I know it gets old, but that's easy for you to say, you don't have to live in my head. Try that for a month or so, and then you'll want to talk about it. You know what some people say: Crazy's like a box of chocolates--you never know what you're gonna get till you bite into it, and sometimes, it's not what you had in mind. Hell, if I could choose not to be crazy, would I? Maybe, maybe not. Am I the kind of woman who bites into a chocolate that's a little more exotic than I bargained for and then spits it out? Hell no, I eat that fucker. And sometimes I enjoy it. If I weren't crazy would I still be able to write? Would I still love with such ferocity? These are questions of no small importance to me. But I will tell you this: there are certain drugs for my kind of craziness that I will not take. No matter what. Because they kill the creative impulse in some, and that's enough to scare the bejeezus out of me.
I won't say what the drugs are that I will never, ever take, because they save the lives of millions. But for me, if I couldn't write, I rather die, and that's the honest to god's truth. Writing is like breathing for me. I can't live without it.
When I lived with husband number three, he was the writer, and I was his life support. I typed his rough drafts and edited them for him. I read aloud to him every book he was required to read for his PhD in English Lit/Creative Writing. The morning he went to take his Orals, I sat bolt upright out of a sound sleep and said, "Good luck. And remember, the fork ran away with the spoon."
I used to suggest story ideas to him, and he'd always reject them. Well, Junior, these stories are mine, now. Good luck. And as a writer, how are you liking the job as Chairman of the English Department? And the student you got pregnant and had to marry? Has she left you yet? Hope you get to see the kids now and then.
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Since gossip spreads faster than the speed of light word got around at my work recently about a doctor that left his wife for a very young nurse a few years back. The doc found out his much younger bride emptied the bank account, took the car, and credit cards and hauled ass with a co-worker out of state not long ago. The kicker was that his ex-wife came in and rubbed the situation in his face in front of a bunch of people. Didn't see this episode in the hospital soap opera but it was all the buzz.
Beach, you're a man after my own heart. Now that's some juicy gossip. I don't much bother with the gossip, I post my side of the story and let the readers decide whether the prick in question is better off now than he was during my administration.
` Hee hee heee! That's close to the best gossip ever! This is why I can't keep it off my blog....
So funny. "No, I just eat the fucker." Made me laugh out loud... made J turn from his Mac to see what I was giggling over.
Its really unfortunate (for him) that he never saw what a gift you were (are). I am sorry.
Its the talking from the hip about such items were you are at your best. Keep going...
Have you ever read The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman? She, too, had to write and when she was forced not to, she went mad.
I teach that short story in about 3 weeks. Teaching summer school... sigh, I love it, but I wish I could keep lazing around playing with the kids.
K, sadly I can only focus on one thing at a time. When I write, I write. I can
t read. It is when I can't write that I'm the big reader. For now, this is my job, so I take small breaks thru out the day, but so much to do, to read, to listen to--so many great sites to visit.
I'd enjoy reading men who are willing to talk about domestic life, and how they really feel about the creeping boredom. Once I've heard the same old story over and over with the same wording, the same gestures, it's over--at least it is for me. Beach is the only man out there that I know who writes about the way he views daily life and often reveals much of the inner man. I've lived with so many men and known so few.
How ever I'd love to know what Beach's wife is like texting her friends. Beach, have you ever tried to write a story as if you were your wife and you were still you. How would shfe talk about wyou, what would she think as you were "doing it." What does she tell her mother... I've been working on a story about Junior's relationship from the perspective of the third person narator and the words of the couple, and those who contribute to the direction of the story. Often once I get started some Some Southern woman inhabits my fingers and a bit of my brain. I wish she were a better typest. Characters have these conversation or talk the grunts and rare squeels they so often devolve to after years, decades. Look at her parents. She should spend plenty of time around your family. Would you still have married her? I know, the kids, you love the kids. I know, and she was hot, right?
K I'm glad you like the acerbic side of me. Old and, what did fairlane call me, "cantankerous," and did he say, "My dear?"
I'm becoming little more than a character in the bipolar pissed off old reclues' story, talking to her keyboard in a Southern accent, when I have never rally lived in the DEEP South. Beach country, Dcup country. No, no, Texas twang and Ozarks hillbilly when it suited me, but this writer talks Southern when she writes.
Chocolates? I'll have some! I don't care if they are crazy or not. It doesn't matter if the fork ran off with the spoon. You don't need silverware to eat chocolate!
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