I’d rather say in my cocoon thanks

Hey. Yah. It is a bit cramped. Certainly dusty. So what if I know the landscape of every freaking inch down to the last micron. It is mine God damn it and no one has dominion in here but me. Not that I have the slightest clue how to be good ruler of the universe. But I am safe and I am warm. Mostly. And when the cold winter wind blows I put on a Canadian Tenors CD and let myself pretend that out there, somewhere my True Love awaits.  Hmmm, there is a song there I think. Never mind. Not creating now. Ranting now.

I mean seriously suddenly I am thinking about romantic love all day every frackin’ day and I am getting really cranky about it. The thing I avoid most is now the frackin’ desktop on my computer. Seriously I haven’t even had a “real” boyfriend since I was in my late twenties. Cause I’m pretty sure you can’t count the married men or the dudes stepping out on their live-in girlfriends, or the gay couple and if any of you guys are reading this. Shame on all of us. But I’m thinking I paid the penance for us now twice over. Enough.

You may wonder whether I gave up on Love or whether it gave up on me. Tough call. Depends on where you sit I think. From where I sit, it gave up on me. Since, at the height of my physical attractiveness and personal joy I was sucked under the  riptide of my first and only “Kill or Die for” love. Yes. I would have killed or died for him.  I wonder if his wife would have? No matter, it was all so tragic and accidental.  I have superior worship from afar skills. Really top notch. Still do as a matter of fact. But when the object of your adoration turns around one day and pulls you into his arms. There is no defence for that. No defence. Only oceans of tears and eight years of therapy.

Fast forward. Today. Me. Tricked into writing a romantic comedy. Okay, not actually tricked. But it sounds good and is truer than you can know. Hey? It’s going to be brilliant and successful beyond all your wildest dreams. But for the four of five of you that actually read this blog? Please be prepared to squeeze me tight on opening night because it will have come out of the darkest places of my despair, and there is still a chance that I will dissolve into a dew before all is said and done. Love, bah humbug.

So fine. I can’t fit back into my cocoon anymore because my new wings are all sticky and awkward and won’t fold up small enough. But I am going to go wash the tears off my face and get a big glass of ice with just a little water. I’ll play the guitar for awhile and go to bed early. Teresa and Elliot and their quest for True Love will be waiting tomorrow. Right now? I’m taking the rest of the night off.

The blog with no title

The snow has turned to rain. I can hear it on the skylight.

As I type, the fingertips of my left hand are reminding me how much I’ve been practicing my new Christmas tune. My brain is reminding me how much I suck at it and I better be prepared to amuse my guitar teacher tomorrow, cause amaze him with my musical talent, probably not so much.

Funny isn’t it? In about seven minutes I turned a barely started crocheted scarf into a drawstring bag for my video camera. Really. I timed it. And yet mastering the first eight bars of a song I ALREADY KNOW on the guitar is like… Fine. We all know that of all my multitude of gifts, a knack for melody, not so much. Ironic to many since I actually have the vocal capacity to stun millions, but memory for melody? Pitch? Sigh. I can actually tell I’m off key, but the ability to do something about it?

Often when I’m practicing the guitar I feel like there are two people present. The meat suit, trying to move the fingers and hit the notes and a ghostly ethereal self that loses patience with the plodding flesh and decamps for God knows where. Where the angels are singing perhaps. Lucky me. I do know what that sounds like.

Interesting tonight. There is not a thing on television or written in a book that is more interesting and consuming than what I am thinking right now. Good. That is as it should be. I am going to go away now and kick some story butt. Because. I can.

But seriously I could use to be well kissed somewhere around now.

Never Send a Writer to do a Programmer’s Job

So okay, Skyhammer, you have to take the blame for manifesting this one. The string of lights that did fall down in the middle of the night scaring the shit out of me were the icicles Po and I hung, not any of the numerous strings hung by the team you spearheaded with Duder and Fast Mike. But since Duder and I helped and we are both writers and you guys are both programmers…Oh, never mind, cancels out I suppose. But that is just the math and my head hurts a bit today. Wonder why.

Did just find three tiny cheese puffs hidden under a couple baguette slices thou. Num. Breakfast. Hah, The Puffs made yet another convert last night. Mandolin Mike was truly skeptical I think. Informed me he wasn’t really a cheese puff kinda guy. Yah. He fell hard and fast like all the rest do. Good man wasn’t too proud to admit it immediately though. Thanks to Squish and Skyhammer for helping me with the heavy lifting on that, you either need some serious guns to do a double batch of choux pastry or a tag team of friends that respond well to my bleating, “Beat it! Beat it hard!” The Mikes were standing bye for the hand off, but Skyhammer pulled it across the finish line, the last great spate of beating motivated by Squish and I screaming cheers in his ears, no doubt. Oh, can’t forget Po’s cubing of the cheese either. Exactly what is it that you did Coco? I supervised of course.

Alright, need some scrambled eggs with the leftover chorizo and some serious coffee. Not fresh-roasted Jamaican Blue Mountain, like Mandolin Mike is no doubt enjoying as I write this. Can’t imagine having the patience to roast my own coffee beans. Hmm. Okay back with some musing on writing from last night that will be infused with caffeine, not red wine. Cripes as I type that I can hear one of the writing Nazi’s in my head whining that coffee is to red wine as caffeine is to alcohol. Shut up. I had too much of one last night and not enough of the other yet today, so if you don’t want me to unleash my supernatural freak collection into your damp little interrogation room, you will SHUT UP! And I will eat scrambled eggs and chorizo, with a little Guinness cheese grated over top.

Why is finishing so hard?

Okay.
So I am in fact in bad, bad, bad mood.
For absolutely no reason I might add.
I had a great day. Work worked, laundry done, nap, guitar, waxing poetic about the perfect man.
But I do have to finish something. Why oh why oh why does this have to be like walking over glass every time? I don’t even want to try and finish. What I want is to have another drink and play Vampire Wars until Glee is on TV.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Because it isn’t what I really want. What I really want is to have this movie outline finished. But no, not the least of it. I want it to be finished in grand and pleasing fashion. However ya big schmoop, it can’t even be a bad outline if it ISN’T FINISHED!
Resistance. The knot of phlegm in my head that must be expelled each and every day in order to get writing done.
If you pray, please pray for me.
Cripes, now my glasses are dirty and I must arise and clean them. And get a glass of ice water. Heavy on the ice. And wash my face since I’ve been crying and it feels all sticky.
Then I have to resume the position, tell my self again that writing is joyful, god damn it. And finish.