if you spend so much time writing, you would actually do it well. But there’s no guarantee of that at all. To enjoy the process is gift enough but to actually expect to be talented? To have enough writing chops to rise above? Well, that’s just arrogance, stupidity, and a necessary aspiration.

Because tangled in all the insecurity and dedication, the loving and the hating is the hope that one day you just might hit on something good enough to rate. Something that will give others a moment of enjoyment or a secret thrill; will keep them on their toes, at the edge of their seats, reaching for tissues or whatever emotion you’re trying to convey.

Because a writer wants readers, needs them, and we also want our work to be recognized. You can’t sit for that many hours, days, weeks, months by yourself and then not crave worldwide domination, I mean some peer recognition. Not just your mother or your friends nodding and clapping – although where would we be without those claps and nods? – but the writing community; which if you’re relatively unpublished translates to an editor or an agent, and of course worldwide domination.

But no matter about that. It’s the carrot on the stick before us, a hope, a pipe dream, but onward we charge because we need to write. There is no other choice.

We are in deep.

41 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged insomnia, inspiration, obsession, on writing, reading, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Once upon a time

Posted on May 19, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

My home was broken.

But I was used to it. For years, my parents clumsily taped up the holes with transparent truces, sucked in offenses and alcoholic avoidance. Still, the anger and disappointment always leaked through, pumping like contaminated air through the vents, infiltrating every aspect of our house.

Their fights played like music in the background of my life. When the end officially came no one was surprised or sad, certainly not me.

My father moved out, but still hung around, taking me and my brother out for a movie or to his racquet club. It was only when I passed my parents’ room and took notice that there was no lump in the center of the bed; no giant bowl of salad with smelly dressing on the night side table that I realized he was gone.

I was 10 when they divorced, by the time I was 12 my mother had remarried.

It was December and the wedding was a small affair at my new step-father’s house. It came up quick, somewhat of a surprise, although my mother will jokingly remind me how if anything the whole thing was my fault, she asked me if she should marry him.

He lived in a big house and had a pool. I was 11.

I was given the option to finish out my 6^th grade year and live with my grandparents in Brooklyn or move mid-year to Long Island. My science mid-term was coming up, and it terrified me. I was averaging a 75 in the class when all my other grades were up where they should be in the 90’s. I couldn’t handle the thought of flunking a test. In a half a second I jumped on the move, deserting my friends, my grandparents, my life, all in the name of science.

We moved into our new home unceremoniously and awkwardly. None of us knew what we were doing; certainly not my mother or new step father; certainly not my younger brother or my two new younger step-brothers. The only person who rallied with contrived enthusiasm was the live-in housekeeper who showed off the house like it was hers.

I was shuffled off to my room and left with another young girl whose name was Gia. She was the housekeeper’s daughter who had apparently come to visit months back and never left. She was a year younger and I was a year shyer, but we still didn’t even out.

“This is my room.” She said. “You can sleep there.” She pointed to the second bed. “Don’t touch my stuff,” She commanded and huffed out.

My brother and new step brothers were also trying to find their way in this new dynamic, while my mother and step father circled each other uncertainly, and the housekeeper kept us all in a tight divided line of us against them.

I looked out the window into the backyard. The pool was covered for the winter. It looked dark and dangerous.

My home was broken.

51 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Dad, Mom and tagged broken home, divorce, family, remarriage, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Writing from memory when your memory sucks

Posted on April 30, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I may have discovered a stumbling block to my writing endeavors. It’s my memory, which kind of sucks. I swear, I can’t tell you all the things I’ve forgotten.

Seriously, I can’t.

Recently I was getting excited about an idea I had to write a book of essays on my father, organized semi chronologically through afflictions. Chapter one: Alcoholism or My father is a floor mat. Chapter 2: C is for Cancer. Chapter 3: Drugs are fun! Hey, let’s do them all! Chapter 4: Back operations and body casts. Chapter 5: Paranoia, anxiety, depression, oh my. Chapter 6: Holy shit, what happened to your colon? Chapter 7: I’ve fallen and I somehow manage to get up to do it again and again and again…Chapter 8: Is that a pain pump, or are you just happy to see me?

Now I know you’re just dying to read what will clearly turn out to be the feel good book of the summer, but the problem is that when I go over it all in my mind, it just lumps together into a pile of suffering; a giant of tumor of addictions and ailments. Which came first the back operation or the depression, the drugs or the pain? I can’t remember specifics. Was the heart attack 1996 or 1997?

So how can I write about it honestly when I can’t even really remember it? Can that be considered creative non-fiction – me flubbing the details but nailing the emotion? Maybe, but I don’t think so.

That’s why I used to only write fiction. Fiction is fabulous. You don’t know something, you make it up! Well, maybe not if you write historical fiction or technical stuff, but generally, in fiction your imagination is your memory.

Wouldn’t it be great if you could do that in real life? Damn, I can’t find the keys… why they’re right there on the table, silly. Nervous about a job interview, well don’t be, you’re going to nail it. Not in the mood to make dinner, you’re so lucky, your spontaneous, amazing husband is about to walk in early with take-out from your favorite restaurant.

Having the power to create a story is such a gift, but somewhere during the creation you have to give up some of that power as well. You go in thinking your character is going to rob a bank or betray a friend, but then the characters take on a life of their own and all of sudden, you’re not making all the decisions, they are. There’s no relying on memory; you just need to choose from as many paths as your creativity and your characters allow. If it’s true for the storyline, it’s true.

So given my limitations, I’m not really sure how to proceed on the project regarding my father, or whether I should proceed at all. Of course even with non-memory challenged people, there’s still selective memory and varied perspectives to contend with. We really do create a lot of our past according to our emotional recollection and not necessarily what actually happened or when, so maybe there is a case for my version of truth.

I should probably just go back and edit my most recent manuscript of sex and betrayal in the suburbs. It’s a whole lot lighter and sometimes reality is really not as good as the reality you create in fiction.

Now, if I can just remember where I put those pages…

Yup, exactly where you’d expect a manuscript to be – on the floor in the corner, of course.

51 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged creative non-fiction, fiction, fiction vs non-fiction, memory, non fiction, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Good Enough! vs Good Enough?

Posted on April 8, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

When I’m in one of my gym classes, I can’t help but assess the assets in front of me. I size them up. Not to judge them in any way. It’s not about them at all. It’s about me. It’s about how I stack up.

Almost always I’m on the losing end of my self-assessment. No matter if I’m at my heaviest or at my most fit, I’m never good enough.

I’ve done this for as long I can remember. As a teen, I remember myself as the cute girl’s side kick; my best friend was really the one to want. I was always smart but never remarkably so, if you ask me.

20 years later and I haven’t changed. When I make cupcakes for my kids, I’ll always nod semi-approvingly and say, “They may not be so pretty, but they work.” When I put on a pair of favorite jeans, the best I can manage is, “They don’t look terrible.” When I size up those behinds in front me, I’m always shaking my head and accepting that while I could look worse, I don’t look all that good either.

Even with my latest manuscript, I have a very difficult time just admitting I think it’s good. If you ask me about it, I’ll first need to go through a bunch of hedging… “It’s not the same kind of writing as my essays… It’s just an easy beach read… It’s not going to win any awards or anything…”

Why do I undersell myself every chance I get? How can I expect anyone to take me seriously when I can’t even take myself seriously?

I’m always in awe of the people around me who possess the confidence to sell themselves. I remember at work watching guys march in and strut their stuff. Generally I never thought their ideas were any better than mine – often I didn’t think much of them at all; but they walked the walk, while I slouched and stumbled. They believed in themselves, while I always felt a bit like a fake.

Yet, day in and day out, I sit here and type away my thoughts, my stories, my life. And almost every day, I’m at that gym working my tail off, although mostly it stays on. I must think it’s worth something; I must think I’m worth something to keep at it.

And I guess I do. I mean, I do.

But admitting that puts all sorts of expectations out there. If I told people my book was great would they agree or be disappointed? I couldn’t stand the disappointment.

I read posts on Facebook by bloggers who confidently say things like, “I’ve written this really important piece that we need to be talking about.” And I’m fascinated. How do they say that about their own work? How do they put themselves on such a high level? Not only is their work ‘important’, but we, as a general population, should be discussing it?

Sometimes it makes me roll my eyes, embarrassed by their self-serving assertions, and other times I’m beyond impressed. Go them, I think. Kind of like when I first watched Lena doing her naked all over TV thing.

Like my grandmother would say, “No one’s gonna toot your horn but you.”

I think I need to start trusting myself and my talents. I need to start thinking that I am really good and worthy and deserve success. I mean, I’m smart, I’m funny and gosh darn it, people like me.

It’s true.

Now I’ve just got to believe it.

Toot

61 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Weight Watching, Writing and tagged body image, exercise, insecurity, self image, self-confidence, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Accepting rejection and eating the cookie crumbles

Posted on February 25, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I was trying to corral the kids into the kitchen for lunch when I heard the shuffle of heavy feet and the clank of metal on my front porch. I glanced out the front door window in time to see my mailman already trudging back down my walkway to his truck. A large manila envelope jutted conspicuously from my box.

I paid it little mind. There were kids ignoring me and grilled cheese burning; the yellow already darkening into a nice crisp brown that no one would eat but me. Removing it, I slid another slice of cheese onto a fresh piece of bread and placed it in the toaster. I had already used the skillet to make eggs this morning; there would be no buttery pan-fried grilled cheese until I did the dishes.

As I absently peeled and sliced apples, placing the scoffed at skin in my mouth, I wondered about the package. Had I ordered something from the Gap? Amazon? I couldn’t remember. I did order cookies, but that came in a box from UPS. What could it…

Oh.

It was what I had been waiting for, for over a month. Only, I knew before even opening it that it wouldn’t be what I had hoped. The envelope was too thick. In fact, if it had been good news there wouldn’t be an envelope shoved in my mailbox at all. It would be a phone call.

I finished making the kids’ lunch; ignoring their whiny pleas for more milk and attention and anxiously retrieved the package. It held the weight of hundreds of pages of devotion and hard work, of many late nights and early mornings blissfully obsessed.

Normally, I’d leave the envelope on the dining room table and stare it down for a few hours; building up the negativity in my head, making it real, understanding it, while still somehow holding out the hope in my heart that it wasn’t true. That it was in fact just protocol to return a manuscript along with a glowing letter of acceptance.

Impulsively, I ripped open the package. Then, breathing deeply, I gave myself a minute to process.

It was exactly as I expected. Rejection.

I had a flashback of my younger self in the exact same position. Different house, less wrinkles, eyes wider, but yes, me, holding another heavy yellow envelope to the same unfortunate end.

I sighed with disappointment, and then sucked it in and up.

“Anyone want more grilled cheese?” I asked, returning to my real life; the noisy kitchen, the dishes in the sink. Who needs legitimacy and acceptance? Who needs dreams realized? I was needed right here and right now.

Three animated little faces completely ignored me.

“Um, boys?

I watched them chewing their sandwiches, talking over one another, my youngest practically standing on his chair in his inability to contain his energy. It was like I didn’t even exist.

It was too much.

“Who wants cookies?” I blurted out suddenly and all three faces snapped to attention.

“Cookies!” They chanted merrily and my youngest ran over to hug around my legs. My other boys joined in and soon we were one clump of bodies jumping gleefully.

Finally, I was feeling some love.

And it was a good thing because I was about to cry.

78 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged essays, rejection, rejection letters, that's the way the cookie crumbles, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

In his eyes*

Posted on January 30, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

Wake up. Wake up! His brain yells through the sleepy fog that hangs low and heavy on his consciousness. He tries to lift his eyes but really he is just too weary. Somewhere faraway, a phone is ringing. Now it’s become a fire engine roaring down the street. And now it’s an alarm. The fire is in front of him.

It’s jarring but he’s a spectator even in his own dream. He’s not spurred into motion. He simply watches the house burn down around him, sensing the urgency but unable to rouse himself.

Slowly panic engulfs like the flames, but still he remains stagnant, knowing he’s about to die, but too paralyzed to do anything about it. He is a prisoner of his broken body and his over-medicated brain. His heart hammers against his chest.

Deep inside his head, he knows that he no longer lives in a house. The small detail reminds him that he is still sleeping. The screaming alarm is once again the phone.

The call is from his daughter. He can envision her face right now, cradling the phone on the other side of the world, 45 minutes away, children flanking her on all ends – frustrated, annoyed, disappointed, but not surprised. It’s far from the first time he hasn’t been able to get to the phone, even for a wakeup call he asked for; one that he needs to make a doctor appointment he has already rescheduled three times.

She is a good girl, his daughter. He sees her as child; the long dark pig tails, the green eyes that match his own, or at least used to when his own eyes were less muddied; the ready smile reserved just for him. He has failed that little girl who he promised in her crib to protect from harm. He never expected that he would be the one hurting her.

He pushes the thought away. It wounds and he needs not to think about it. Right now, he needs to focus his energy to wake up, to answer the ringing phone, to make his appointment.

With monumental effort, he forces himself to open his eyes. Through blurred vision he takes in the vials of medication scattered on the table, the clutter of boxes overloaded with books and papers, the slop of food on the floor from a 4am binge on cereal and ice cream that he barely remembers. A few pills lie there as well. He momentarily wonders if they are medications he never took, or extras that dropped after taking something he shouldn’t have. His heart quickens.

The ringing stops.

Disgusted by his failure but filled with relief, his eyes droop back down.

She will never again look at him the way she did once upon a time ago when he was a hero.

A tear slides down the side his face. He was a hero, strong and beautiful. Ah. I remember you, he recalls wistfully, drifting off; his mouth lifting in a small grin.

Go to sleep. Go to sleep. His brain now commands and all pain fades into unconsciousness.

Once again he has found peace.

Strong and beautiful

42 Comments

Posted in Dad and tagged aging parents, caretaking, DPchallenge, growing older, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

My grandma may be dead but she’s still inspiring

Posted on January 7, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m sitting here waiting for inspiration to hit me. I’m ready inspiration, come and get me. But no, the only thing here with me is my cat, rubbing his head annoyingly against the top of the screen. I give him a little shove, but clearly, he doesn’t get it and pads even closer to me, intent on laying his body across my keyboard. As if I didn’t have enough obstacles.

Seriously?

I’m struggling to come up with meaningful thoughts to put out there; a moment that resonates, that tugs at the heart stings with a twang, a story with a moral that makes you really think about life, or the real coup, being able to give you a good laugh, the kind that can change your mood for just a second.

Instead I just sit here, staring at the screen until I’m almost looking through it, waiting for one of those cool 3-D images to pop out at me. START TYPING. THINK, DAMN IT. YOU CAN DO IT.

I’ve been feeling so numb lately, and not just because of the Raynaud’s that turns my feet and fingers white and cold as a cup of milk. Could it be winter blues? Or, is this the next stage of my mid-life crisis? I went from feeling a little sexy to a little bit conflicted, and now feeling a little dead? It happened so fast I didn’t even find an appropriate outfit to wear to the funeral. But I guess the old gym pants will do. It’s how I lived, and I’m nothing if not consistent.

But now I’m just being dramatic. And I can tell already, my mother is hating this essay. Don’t worry, mom, it’s just a moment. This too shall pass, as my dead grandmother used to say. She’s looking at me now from a picture across the room; her head thrown back in joy, even with the shower cap on her head which she must have forgotten she was wearing when my husband snapped the picture, because there is no way she would be caught dead in a picture with a shower cap. Ah, the irony.

Gone two years now, she looks radiant, even in the cap, with me by her side and my three boys lined up like beautiful, dutiful progeny; the future, captured in the present which is now the past.

I miss her. I do. Even thinking it now brings that drippy sentimentality to my eyes making them leak at the edges. Looking around, I see some of her treasures glittering: a ceramic dog that was her mother’s, an ugly turn-of-the-century figurine couple mid step, pretty, useless little tea cups on display. There are other things, but that’s all they are. Things. And who needs them really, except that they were hers.

The real gift she left me was living long enough to have a real presence in my life. To make a difference in who I was and am. To have a voice so strong, I can still hear her throaty rasp so clearly…

“Get your head out of your arse and stop this nonsense!”

I smile. Already I feel warmer.

She’s got me thinking.

Going with the glamour hat over the shower cap. You’re welcome, Grandma.

18 Comments

Posted in Grandma and tagged grandmas, inspiration, life and death, winter blues, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Writing Wrongs

Posted on May 23, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

For my whole life, writing has been part of who I am.

I wrote poetry in my youth; yearning, emotional verses mostly about boys, but also about my feelings. Genius like,

Why
only troubled souls become writers.
Laughter.
Those who can’t deal with the real.
Deep, despondent hermits
Why didn’t my mother like me
Why didn’t my father listen
Laughter.
One face
two face
my kidney on my face
my heart in my fingers
Laughter.
All the world’s a stage
so put on a happy face.

Yep, I wrote that, decades ago. I know you’re amazed by my depth, right? Can’t you just feel the kidney on your face? Bahaha!

Sadly for the world of poetry, I moved on to sexy, fun novels with a bit a danger and mystery. Think Sydney Sheldon mixed with Danielle Steele. In one, the main character was stunning and incredibly smart with a striking, yet highly glorified, resemblance to the person who wrote her. I took those rejections quite personally.

For my short, undistinguished yet entertaining career, I worked as an advertising copywriter selling glamorous commodities like moisturizer and headache medicine. But the children took me away from all that, and now I work for me, my name is Ice Scream Mama.*

Sorry, Charlie. Got carried away there. (Extra scoops if you picked up the reference.)

Anyway, after having lost all ambition related to something other than a solid night’s sleep and a making it out of the house without pancake in my hair, I finally rediscovered myself with this blog. Blog. What does blog stand for anyway? Big Love Or Go? Bring Lots Of Goodies? Beings Letting Out Garbage? Ideas, anyone?

Now what was I talking about? Hmm. Give me a minute. Right. The blog. I love it. There’s pressure, there’s feedback, there’s structure and networking. There’s satisfaction, and it feels good.

I still have a brain! Hallelujah!!

So when two (Double yay!) of my essays were chosen for the most recent Life Well Blogged book, rainbow sprinkles filled my sky. I could barely control my excitement when I pulled it up on my Kindle.

There it was! An essay by me!

Wait, that’s not me. Crap. My name is spelled wrong. Wrong! I’m finally in print and it’s not me!!

yep, not my name

I tried to have it fixed, of course, but was told that it probably couldn’t be corrected on Kindle. Still, they assured me that it was correct in the print version.

By the time my copy arrived, I was foaming at the mouth and practically ripped the envelope open with my teeth. Ohhh. It looked nice. I pet the cover lovingly.

Quickly, I flipped around and found one of my essays, “If you stop trying to touch my books, I’ll give you a cookie.” One of my favorite essay titles. Wait!

BOOBS!! BOOBS!!

Books? What?!

It’s supposed to be BOOBS!!

Crap again!!

I quickly flipped to my other essay, “Daddy, what’s a boner?” This was the one on Kindle that had my name spelled incorrectly. Here it was fine. So, we were one for one going into the ‘About the Authors’ section. And my name is… correct! I start to read. “Alisa is a SAHM to three boys, wife to Mr. Baseball and daughter of a sad man.” Yes! “When not burning cupcakes or schlepping kids, she can be found hiding in her closet with a tub of ice cream.” Yes!“I promise you’ll be back for seconds.” Wait… I think something was missing there. “She is a married mother of one.” No! NO! NO!

Where did that come from? That doesn’t even make sense. Sigh.

The puff of publication pride sufficiently deflated, all I can say is, it’s still better than having a kidney on my face.

Tragic, really.

*Reference from the opening of Charlie’s Angels, of course.

30 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged bad poetry, blogging, editing, getting published first time, humor, kidneys, life well blogged, proof-reading, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Push me!

Posted on May 15, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Push me!” Julius yells and with a weary sigh, like he’s asking me to work heavy machinery, I lift my ass off the bench and make my way over to the swings.

He waits patiently while I trudge my 30 pound bag that I shouldn’t even have brought out of the car, but for some unconscious reason always feel compelled to keep with me, even though the car is parked 20 feet away. I always think, but what if I have a moment and can read my book? Or what if we need a water bottle or a snack? Or what if I get a brilliant thought and need my pad and a pen? And wipes – you always need wipes. Okay, the back-up Kindle, the 10 pounds of change and the bag of coupons and receipts might not be necessary, but I can’t go organizing right now, can I?

My arm sighs as I drop the bulky bag in the wood chips, ensuring I will find a few of them later ensnared in my hair ties and tissues. “You don’t need me to push you. You know how to push yourself.” I say, and give his little butt a shove.

“I know I don’t need you to push me.” He says, exasperated. He’s only five and already I’m the mom who doesn’t get it. “l want you to!”

My child is a genius, I think, and absent-mindedly propel him to the sky. He knows what he wants.

Which started me thinking – always dangerous – what do I want?

What do I want? Such a simple question, and yet so difficult for me to answer.

To redo my kitchen? Yes, but I misplaced the plans that we had made up, and without them seemed to have lost the incentive as well.

To lose 5lbs? Sure, but not if it means giving up ice cream, or wine, or sushi lunches or any of the little extras that I absolutely deserve.

To get a book deal, an agent, or to be paid for the essays that I so lovingly write? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But what am I really doing to accomplish any of those things? Not much. And, by not much, I mean nothing.

When am I going to start going after what I want, instead of waiting for it to just fall into my hands? When I am going to find the motivation within me to accomplish the things I want? When am I going to stop taking the easy way out and work harder? When am I going to want it enough to go and get it?

“Higher!” Julius orders, and I send him flying to the stars.

He might want the push, but it turns out, I’m the one who needs one.

58 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged goals and aspirations, motivation, need a push, reaching your goals, unmotivated, what do you want?, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

My Writing Process. But first, I Need to Flip the Laundry.

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I’ve been meaning to write this essay about how I write my essays. You know, the ‘process’. All writers have their own individual approach to writing. Some just sit down and bang it out. Some bang and then sit down and write. We all have our own way. No judgment.

So I had the idea, but I couldn’t figure out how to best structure it. I mulled it over a bit, and then put it on the back burner. A few days later, I picked it back up and tossed it around. Then I did what I usually do at this point, which is, to continue dragging my feet, literally, and go for a run.

Often, I come up with a lot of my ideas while running. With nothing but time to kill, it’s the perfect opportunity to brainstorm. So I plod along plotting my stories, constructing brilliant first lines and clever turns of phrase.

When I mercifully stagger back to my door, I head straight for my dining room chair, aka my work seat, where, with sweat dripping on the keypad, I quickly get down my thoughts, before they are incinerated by my awesome calorie burn. After this initial burst, I go up for a shower, and let my ideas stew in the hot water for at least 10 solid steaming minutes.

Back at the computer, the screen and I stare each other down. Where am I going with this idea? I wonder. Will this work? I write another sentence or two, then feel an overwhelming urge to check my emails. When I come up with nothing, I move on to Facebook and Twitter.

Back to the essay. I re-read. Delete a line and rewrite. Add another line. I sit back and assess. It’s not bad.

I feel the urge for a snack.

No. I need to focus. Write another line. Hmm… should I get some frozen yogurt? Or maybe an apple with peanut butter? Focus! Soup?

I can’t stand it. I’ll be right back.

I go for chocolate and peanut butter yogurt with a medley of toppings. I’m making cones and dipping them as I type. I’m in such a happy, satisfied place. I write a few more lines.

Oh, I’m in the groove now and knock out a whole paragraph. It’s good. Woo. I’m exhausted, I need a break.

Check email.

Check Facebook.

Check Twitter.

Make a phone call.

Go back and re-read what I’ve written. Decent open. Entertaining middle. Tweak. Tweak.

Get up for more sprinkles. What? I need more sprinkles. It’s part of my process.

Just a few more lines and I’m done.

I’m antsy. I need to pee.

I’m almost finished. So close. Tweak. Tweak. Twitter.

I just need the right ending.

Check email.

Re-read.

Make another cone.

Oh, I’ve got it!

Check Facebook.

It’s perfect.

Hang on. I’ll be right back…

Quiet. I’m working.

40 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged blogging, procrastination, writing, writing process. Bookmark the permalink.

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