Under Pressure (Blog #823)

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Okay. It’s midnight-thirty, and I’m just sitting down to blog. Earlier tonight I taught a dance lesson to a couple who is about to be married. We’re really getting down to the nut-cutting. Three more lessons, and then it’s their big day. Then they perform their routine. Honestly, it’s getting better the closer and closer we get to the deadline. Not because, as you might think, they’ve been practicing more, although they have been. (Practice, what a novel concept.) Rather, their routine is getting better because of that magical force called pressure (pressure–pushing down on me), because of that thing that says, This has got to happen. This has simply got to happen.

Several times in the last few weeks I’ve mentioned the pressure I’m under, specifically the pressure to create (out of thin air) a 1,500-word short story for my friend Marla’s writing class that began four weeks ago and ends tomorrow. Ugh. I started my short story easily enough, with three hundred words, but the last time I worked on it, a week ago today (the night before our last class), I was only able to add a hundred more. Consequently, I’ve felt like a failure. Sure, a hundred words is a hundred words, but all week I’ve been at a loss because I haven’t known where to go next. Not that I’ve sat down, even once, to try to figure things out. I’ve been too busy–reading books, mowing my parents’ lawn, fighting a sinus infection.

Today I started dog sitting for a friend, and this afternoon when I ate lunch (Mexican food) in their kitchen, their dog lay on the floor and stared at me the whole time. Like, Hey, Amigo, are you gonna share that or what? This went on until my last bite (because I don’t share and–besides–had just given him a T-R-E-A-T.) Anyway, this is sometimes what trying to write can feel like, like you’re a dog lying on a kitchen floor waiting for some middle-aged prick to pass you a piece of his chicken taco. You bang your head against the wall and wait for The Muse to show up and say something–ANYTHING!– but then, as if it were a Tinder date, it stands you up instead.

Just like a man. The Muse is probably a man.

As of last night and even as early as this morning, I was convinced I simply wasn’t going to get my short story finished in time for class. Even if I do find the time to write, I doubt I’ll be able to get very far, I thought. Optimistic, I know, but I’ve done this fiction writing thing before, and it requires time.

So get this shit. (And pay close attention because I’m only going to say this once.) I was wrong. (I’ll explain.) Because of my sinus infection, I cleared my schedule this afternoon to rest. But then I perked up a little and decided to TRY working on my short story. I’ve got four hours, I thought. A lot can happen in four hours. And, y’all, a lot did. I wrote 850 words. That’s 1,250 words total. And whereas I didn’t FINISH the story, I’m okay with that because I realized it’s not meant to be a short story–it’s meant to be something longer. A novel, perhaps. So what I have now is a solid introduction, maybe a first chapter. Regardless, I have 1,250 words (that I absolutely adore) that I didn’t have a few weeks ago. And here’s the best part–I can’t wait to see what happens next.

This if the FUN side of writing. For weeks you beat yourself up and bang your head against the wall. You agonize over what’s going to happen. You do nothing and get nowhere. The pressure builds. Then, the day before your deadline, you finally sit down in front of the keyboard. You think, This has got to happen. This has simply got to happen. And just like that, it does. When it’s over, you’re just as amazed as anyone else is. Tonight while editing my story, I noticed subtle connections I didn’t intend. Magical, I thought. This is what makes me believe I’m not working alone here. This is what makes me believe The Muse does exist and–because it’s willing to show up to our creative play dates but simply takes its sweet time getting ready–must be a woman.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Along the way you’ll find yourself, and that’s the main thing, the only thing there really is to find.

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On Advanced Decision Making (Blog #809)

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This evening I had dinner with a friend and casually mentioned a self-help concept called advanced decision making, or ADM. ADM means that, for example, rather than waiting until tomorrow morning to pick out your outfit, you do it tonight (in advance). Steve Jobs used to do this. Actually, he wore the same outfit every day. The theory behind ADM is that each of us only has so much in our mental, emotional, and creative reserves, and every decision we make–what to wear, what to eat, what to watch or listen to–depletes those reserves. (Sleep restores them). The same idea applies to willpower. How many times have you “been good” in terms of your diet all day long and ended up saying “fuck it” after dinner and having a donut?

According to this limited-reserves theory, it’s not that you weren’t a person with any willpower when you ate the donut, it’s just that you weren’t a person with any willpower at that moment–because you’d used yours up for the day. Getting back to ADM, because each decision we make drains our decision-making gas tank, the fewer decisions you have to make about things to don’t really matter (ugh–the blue shirt or the gray shirt?), the more–um–gas you’ll have for things that do.

In my experience with ADM, all of this is true. Take this blog (please), for example. In the beginning it took a lot of mental energy to make happen, but now it’s simply “a thing.” Said another way, when starting a new routine–a writing habit, a diet, an exercise routine–your mind is going to put up a fuss, especially if you’re wishy-washy about it. But once you decide in advance that “this is happening,” your mind will eventually calm down.

In terms of this blog, I know that no matter what happens every day, I’m going to write. There’s simply no question about it. The decision to write daily was made a long time ago, and until I reach my goal of three years, this is it–I blog every day. Period. End of story. No exceptions. Consequently, because I’m such a hard ass about this, I never waste an ounce of energy thinking, Will I or won’t I?, and have more energy for actual writing or anything else I choose to do.

In short, making decisions TAKES energy; made decisions GIVE energy.

Tonight I told my friend that I’m often surprised when I’m writing. There’s this idea that writers are just listeners–that we listen to our characters and that tell us who they are and “where to go,” not the other way around. Some people say this inner voice is The Muse talking or one’s subconscious. My friend said, “Well, it’s STILL YOU.” This is what I’d say to anyone who starts a new routine and later begins to put up a fuss–the person who decided to start the new routine, who made the advanced decision, is STILL YOU. Sure, maybe part of you wants to complain in the moment–I don’t want to write, I don’t want to exercise, I want a piece of cheesecake!–but this is a less mature part of you. And this is the beauty of ADM, that you don’t have to put up with your Inner Child’s whining. In other words, you get to be The Adult, the adult who says, “The decision has already been made. This discussion is over.”

And so is this blog.

Until tomorrow, of course.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Things that shine do better when they're scattered about."

A Mouse in the House (Blog #104)

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For a while now I’ve been staring at this blank screen wishing I hadn’t made a personal commitment to write every day. I’ve also been wishing I hadn’t promised myself I’d be honest. Seriously, that was a stupid thing to do. Currently I’m tired (I know–we’re all tired–welcome to America), I have a headache, and I feel super bloated because I ate pizza on three separate occasions today, so I’m having a difficult time focusing. Additionally, I really don’t want to write about the thing that’s been on my mind all day, so I’ve been hoping I could get out of it. Like that ever works. Still, for over an hour I’ve been bargaining with the muse. Just give me something else to talk about–like the fact that I spent two hours tonight listening to Shania Twain’s Man I Feel Like a Woman, not because I’m gay but because I’m getting paid to choreograph it–that’s interesting, right?

But, “No, it’s not,” the muse says. “Tell everyone your mom has cancer.”

I don’t want to. I’m not ready to talk about it. 

“Do it anyway,” he says.

Oh my god, a mouse just ran across my parents’ living room! Let’s talk about that instead. Mice scare me. If only they were like the mice in Cinderella maybe I would–

“You’re stalling.”

Fine, damn it. But just so you know, I’m not happy about this.

“The mouse or the cancer?”

Either.

So yeah, my mom has cancer. They found it in one of her breasts several weeks ago, maybe as many as six or eight. This isn’t the first time I’m talking about it, just the first time I’m writing about it. (Mom said it was okay.) Originally she was told that it was small, localized, and slow-growing, so the assumption has been that the treatment would be fairly simple. I swear. I think the mouse just made one lap around the entire perimeter of the interior of our home. No wonder he looks so skinny. Anyway, I once worked for an attorney who worked out of his house, and I remember one day him standing in the kitchen with a block of cheese that had mold on it. Disgusting, right? But the man actually took out his pocket knife, cut the moldy part off, and ate the rest of the cheese. (He said you could do that because all cheese is basically mold, but I’m still grossed out.) Anyway, that’s how I’ve been thinking of the cancer treatment, something quick and simple that could easily be done in your own kitchen with a pocket knife if you were brave enough. But even if you wanted to let the doctors handle it–no big deal.

So apparently–big deal. Of course, things could always be worse (things could ALWAYS be worse), but we found out today that the cancer is a little more moldy–spread out–than previously thought. So two days from now mom’s going to get a port, which is basically a funnel they implant in your skin so they can pour chemotherapy into your body like motor oil for five months. After that, the plan is mastectomy, followed by radiation, followed by medication for five years.

As of now, that’s all we know. Also, I think we’re all overwhelmed, which is why we ordered pizza.

The fucking mouse just ran–no, sprinted–across the living room. It was so fast! Maybe I should call it Florence Griffith-Joyner. But I can’t think about that right now. I have so many other things to think about right now. Like FloJo gives a shit. I mean, a mouse just shows up in your home uninvited and does whatever the hell it wants. But of course, you’ve got to try to get rid of it. You can’t just let it stay. Still, I guess sometimes it takes a lot more work than you think it will. And maybe some days you wonder if you’re strong enough for what lies ahead.

Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes.

“With the mouse or the cancer?”

Both.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life proceeds at its own pace.

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