Monday, November 19, 2012

You can't fight City Hall, but you can annoy it a little

I’ve been to a lot of town council meetings. Some are interesting. Most are not.

But I do find town councils interesting in general, just in a how-things-work kind of way. How things work currently is to ask the federal and state governments for money.

(This is not the interesting part. This is the depressing part. Regardless of where you stand politically, it’s depressing to think that towns used to be able to have things like sidewalks and stoplights on their own dime and now they can’t.)

What’s interesting is all the bits that still work the way they’re supposed to. How the police department connects to the fire department which needs the help of the water department which of course is tied to the sewer department and on and on and on. Tab A goes in slot B and then you wind it up and hey presto! A town!

Even more interesting than that, of course, are the bits that don’t work at all. Pieces of property that either belong to Mrs. Jones or Mr. Smith or the Blessed Church of Apollo the Redeemer which moved to Samoa in 1978 and then dropped off the face of the earth, or maybe it’s actually the city’s right-of-way, depending on which deed you’re reading. The council members are very sympathetic (“We absolutely understand your position, Mrs. Jones, and I’m sure if you hire a lawyer you can get an injunction against Mr. Smith’s emu coop, at least temporarily), but they have no idea what to do. The city attorney helpfully explains that legally, it looks like all parties have an equal claim but the city will have to put a $20,000 sidewalk on the right-of-way to establish theirs because that’s the way the land grant is written.

Public hearings are not remotely interesting, but they can be entertaining. I have a theory: A helpful public discussion can be conducted by as many as ten people. Get above that number, and it becomes necessary for each question to be asked by at least three people (because they weren’t paying attention when the other guy asked it). Go up to say, 20, and the first question will be asked at least five times, each time more emotionally than the last.

This is exponentially more true of radio call-in shows, which is why I cannot listen to them.

So why am I telling you this? Oh yeah, I’m a journalist again. Sort of. A little bit.

I gave up reporting a couple of years ago because it seemed impossible to write hard news all day and then try to switch to fiction at night. And initially I think this was true. I needed a break from my old life to change gears and learn a new trade. I’m still learning, but I have enough momentum now that I think I can try to combine the two.

And I really can’t do anything else to earn a living (I really, really can’t—I know all writers say that, but for me it’s true), so here I am. At the town council meeting.

They’re voting about dog poo today. After the budget hearing.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Formula 1 Fiction

So, there is the plot that naturally evolves, and there is the formula. And then there is the well-crafted plot that holds your attention yet never seems forced and that, it is to be assumed, lies somewhere in between.

I am struggling with plot just now. You read over things, and it’s obvious where the holes are. Where there is an element that should have been introduced earlier. Where things just ramble all over the place for no particular reason and you think seriously, people, do you think you’re living real life here? You’re fictional characters. Make with the snappy dialogue and steady, intriguing character development.

So, if element A needs to be introduced in chapter 2 so that it has more impact when its big moment comes in chapter 6, that means writing a new scene specifically for element A, which now means it takes us forever to get to element B and besides, the new scene is horrible, forced, the poor characters mumble their dialogue woodenly as though I’ve kidnapped them and forced them to read a script so everything looks natural even though they’ve got bombs strapped to their chests and of course, metaphorically speaking, I have.

But the new scene is essential. We need it for chapter 6. Because chapter 6 is just so sudden, and there’s much too much exposition there.

So I write it. I hope at some point it will be rewritten into something less stiff. But for now it just sits there, hoping against hope that someone will notice something is wrong and call 911. Although maybe it would be better to just go along with the kidnapper’s wishes and hope it all works out.


Seriously—it’s like these people haven’t even met me.

Monday, November 12, 2012


Primrose went like this: You arrived along a country highway, winding mostly through pine forest with the occasional hayfield, and turned in at the driveway on the right. The first driveway. You could also come by the second driveway, the other end of the road, but then you would have to circle way back around to our house, across the dam where the frogs hopped in the headlights at night and through the cattails at the end, and it would take forever.

Our house was the first house, on the left. On the right was the garden, which everyone shared. The garden, which will make an appearance later, had poor soil. I’m not sure why this was my problem, I was four.

If you went on past our house (which you should, I don’t like when grownups come to visit mommy and daddy, everything feels weird until they leave), you would pass by the apple trees on the left and then the weedy bit of the garden on the right, where daddy dug up Jerusalem artichokes to make into the best of the homemade pickles and also where he picked dockweed seeds to feed the gerbils that I didn’t know were going to be my Christmas present, even though I helped pick the seeds.

(Pickled carrots were the second best homemade pickles. The pickled cucumbers were, to be frank, mushy, funny-tasting and in all respects inferior to real, store-bought pickles. Let’s not even discuss the green tomatoes.)

(The fact that they bought a pair of young gerbils but failed to pick up any rodent-friendly seed mix tells you everything you need to know about my parents.)

The loop keeps curving left, around the dumpster, where Elizabeth sent me clambering around the bags of garbage to find junk food that her mother wouldn't buy for her, and the big house where that really annoying girl lives, the one who’s really, really young (six months younger than me AT LEAST) and doesn’t know how to do anything and TOLD when I was chewing gum even though I wasn’t supposed to without supervision and then you will come to the pond.

The pond is more or less the center of everything. Not of the houses—most of the houses in Primrose are down a little side driveway that cuts off from the loop directly opposite the pond. But the pond is the center of life. It is where every Primrose child spends every waking moment of every summer, at least when there is an adult available to lifeguard. If you were lucky enough to live within sight of the beach with the tree and the rope swing that I couldn’t reach without help (people should really loop it up in the tree when they’re done with it—I would only use it a little bit when no one was there, and I totally would not drop into the water because I know that’s not safe), then you could quickly see that there are people there and be down in the water as soon you figure out the weird straps on your bathing suit.

But sometimes, you might head down to the red clay beach and discover that people are not swimming, they are fishing.

The people at the end of the drive are very into fishing. Not the people at the very end—they’re the ones who are Jewish and attempted to explain about dreidels, although not very successfully—or the house in the woods, that’s Elizabeth’s—the people right on the road with the big porch. They’re very into fishing. If you walk by their house on the way to Elizabeth’s and they’re out on the porch cleaning fishing things, they might give you a cool rubber worm that looks like a gummy worm but with better colors and is sparkly. I am fairly certain mine was the only neighborhood in North Carolina, if not the entire United States, in which all pre-kindergarten children had a collection of rubber bait worms in their toy boxes. There was a fair amount of competition over who had the brightest, most sparkly worms.

Some of them smelled like fish or something rotten. That was kind of weird.

Sometimes the people who were very into fishing would sit on the red clay beach and fish. More often, I believe, they went elsewhere to pursue their hobby—the pond produced an unimpressive catch. But they used the local water to keep their hand in, and they would bring extra rods for any kids who happened to be around.

And, while it was still a disappointment to find everyone At The Pond but Not Swimming, fishing turned out to be fun. You threw your rubber worm in (an ugly one—do not use your best worms, then Elizabeth will say hers are more neon and awesome than yours and she will be right, as she is about most things), and in a few minutes, out came a fish, all wriggly and silver. Then you took it to the lady who was really into fishing, and she would exclaim, and praise, and take it off the hook. Then you threw it back.

Fishing was fun.

One day, when we were all fishing, our instructors said something very strange: The very next person to catch a fish would not get to throw it back. The next fish caught would be taken up to the garden and buried to fertilize the soil.

There was something wrong with the soil in the garden. It wasn’t good for the plants. Dead fish, however, are very good for plants. I don’t know exactly how they managed to communicate this to a dozen small children, but in the end it was understood.

So: We were going to kill a fish.

I did not want to kill a fish. I also didn’t want to stop fishing. Fishing was fun. They were all shiny, and they wriggled.

Being an unusually analytical child, I decided to do the math. There were—one, two, three, six, man this crowd can’t keep still—a lot of kids there. A lot of hooks in the water. The odds of MY hook catching the very next fish were, well, you might as well talk about getting hit by lightning, amiright? And my line was already baited and I had cast all by myself and everything. So I kept fishing.

And I caught a fish.

It bit really quickly, and it was a big one, big as both my hands.

I thought, maybe, maybe they weren’t serious. Maybe they’ll let me throw this one back.

And maybe they would have, if I had protested and cried, but at the time I had this life philosophy that if I never opened my mouth in the presence of anyone who was not my parents it would exponentially increase my chances of surviving the many terrors of the universe, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t say anything.

I was also opposed to facial expressions, and most eye contact.

The lady who was very into fishing took my fish off the hook and strung a bit of fishing line through one of its gills and gave it back to me.

Go up to the garden, she said, dig a hole in one of the beds, and bury the fish in it.

So I held on to my little loop of fishing line and left, swinging my fish beside me. I walked up the hill behind the red clay beach. After my back was turned and I was past the rope-swing tree, I cried.

I cried as I went past the big house where the really annoying girl lived. I cried as I went through the apple trees, and past the dumpster.

I cried across the driveway, and through the weeds where daddy dug Jerusalem artichokes. I cried as I randomly picked out one of the raised vegetable beds and shoved some of the mulch aside. I cried as I laid my fish, my big fish that was as big as both my hands, on the dirt, and pushed some leaves back over it.

Then I went home.

After that day, when everyone was at the pond fishing, I just sort of wandered around, looking at my feet, checking the apples on the trees (they were always green, except that one time when there was a red one, and after I showed it to Elizabeth she ate it), wandering down the hill to see if Elizabeth was home and maybe we could play with her rabbit.

Once, I watched a hawk battle a black snake between the bushes in front of the annoying girl’s house. The hawk stood on the grass and kept trying to pounce. The snake stayed coiled just like a snake in the movies and struck, and nobody down at the beach got to see it.

But mostly I just wandered and studied the grass.

I’m pretty sure I never spoke to the couple who were really into fishing again, although they may not have noticed, since technically I did not speak to them in the first place. After the new baby was born we moved away, and I didn’t see everyone anymore, except Elizabeth, whose mom brought her to visit a couple of times.

Also, one time I got to go visit her, at her new house on the lake with the thick weeds that caught between your toes when you went swimming and the neighbor’s pitbull who kept us trapped on the trampoline by circling around and looking scary.

But that’s an entirely different story.

Friday, November 2, 2012

Dan Harmon on the basics

Dan Harmon is posting interesting things about plot and whatnot at

Story Structure 101
Storytelling comes naturally to humans, but since we live in an unnatural world, we sometimes need a little help doing what we'd naturally do. ....

  1. . A character is in a zone of comfort,
  2. . But they want something.
  3. . They enter an unfamiliar situation,
  4. . Adapt to it,
  5. . Get what they wanted,
  6. . Pay a heavy price for it,
  7. . Then return to their familiar situation,
  8. . Having changed.

Read the whole thing.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

In Which we write the Most Emdashes Ever

Sometimes I think I can’t be a real writer because I don’t actually want to write most of the time. I read interviews with people who say well of course I feel compelled to write at least an hour every day, every writer does, and I think they do? Do they not have Netflix?

I like to follow Catherine Ryan Howard’s blog posts and tweets because she freely admits to having announced that she was going to write a novel and then doing absolutely nothing for seven years. This is more my style.

(Though I’d never dream of making a public announcement about it. It drives me crazy when people ask what I’m doing these days and I can’t think of a way to avoid admitting the awful truth—I, um, I am trying to be a writer. Not sure it counts if you’re not published yet. So I’m not a writer, I’m just trying to be. I also clean rooms at a hotel.)

When I sit down to write, when the excuses have run out, when my internet connection has failed with only three minutes left of an episode of Doctor Who and I have stopped screaming and throwing things at the router—when I actually open the document that contains my sci-fi novel or my zombie screenplay or my chick-flick screenplay depending on which one I’ve completely, utterly and permanently given up on most recently (let’s be honest, the zombie story is going nowhere, it’s time for the secure delete on that one)—when I look at the page, and begin reading what I did yesterday, and realize that I’m actually going to do it, to try to write again—

It’s really very hard to express the feeling that descends. Not despair—there’s more drama in despair. Not resignation—there would be more productivity with true resignation.

It’s sort of the feeling one imagines you would get after being reconditioned by Big Brother.

The Winston after Room 101 feeling.

And then I write.


Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Origin Story

Did I ever tell you about the birth of the Awful Space Opera?


Well, you see, it was like this:

I’ve been planning to “be a writer” for as long as I can remember. But, unlike practically every successful author ever, I didn’t start writing until I was an adult.

And I hated it.

Not the process, as such, but my writing. It was so terrible. So very, very bad. So much worse than every piece of bad writing I had ever read anywhere and I used to read Harlequin Teen romances.

This went on for years.

I decided to get a job at a newspaper, because one had to get a job somewhere, and I figured I needed practice. Writing for a newspaper is fun. If you like that sort of thing—the person I replaced and the person who replaced me both hated it, but I had a wonderful, wonderful time. But I soon realized it was the wrong sort of practice. Journalism and writing fiction are very different things. If you want to write fiction, eventually you have to just do it.

So I did. For maybe ten minutes. Then I got stuck. But I had other ideas—I never, ever run out of ideas—so I decided to try something else. Got stuck again.

After spending a week or two beginning unfinished projects (mostly comic screenplays—somewhere between the ages of ten and twenty I outgrew my passion for historical romance novels), I realized that something had to change. And that something was: Standards. I needed to get rid of them.

You see, my writing is still dreadful. Even after struggling along with it for two years, it is vile. (Every now and then someone reads this site and says, hey, you’re a good writer, and I really appreciate it, I do, but if you read any of my fictional work you would take it back.) But squirming at my lack of talent was holding me back.

The only way to ever get anything done was to embrace the hack within.

So I decided to start a side project, the Story With No Standards. To establish our low expectations, I began with the universally acknowledged Worst Opening Line, courtesy of Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” I typed cheerfully.

Immediately I was transported back in time: I am in my grandmother’s yard, standing on the trunk of the collapsed apple tree, the one that we always used as a bridge across the creek, and my cousin is telling a terrible joke, based on Bulwer-Lytton.

I was probably nine, which would make him ten, but that’s not really an adequate excuse for this joke.

So I added the joke: “It was a dark and stormy night. They were all sitting around the campfire. The captain said to the mate, ‘Tell us a story.’ And the mate said, ‘Okay. It was a dark and stormy night. They were all sitting around the campfire. And the captain said to the mate…’” (I’m not sure when you’re supposed to stop telling the joke—my cousin seemed to think you weren’t.)

So—I had a dark and stormy night, a campfire, a large group of people led by a captain and his mate, hello, shipwreck! No, make that spaceship wreck!

And that is how, with no planning or preparation whatsoever, I became a writer of bad science fiction.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

The Road to Texas, Phase I, Part II, Attempt III

Two (three?) months ago I wrote what was supposed to be the first of a two-part post. I have tried repeatedly to complete the second half, but it just isn’t working. So I’m giving up. (The beauty of being one’s own publisher, yes?)

Suffice it to say …

You see? I have no words.

One of the great things about turning thirty is that I’ve begun to have a pretty good sense of my own limitations. Such as knowing the kind of work environment that makes my work output grow progressively worse over time. This is gives certain choices a bit more clarity: Sometimes it’s less a question of quitting now or hanging on till something better comes along, than of quitting now or getting fired later.

It is hurtful to tell someone that they have the people-managing skills of a lobotomized honey badger, but if the alternative is waiting to collapse under the strain and then getting sacked, well, then, that would be hurtful to me.

And I am nothing if not attentive to the needs of number one.

The most attractive thing about this job was that it was a sort of skilled labor, which made it less dull than my other option—hotel housekeeping. But in the right circumstances, housekeeping gains a certain je nai sais qua.

And, the boredom can prompt useful acts of desperation, such as walking into the local newspaper unannounced and asking for work.

So now I’m a maid. And also an underemployed freelance journalist. 

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Sorrows of the armchair critic

When I turned six, a boy a year younger than me gave me a handmade birthday card. I told him birds and clouds don’t really look like that. 

Also, I wasn't really sure how the black birds on pink paper motif had any relevance to celebrating another year of maturity. It all seemed sort of random. I wasn’t trying to be mean; I just thought he might like to know. 

It is very, very hard to switch to being an author when you’re a critic at heart.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

The Road to Texas, Phase 1

I’ve tried various approaches to this writer thing. Last year, it was all about being a deadbeat mooch, pretending money wasn’t important and focusing on my Art.

Then I tried being a World Traveler and Self-Sacrificing Volunteer.

Soon, all the unimportant money had dribbled away. I had deep doubts about the value of my volunteering. (Some people are born to make a difference. Some people should really go back to work and just send money.) And the Art—hah! Pah! And even, bah!

That’s when I remembered the whole starving-artist-with-a-menial-job thing. It’s unpleasant, yes, but it has all that romance and cachet and stuff.

Restaurant work seemed the most traditional choice. The application process, however, was tricky. I waited tables in college but in the subsequent ten years, I had made an important self-discovery: I kind of hate people a little. (See item re: volunteering, above.) I really, really, really don’t like depending on being cheerful and friendly and helpful for my daily bread. True, at the very highest levels, wait staff are expected to be cold and snooty, but we really don’t have those kinds of restaurants here in Dog Patch, and I wouldn’t be qualified for them if we did.

So, I put in a bunch of applications at various establishments, listing my experience as a server, but gently encouraging them to consider me for any position but.

Confusing for people.

Lately I’ve been trying to have a more honest and open approach to life, but my ‘I hate people and do not wish to serve them’ explanation seemed ill-advised.

And then I heard about the Café.

They were hiring for the summer.

They didn’t require experience, preferring to train their help themselves, rather than deal with people used to other restaurants’ systems.

They were looking for a kitchen helper who would be on the fast track to a supervisorial position.

It sounded too good to be true …


Funny how these things work out.

Watch this space for Part II of Phase I (shut up) in the coming days!

Dum dum dummmmm.

Saturday, March 3, 2012


In preparation for my impending move, I've been doing a little research on Texas. Since it's an election year, it suddenly occurred to me that I might be moving to (gasp) an Early Primary State.

This is a crucial question: As you all undoubtedly know, or at least all of you who are Americans (my stats keep picking up hits from Russia, for some reason), voters who want to have an actual impact in a presidential election need to vote in a primary.Or live in a swing state.

Thing is, I don't really want to have an impact. Who needs that kind of responsibility? I don't like politicians, as rule, so voting early just means choosing the lesser of two (or eight) evils. That means research, and that means paying attention to parts of the news that don't involve a burglar shooting his own foot after the cat knocks over the tropical fish bowl.

As it turns out, there is both good news and bad news: the Texas primary, in April, is not as irrelevant as North Carolina's (May), but neither is it as nearly-competitive as the one in Georgia (March), where I was a registered voter (and odd job reporter covering local political issues!) for five exciting years.

It’s my party and I’ll have dragons if I want to

I don’t care what anyone* says: The flying reptiles are BACK ON.

My whole life, I've wanted to live in a world with pterodactyls, and I edit them out of a schlocky fantasy novel because they're “stupid?” Who exactly are we kidding here?

Of course, this means extra work. Because I have actually  made a lot of progress in cutting the giant lizards out. And some might say my constant waffling makes a highly convenient way to procrastinate on finding some kind of conclusion for the plot. Maybe it is. Maybe I just want to avoid getting deep into that tedious escape sequence again. I don’t care.


*Including me.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Vision vs. work

Brilliant ideas are so much fun when they hit you. How is it that executing them is always so tedious?

Excising the dragons has been—tricky. For such a thin plot device, they are remarkably well-knit into the story. I keep coming across new vicious flying lizard attacks that I had forgotten about, and then I have to drop everything to figure out what should happen instead.

On the plus side, I got a new computer! One with a functioning hyphen key! And a caps lock! Which I had forgotten turns on accidentally at least seven times a day!

Earlier today, I accidentally spelled 'fishing' with two S's. I am convinced that this is an improvement: fisshing, fisshing, fisshing. Doesn't it look ten times less dull that way?

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

I will now remember things!

I am really, really, really excited about Moonwalking With Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything, which, I gather, is about to make Joshua Foer the Malcolm Gladwell of 2012.

I haven't finished it yet. Actually, I've only read the Kindle sample so far, since I was debating whether or not I can afford more trendy nonfiction geared more toward boosting my self-esteem than to actually improving my performance. There are, presumably, other, more boring books about how to memorize information that would actually help more.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Foer's book, which you absolutely must familiarize yourself with if you want to appear hep to the zeitgeist of the Teenies (I've decided I need to get in on the ground floor in naming the current decade), is about how he stumbled into the world of competitive high-speed memorization, and, only a year into his new hobby, became the US champion in the sport.

It's beautifully written, and Foer shows a true journalist's disregard for people's feelings in the fantastic word pictures he uses to describe his fellow competitors and enthusiasts. In much the same way I just did.

Memory athletes utilize mnemonic systems called “memory palaces,” where they mentally assign each number, playing card, word, or other item to a room that is in some way particularly memorable. In Foer's case, his palace is filled with images of celebrities doing disturbing things, thus making each imaginary room unique.

And that's actually all I know, not having read the whole book.

The end.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Thinking out loud

Deep breath. Okay. This is a little out of left field, I know, but, I think the Awful Space Opera needs ... a protagonist.

Crazy, huh? I know it surprised me.

I was reading a review of Screenwriting Tips, You Hack when it hit me like a ton of bricks: I can't follow any of these tips about the protagonist until I figure out who the protagonist is.

At one point I believe it was what's-his-name, the weather nerd. But somehow he never took hold.

Poor Little Rich Girl, on the other hand, seems very nearly interesting. Okay, mainly she has the most interesting storyline, which is really things happening to her rather than because of her, but it's something. And if blondie and the tough guy are Princess Leia and Han Solo, which I don't think they can avoid being, not without me discovering some lost writing talent in my sofa cushions, then the PLRG is clearly Luke.

There is no mysterious heroic-yet-evil father.

This makes it original.

However (arrrrrgggh, I seriously did not think of this until this very moment), the Arch Villain is believed to be responsible for the PLRG's father's death.

There is a distinct possibility I need to get out of the house more and watch videos less.

Of course, that was the whole point of the India trip, or, rather, one of several points, most of which are a tad vague. But it was a reason, and, regrettably, India didn’t inspire me in the least. Except for this one temple that would make an absolutely amazing backdrop for a scene in Firefly, or something similar. I'm not going to tell you which one, as this is one of my few actual good ideas and for once I'm a little uneasy someone might steal it.

Quit laughing. One of my posts had fourteen page views last month.

Anyway, a protagonist. It has to be the girl, everyone else is a bit blah. Of course, that means she needs a bit more development. Even for pulp fiction, she needs more development.

Also, come to think of it, the antagonist needs work. Much, much, much work. As does the relationship, distant though it might be, between the two.

I suppose this is why I always start to feel lost when I get really into the escape sequence. It's two or three chapters where the PLRG doesn't appear once. She's completely unimportant here, is in fact on the other side of the planet, so even though I get a fair amount of character development among the crew, it feels like a rabbit trail. I suppose I have to switch back and forth between storylines a bit more. And make the escape sequence shorter, but I knew that before.

Have I mentioned that every time I try to tighten it up it gets longer? It's a bit like the broom in the Sorcerer's Apprentice.

I love that word, apprentice. Maybe I can work it in.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

They always said I was a high achiever

"I had only one goal for today."
"What was that?"
"To make a to-do list for tomorrow."
"Did you do it?"

Friday, February 3, 2012

End of the road

 Asheville, NC

So, here I am.

I've been in the States long enough that jet lag is no longer a convenient excuse for my lack of productivity. Can I get away with Seasonal Affective Disorder?

Anyway, I'm here, and the time has come to put together some belated goals for 2012. Not resolutions, because not even my very best friend would call me resolute. So this is the plan: one, move to Texas; two, finish a screenplay, or at least a first draft; and three, I don't really have a third goal, I've just always tried to make lists in threes ever since my days of writing murder-trial stories on autopilot.

Did you know that you can write 99 percent of a lead article on a major court verdict before the verdict is actually returned? You just leave the lead sentence blank and fill the body of the story with quotes from the closing arguments. Very handy when the jury decides it can't make a decision without trekking out to the crime scene and viewing it personally at 9 o'clock at night. That way, when they finally do make a call, you only have one sentence left to write before going to press.

Anyway, that's where things stand right now. I want to move to Austin (special SXSW discount for residents!), and I want to finish something. Anything.

To make up for wasting this much of your time, allow me to direct your attention to a very well put take-down of a recent episode of Glee, a show which must be punished for its mysterious ability to make me simultaneously want to vomit and desperately need to find out what happens in the end, by the Bitter Script Reader.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Heading home

Delhi, India

My long sabbatical from writing is nearly over. Tomorrow we fly home, and I go back to either attempting that always promised, never finished screenplay, or possibly just fiddling with the Awful Space Opera some more. With any luck, I will also become a better, or at least more consistent, blogger. (Eaag. I still hate that word. One of these days I will come up with a better one. Then I will become famous, and all internet denizens will want to copy me. Within a few short years, only the completely out-of-touch will ever utter the B-word in an unironic fashion. Also, tabloids will start rumors that Amy Poehler has had some work done as she begins to resemble me in a very suspicious way.)

(Okay, that last line was weird. And, I'm fairly certain, not funny. But I have a lot of packing to do before that flight and rewriting is just not on the agenda.)

(Also, I keep feeling like this post should involve some sort of mystical reflection on the culture and people of India? And I don't actually have mystical reflections? Danae, you got anything you want to add here? Seriously, leave the damn saris behind. YOU WILL NOT WEAR THEM. Okay, it looks like I'm needed in the luggage assembly area. They're now charging a @$&*# $200 for excess baggage.)

India was all right. I might be back.