Punch Drunk Writing

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."

—Ray Bradbury

Boy, do I wish I could take this quote literally. Because, sometimes when I'm struggling with an unruly chapter, like right now, I just wish I could make a gin martini and curl up with a good movie. Obviously, I could if I let the devil on my right shoulder call all the shots. I can do what ever the heck I want. My two cats might think they're the boss. But I wear the pants in this family. Just not black pants. You know, because I'd need a lint roller. 

But, is it a good idea to start drinking at 1:26 pm? No, only if you are the devilishly handsome Don Draper on Mad Men. I can only imagine what it would be like to be that hunk for a boozy twenty four hours. The world would be my oyster. Actually, there was a pretty disgusting scene on Mad Men where Don and Rodger eat way too many oysters and tip a few too many martini's over one of their famously long lunches. The first thing Rodger does when he sets a polished leather foot across the threshold of his office...is puke his guts out. Scratch being Don. Carrying a pickled liver every where I go is not my cup of tea. 

I used to drink during the day. It was when I was a flight attendant. But it's not what you're thinking. I didn't drink on the job. Although, I may or may not have pilfered a few first class mini's back in the day. No, I drank when I got home, exhausted from puddle jumping all over the Midwest. I'd make a Cosmo and watch Sex and the City. My husband still teases me about coming home to a wife half in the roller bag.

Obviously, I know what the quote is really talking about. Because I feel the same way. I don't want anyone breaking my creative bubble until I've finished writing my first draft. But then again, is there ever really a good time for someone to tell you your writing stinks? Or, that getting anything published for real is about as likely as me waking up in bed with John Hamm? That's the thing about writing. I can do what ever the heck I want. 

Chapter 23: (revision) The Flight to L.A. 

"Ah, miss? Stewardess? Yes, you. Hello." The distracted flight attendant sets down her coffee pot and sashays up the aisle like a curious kitten, adjusting her necklace and leaning low towards the man in the suit. "What can I do for you Mr. Draper?" she asks, unconsciously picking a piece of lint off his tie. He hands her his glass and asks for another round on the rocks. "What's your name?" he asks. "You look like a Barbie or maybe a Shawna." "It's Sharon, Mr. Draper. Sharon..."

I've reviewed A Feast For Crows, just in time for the new season of Game of Thrones on HBO. I'm chomping at the dragon bit for the next season and the next book! Over at Springtime in Magnolia

The Colon of the Crows!

It all started outside our hotel room last month. On the 4th floor. All the way at the end of a long, dimly lit and lonely corridor. We tiptoed down the hall, terrified of the carpet beneath our feet. It was right out of American Horror Story Hotel; adorned with palm trees accosting the eyes inside a groovy coastal motif. Oh, man. I get goose bumps just thinking about it. We opened the door to our room, only to discover a beautiful bay view. But, of course, we checked the bed for any evidence of a putrefied man in need of Colgate Maxwhite toothpaste sewn into the mattress. Shit like that happens. Well, on American Horror Story Hotel anyway. There was real evidence of a public crime. However, it wasn't in our room, it was dripping down the railings of our balcony. It also pooled on the cement floor like psychedelic mildew at a motel 6. But this was the Holiday Inn at Lido Key in Sarasota Florida. Sinister? Perhaps. Hmmmm. Have I dropped the right hints?

It's not much of a horror story really. But then again, every story has to start somewhere. Ours started at dinner. We had chicken and broccoli pizza on the balcony. And Centenario Rum. Centenario is Costa Rica's finest sugar distilled delight. But what does Centenario have to do with this story? Nothing. I just love the stuff.

After dinner we...wait a minute. This isn't that kind of story. Flash forward to breakfast. We ordered the Holiday Inn's famous cinnamon swirl french toast. It was worth dying for. BBWWWAAAHH!

Then....we had a visitor. He watched us from behind the neighbor's privacy fence. They were fast asleep next door, probably wearing dental night guards, snoring and completely oblivious to the criminal lurking on their balcony. Slowly the creature inched closer, enveloping us in a war of wills. We nervously listened to his claws clacking on the railing as he approached. Click, clack. Click, clack. Before we knew it, we were paralyzed, watching the creature boldly steal a morsel from our breakfast tray with a flurry of feathers.

Oh my God. We forgot about the pizza! The creature returned. His beady black eyes revealing everything we needed to know about his true identity. He was a killer. A pizza killer. 

After he finished ravaging our scraps, he tried to send us a lewd message. And I'm not talking about the kind of message crows deliver on Game of Thrones each week. No, this was gross. But, there was something the crow didn't bargain for. The cheese he'd scarfed down from our greasy pizza box. His message got stuck. He bent his superior brain between his legs, looked up to his nether regions, appraised the sticky situation and did the only thing a feathered beast is capable of doing. He tore at his droop of poop and flung it to the wind. 

An excerpt from The Colon of the Crows. Not to be confused with The Chorus of the Crows!

True Story.

Don't be scared of all this silliness. Be sure to head over to Sharon's Paws Create for sunrise photos to die for. BBWWWAAHHH! 

The links:

Saturday's Critters

Bird d'Pot

Wild Bird Wednesday

Going Postal

Sleds like my parent's

If you've been reading this blog, you know I recently took a little look-see into the past. To the days when people literally reached out and touched someone. Instead of posting a selfie on facehole, they posted a card. In the mail. Weird, but true. I sorted through my cousin Jane's well aged, dusty shoe box full of postcards last month. My trip down Jane's memory lane took me to 1960's Vegas and titillating topless ice skaters. Ooh-la-la. I learned what kind of bed spreads the Holiday Inn favored back in the day. Burnt orange. And I was educated about a new species of rabbit. The  Jackalope. You know, rabbits with antlers.  

This investigative postal-ism prompted me to dig up my own hand written past. I sifted through my oldest box of cards. I'm a pack rat just like my cousin. I don't know why, but I saved everything. Wow! I received a lot of high school graduation cards. Geez, it's pretty easy to graduate from high school. I hope my friends and family didn't think it was Med school or something. I also discovered that my college boyfriend sent me more cards in just a few years of dating, than my husband has given me in fifteen years of marriage. Including the 4 years we dated before that. For shame! And then there's the mystery of the people that seem to be so important in you life. For awhile. They send you thoughtful cards and never forget your birthday and then mysteriously vanish. Seriously, there were cards from people that I can't remember from Adam. Or was it Eve.

But the sweetest cards were from my parents. I remember crying into an unfamiliar pillow when my parents started traveling out west to snowmobile in the mountains. I was probably only around 6 years old when they left me with our pastor and his family for two torturous weeks. I found out later that my Mom shed just as many tears as me in those early years. The featured card is from 1975. I was eight year's old and had graduated to staying with my friend Vikki and her family. I remember the Christianson's only ate healthy cereal. For God's sake Mom! How could you leave me with those savages? "Ah, excuse me, Mrs. Christianson. Um, where exactly do you keep your cookie crisp cereal? What???!!! You don't have any!!!!!" 

If only I knew a good swear word when I was eight. Like good old W.T.F. But I didn't.

My parents had a lot of adventures snowmobiling in Yellowstone. They enjoyed wilderness wiener roasts with grizzly bears. Sort of. They saw Buffalo and Elk in their natural habitat. (see above) They experienced high altitude sled troubles. (snowmobiles are called sleds by true devotees)  And, thank goodness, they sent lots of postcards. Postcards that always ended with Love, Mom and Dad. Priceless. Or, at least 10 cents worth. 

Seeds of Inspiration

A nervous roseate spoonbill. (Taken from our car)

But, things don't always smell like roses...

I was reading Santana Garcia's link on the Seeds of Inspiration while on vacation this month. (What a great name she has by the way) And suddenly, I had a hilarious, creepy and somewhat disturbing thought. My foul smelling seed of inspiration for the week was found in a ditch. 

We had just experienced a spicy, pine cone strewn walk through the palmettos and mossy oak hammock of Crew Trails. This peaceful walking sanctuary borders the calm meander known as Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in southern Florida. Inspiring right? Well, yes and no. The air at Crew is saturated with the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. As soon as you open your car door, the olfactory memory smacks you in the face. It always smells like that there. We were the first and only people to walk at Crew that morning. Being the first victim...oops...I mean hiker, usually means that you'll be entering a maze of spider webs hanging aimlessly and prolifically across the trail. It's almost spooky to arrive at sunrise, while the dew drops hang like luminous pearls, by the millions, from every mummified plant. This year we were prepared. We brought a trekking pole to clear the webs. But a midnight rain storm had cleared them all away. In fact, the whole Corkscrew Sanctuary is wetter than it's been since the 50's. So everything was popping with herbaceous life and vibrant color.

So did I find my writing mojo at Crew? Nope. We left the trail head feeling inspired, but nothing that would help me with the writer's block that was plaguing chapter 21. We turned left out of the empty parking lot and headed to our temporary home. I even added a bucket list bird sighting to my ever increasing score. A flock of roseate spoonbills. I had never seen them in the wild before. They were cautiously feeding in the ditch. So was it them? Nope. A little further down the road my husband nonchalantly remarked that the vulture he'd seen earlier that morning, was still devouring an unlucky carcass. Where? You guessed it. The ditch. He was gorging himself on, what my husband referred to as, "A melted pile of fur." Gross! But what a visual. That's it! That remark solved my dilemma. How can that be?  What kind of disgusting novel am I writing? 

a) V is for vulture

b) 101 things to do with road kill

c) Ditch tigers and their feathered friends

d) Road kill: Good to the last maggot (sorry)

The answer is e) None of the above.

Writing isn't all roseate spoonbills, jasmine, sugar and spice. Sometimes, it's vultures.

Or crows!

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Postcards From the Edge of Extinction

My cousin Jane had an Estate sale. After all was said and done, a lifetime of postcards sat stuffed in a double wide shoe box at the end of a very lonely table. They intrigued me. I'm a traveler and a lover of writing. And yet, writing a postcard never even occurred to me while we were in Panama this year. It occurred to Carlo in 1979. Carlo, that sounds like the romantic name of a real traveler. And indeed it is. How do I know? I know because I decided the box of memories that was destined for the trash bin, just might turn out to be one woman's treasure. 

 I took home that lonely, overstuffed box and discovered that Carlo got around!

My photo of the Bridge of the Americas from January 2016.

My photo of the Panama Canal in 2016.

Writing postcards is such a lost art. I blame the government. 49 cent stamps? Gasp. Even Carlo might have walked right by the mailbox shaking his head. When I started sorting through Jane's dusty stack, I discovered postcards mailed for 5 cents. Or even less! The good old days. So, other than penny stamps, what did I discover? Where has she been? Who were her pen pals? And where in the world did these pals mail their cards from? Istanbul? Yup. Brazil? Yes, you can bet your bikini there was one. Mexico? Si. But where did most of the postcards hail from? Right here in the states.  Vegas, baby. 

I even discovered where most of Jane's friends and family stayed on their vacations. The Holiday Inn. Free postcards seemed to be a great advertising tool back in the day. They were hilariously retro too.

Sifting through Jane's cards got me thinking. She's not the only card carrying pack rat. I'm one too. It must run in the family. I've saved every card I've ever received. To think that someday, some weirdo like me might go through them. Well, someone exactly like me actually. I pulled my stack out of hiding and plan to sift through those as well. 

Between my birthday cards and Jane's globe trotting trash, the future blogging possibilities seem endless. So stay tuned! 

P.S.  Stop back on or around March 26th for more creative writing from The Chorus of the Crows.

And be sure to stop by Springtime in Magnolia for my book review of Turn Here Sweet Corn.

Funny Felines

I was watching CBS This Morning recently, and to my delight, Stephen Colbert was hanging out with Charlie, Gayle and Norah. Well, you can imagine what happened next. I laughed. My cat Hana was sleeping on my lap, and when I laugh or sneeze, she always looks up and croaks out a little Meoahh. Not a Meow. A Meoahh. It's so cute. It always sounds like a question. And I've always wondered what she is saying. She's probably saying something like the following... 

a) "Are you talking to me? Not that I care either way."

b) "Are you O.K.?" (Not likely)

c) "Shhh. I'm sleeping." (This could be a contender)

d) "Are you laughing at me? You better not be. I've got mad cat skills."

I can only imagine the cat-astrophes she is capable of pawing together if she thought I was laughing at her expense. She's the kitty who pooped in the bathroom sink recently after accidentally locking herself in. She has the naughty habit of shutting the door while she's playing the popular game, It's Raining Cats and Dogs in the shower. Her bad. But try telling that to a cat.

What if we couldn't laugh? Or understand humor. Cats can't laugh! Poor Hana. I just had a mini epiphany. Hana will never let a laugh roll over her sandpaper tongue; her whiskers twitching with delight. "Maw, maw, maw." (fictional cat laughter) She can dilate her eyes like eight balls. But she can't laugh. Oh, the sorrow. Wait a minute. They can't cry either. Cat scratch the sorrow.

I do have at least one human in my life that can't understand humor. I won't name any names, but everything you tell them in jest is taken with complete seriousness. They don't understand popular culture either. Fuhgeddaboudit. "Please take this with a grain of salt," you casually proclaim. "Pass the pepper," they reply with clenched eyebrows.  The joke is inevitably on you. 

Thank goodness Stephen Colbert fills me with delight. Because life would be so boring without humor. Although, it's possible cats really do have a sense of humor. They might laugh in private. Can't you just hear the evil BBBBWWWWAAAAHHHH behind the closed bathroom door?

 "I pooped in the sink. Maw, maw, maw!"

Toilet Buddies

Bed Time Stories

I love this quote. It's such a fun way to think about dreams. These days, I'm not only spinning bizarre stories during the night, but weaving tall tales during the day as well. I'm writing a novel.

 A few night's ago, I was on a flume, careening down an arid mountain; admiring the white washed cities of Greece. The cities were set against bodies of cerulean and turquoise pools of water. It was beautiful and exciting! But, just like life, it whizzed by way too fast. It was so vivid. In fact, once I started writing my novel, it seemed like my dreams became even more technicolor and well, just plain weird. It was like I opened up a door to the Twilight Zone. I emerged from my black and white world into a strange new universe. And I discovered that it's fun to wear sparkly red shoes and explore on foot. But only in my dreams. In reality, I'd need a good pair of Merrells to walk all the way to the Emerald City.

 Maybe I'm simply paying more attention. I definitely seem to be remembering them more; waking up baffled and amused by the night's entertainment. I often wonder what my cats are dreaming about too. They always seem to be on a journey. Once I see their skin crawl, accompanied by the twitch of a whisker and a curl of a paw, I suspect they're half way there. This morning I was shopping in a grocery store in Central America. I woke up saying, "Si." Yes what? Hopefully it was yes, I'll buy the papaya. I can't remember. 

My favorite dreams always involve architecture. I've always had them. I'll dream up the most amazing homes. I had a blue apartment once. There was a yellow palatial palace with Greek pillars a few years back. And a lifetime of homes too numerous to count since I was a kid. They are always unique. And every furnishing and nick nack has my name written all over it. I call myself an artist. I hope, I can be a writer. But maybe, I'm just a closeted interior decorator. That's what my dreams suggest.

 I do day dream about my future dream home. It's on stilts in a yard full of fruit trees and swaying palms. Do you feel the humidity? I watch an osprey soar over head and then decide to climb my staircase to the home above. It's open, one level living. The ceiling is high with thick, rustic wooden beams scaling the roof top. It's basically a big wooden box surrounded by a 365 degree lanai. Screened in of course. It's on a lake. And at the end of the day there's an amazing sunset followed by a night sky filled with twinkling stars. 

A girl can dream...

To read a review of the wonderful book Pioneer Girl: The Annotated Autobiography visit Springtime in Magnolia.