The Game of Life

Who invented the game of Life? I'm not talking the metaphorical game of life. I'm talking go-into-debt-put-your-nubby-spouse-in-the-station wagon-backseat game of Life. Games are supposed to be a break from reality. Why do I want to enter into a one hour ass-whooping that hits all the stress buttons of my real existence?

Homeowners Insurance. Taxes. Speeding Tickets. Gifts for the newly married couple. All in the past month. None of them left that warm-family-fun-night-on-the-outside-of-the-cardboard-box-smile on my face.

Stocks? Fageddaboutit. No one ever spins my number, nor will I get that fifty grand back it took to buy into it. Sound familiar?

And what of birth control? There is no mention of choice when it comes to expanding the plastic family. Twins! More Twins! Suddenly, the back of my pink Studebaker is packed to the brim with immaculate conceptions I must now fund nursery school and full college tuition for. Millionaire estates? Not with the Brady Bunch +1 wedged like a pair of skis down the middle.

I planted a tree last year. Granted, it wasn't on Arbor day, but my Charlie Brown Oak has yet to yield a life tile worth $100,000. Unless I'm planting an evergreen that'll someday grace the White House lawn at Christmas, it's about as Life-based as earning a $90K salary being a teacher.

This newest game of Life is not the one I remember from childhood. Where spinners were engineered to spin without launching across the floor, skyscrapers stayed in place, and the path was not so winding. Maybe the earlier version gave us all the hope without any of the reality. Viewing it from the trenches doesn't elicit quite the same jubilation as staying up late on a summer night at Grandma's house when I was ten.

Still, there was something about drawing the Life tile that read Write The Great American Novel $100,000 that inspired a renewed appreciation for the game. Where, for a short time, possibilities lay out in front, jaded editors didn't lurk behind jagged green mountains and the only true sweat I broke was betting on whether that novel would put me in Millionaire Estates or a white plastic Countryside Acres home that, most likely, didn't have a heater that rattled and kitchen tiles that snapped loose like gunfire when the temperature dropped.

For one glorious hour, wealth hadn't come from a series of lucky spins, but from a renewed sense of possibility and enough loved ones clustered around the kitchen table to fill my pink car.

And that, Sir Milton Bradley, is a life well lived.

Two Who Can Rub

My computer and I are a bit under the weather today. And, according to Regis Philbin (an expert, right?), the cosmos will realign for my astrological sign this weekend and the parched funk that was January will be a distant memory. Until then, I offer up links of advice from two influential writers of our time. I've been saving them for just such a day when I can't rub two sentences together. Enjoy.

Kurt Vonnegut's 8 Rules For Writing Fiction

Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully-In Ten Minutes by Stephen King

Put Your Hands Up, Back Away From the Revlon

I love words with power. How the sheer creation of a term can make an idea acceptable. Fresh. Wicked good.

In some realms.

Such is the word guyliner. Think Jack Sparrow, only not a pirate. And not Johnny-Depp-can-get-away-with-this-hot. Three cosmetic companies are now marketing toward young men. Does this mean I'm firmly beyond the generation that understands why eyeliner is jumping the emo/punk ship and pilaging the rest of the male society?

Exhibit A:
Richard Alpert (Nestor Carbonell on Lost)
We know the Dharma camp stockpiled enough supplies to sustain the Oceanic survivors for eight seasons, but Nestor most likely hoarded the eyeliner under his cot. This seemingly everywhere leader of The Others wears more, even in suited attire, than all the women on the island combined. Is this so we can keep his character distinct in our minds from the nine hundred other secondary characters? "Oh, yeah. Here comes the metrosexual with the semi-automatic weapon." Is it a signal to the audience he's from another time? The year David Bowie applied more blue eyeshadow than aforementioned elderly relative? Yet, somehow, this may be the one normal guy on my list who can pull it off.



Exhibit B: David Cook
No, no, no, no, no. Just no. The slow evolution of David Cook from American Idol-humble to a man at the mercy of a eyeliner-wielding stylist is just wrong. We get the whole rocker thing, but even the quasi-red beard cannot pull you into Jack Sparrow Arrrrg territory. Just because Cook spouted the term in front of 22 million people and turned it mainstream doesn't mean he should own any part of it.



Exhibit C:
Brian Austin Green
This is enough to make me wish someone would start chanting, "Donna Martin graduates!" to distract me from enduring the eye burn. If you don't know who this is, no fear. One more dip into the Maybelline pool for this actor and he'll be on the second season of Confessions of a Teen Idol.



Exhibit D: Emo-Spidey
The words eyeliner and superhero should be banned from occupying the same sentence. This was such a misguided decision by make-up artists working on the movie that the term Emo-Spidey has its own place in the urban dictionary beside crappy movie. We love dark and tortured in the script, not on the eyes.

Lest you think I'm not all up into guyliner, I offer Exhibit E:
Jared Leto
I confess to having a thing for Jared Leto since his My So-Called Life days. He gets a free pass from me for being in the music industry, though if I saw him on the street I'd chase him with a Q-tip and a jar of Vaseline. Make-up remover. Geez, people.


So why the resurgence? Must Jack Sparrow walk the plank for his fashion crimes against the male species?

Six Word Stories

At first glance, it may seem impossible: Six Word Stories.

For she-who-writes-constipated-ramblings-at-Faulkner's-altar, it was a challenge easily overcome. If I can, so can you.

For inspiration, read those who've come before. Even Sue Grafton is represented. Here's mine:

Two silhouettes embrace, oblivious. Love hurts.

My recent favorite from the site:

Swallowed pills. Put on glasses. Shit! ~Ken Krimstein

Let's have some Friday fun. Your turn...

The Cat Offensive

See, the thing about kittens is they don't see their human writing companions as budding, contemporary Poe-like creatures. They see only the wicked, slovenly muse that sits atop the ladder-back chair, swinging his legs between the rungs in defiance of the author and her deadline. Cat toys poised at the desk's edge to launch a missile offensive, they view this muse a most formidable opponent capable of stalemating the most creative attacks: the mouse cord simulation of battle, the sorcery of the aquarium screen saver, the garrison claws of punishment for swift keystrokes.

All must be accomplished before the vaunted closing of the fortress doors which paw swipes cannot penetrate. But nature, he will call. And the kittens will be ready, waiting.

These are our two new kitties, saved from the shelter on Christmas Eve. Angus, left, is named outwardly in homage to Angus Young (inwardly a devotion to one of MacGyver's secret first names-he has three. Who else would know that?). A befitting name for a creature who acts not like a rock star, but more like a three-day binge hangover. Ginger, right, is the only redhead I'll ever profess to love and is most responsible for my wicked muse's revival.

Friday: Six Word Stories
Monday: Guyliner

Random Monday Vortex 10

There is a veritable cornucopia of inspiration (translation: distraction) around here this week. A Vortex 10 might just clear my mind enough to get back to editing, so let's try it:

Ten Random Things Distracting Me From Writing This Week:

1. Moving an Elderly Relative
Though the compensatory free dinners at IHOP provide a modicum of motivation, enduring a critical banter with the waiter worthy of a presidential debate makes the dry pancakes lodge in my throat. The stench of the senior menu's pan-crusted Tilapia is at battle with my strawberry syrup. Said relative's directive to the chef about the degree of fish doneness lest it bring on "explosive diarrhea" inspires a war in my stomach. Time suck: 2 days.

2. Waiting for Garage Door Repairmen
Apparently, it is in vogue for the young males of our local species to impale themselves against garage doors. While this mating/loyalty-to-pack ritual might prove mildly entertaining to the sociologists among us interested in the decline of civilization, damaging the door to the point of collapse is not. Should you choose to darken my driveway again and impale my pricey new garage door, you leave me no choice but to disable the safety beam and tether you in its path. Time suck: 3 hours and counting...

3. Changing Toilet Tissue Rolls
To some of you, this may seem silly. But for every other human who draws breath at Casa Mitchell, I shall purchase this t-shirt as a reminder that (a) it doesn't take a genius to work the spring-loaded plastic holder and (b) at any moment, your smarts will be traded for a hottie, mullet-wearing, bomb-from-gum making Phoenix Foundation operative lest we fail to ingest the lessons of the empty tissue roll. Time suck for a year: enough to line edit my final draft.

4. Time Travel to My Awkwardness c. 1980's
An afternoon at a roller skating rink has the power to simultaneously bring back a flashy "Heartbreaker" flat-chested shirt moment and enough sting in the glutes to inspire a break dance move worthy of pre-saved M.C. Hammer. Do not blow past me, Mr. I-most-likely-impaled-your-garage-door. Gum revenge is sweet. Ask MacGyver. Time suck: 2 hours, 15 minutes.

5. Frying Pan Sticker
Placing a bar code sticker with NASA adhesive on the non-teflon shell of the pan is smart. Placing it where it sinks into the conduction structure, unreachable by a WD-40 pen-wielding hand is pure genius. Twenty broken toothpicks later, I command the residual glue to, "Burn, baby, burn!" Time suck: 20 minutes.

6. Travels With My Cats by Mike Resnick
Could I begin to touch this time travel short story with my worthiness as a writer? I think not. In an interview, Resnick admits this Hugo-award winning story is the one he's most proud of. It has romance, love, cats and time-travel. Squee! Time suck: 25 minutes, but worth every one.

7. Build Your Own Time Machine at The Science Channel
At first glance, the promise is enough to make me a forever fangirl of Michio Kaku, famed physics professor who touts this feature on Science Channel commercials. After a grueling trip through what time is, the fruitless results are disappointing. No simulation. No games. Very backhanded, not-so-humorous retro. Good for the basics, but hardly worthy of The Science Channel. Time suck: 13 minutes.

8. LOST teasers promising major devotion to Sawyer's plot line this season. Need I say more? Time suck: 1 hour.

9. American Idol
Okay, I swore I wouldn't do it again this year. Nothing on it ever comes within a galaxy of the music I listen to (Daughtry-pshaw!), but I needed a wicked laugh after a flat tire fiasco this week. I always wish Seacrest would bitch-slap some of these devoted family members who were never honest enough with their beloved to say, "This is not your thing, honey." It is my fervent hope I am not the William Hung of the writing world. Time suck: 1 hour, 10 minutes.

10. Judging GH Entries I Adore
Historical romance writers brought their game when they submitted to the Golden Heart contest this year. Fifty pages were simply not enough for two of them. Perfect scores all round!
Time suck: 1 hour, 15 minutes.

Here's to a new week of productivity for everyone!

Human Nature

Yesterday, I sat crowded in a cheap plastic chair among many in a line. I was in a holding pattern for upwards of two hours, so I'd brought my manuscript to edit. Highlighters hooked to a bungee clamp, fifty inner pages cinched by a binder clip, blinding goggles on to the outside world, I plunged in.

As I worked, I noticed a closing distance between others gathered to wait. Soon, every chair was full, some double parked for groups preferring chit chat to isolation. They crowded my scant light, spoke of crock pot recipes while the Madam in my story collected the previous night's wood tokens for sexual favors, and swallowed my personal space with each passing moment.

An hour in, it happened. An interruption of such magnitude, I tossed the pages to the chair and scrambled away in haste. Though I am an eternal optimist and firmly believe in other's inherent ability to be good and decent, I would almost never leave my purse behind and trust it to strangers. I even take my laptop to the bathroom with me when I'm writing at a coffee shop. Imagine the interruption what you will. Perhaps the parking brake on my Toyota finally gave. Perhaps a blood-curdling scream ripped out my name from beyond my post. Imagine what you will, but it was immediate and important, and I fled for the moment.

Mini-crisis ended, I returned to my spot to find the woman in the next chair leaned over at a back-breaking angle to read my pages. She could not have violated me more had she slipped the credit cards from my wallet. For all that I can think to say in retrospect now, words failed me at the moment. I simply gathered my things in a huff and left, my greatest capacity for confrontation, as always, on page.

Later, I revisited the page she'd read-the one I'd carelessly opened to the world before it was ready. The truth is, the scene is almost unsalvageable, on the chopping block of worthiness in my plot, quite possibly some of the worst dreck in the entire novel. Had the woman picked up on my self-reproach in my scribbled margin comments: better dialogue, deepen, word choice, better, not in character, better? I know what I mean by better. I have faith in my ability to polish a turd.

The woman, however, I'm sure had misgivings. Would I have felt differently about her curiosity had she read my best? Is nosiness flattering when it meets with pride?

Part of a writer's defense mechanism is to be guarded. So much of us is exposed on the page, we nurture a fierce streak of protectiveness that may seem neurotic, at times, to others. Peer critiques become an exercise in trust. Agent submissions become an intricate ritual of letting go.

Trust. Fear. Protectiveness. All as inherent to human nature as curiosity.

All as much a part of the woman's story as my own.