Nonsense

Writing Prompts for Rebels

Exploded pen (Photo credit: quinn.anya)

In the interest of delaying Christmas prep, I started the day by checking out Facebook. After hearing whispers and sniggers yesterday, I saw it; Facebook has changed their writing prompts. They’ve done this before, when I first joined it just said my name and … Then it said “write something.” Today, it wanted to know how I’m feeling. I hit refresh, and it asked “what’s going on?” Really? I thought this was social networking. Wouldn’t be very social if I began each day telling about my midlife aches and how many times I was awakened during the night.

I understand, the powers that be are experimenting with prompts to encourage conversations and drive traffic. Maybe users reposting all those memes instead of chats are bad for business.

Naturally, this made me think of writing prompts in general, and how very bad I’m always been with them. I just don’t find inspirational-you too-can tomes to be effective for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got enough books on writing and the publishing business to stock the reference section of a medium sized bookstore. But the feel good, court your muse, take out a fresh sheet of paper, “I’m a good friend…” 20 minutes of stream of consciousness, GO! Mmyeah, no. I know Anne Lamott works for many, but she isn’t my gal. My favorite is Stephen King’s On Writing, but I’m also quite fond of Some Writers Deserve to Starve, by Elaura Niles. Really, no treatise on how to write has ever touched the elegance of Strunk and White, The Elements of Style.

No Spitting sign (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Why do so many books on creative writing include these squishy prompts and exercises? Whenever I read one, I feel like every elementary school teacher I had has me locked in an overenthusiastic hug while chanting, “What did you do on summer vacation?” And Mr Talbot has a little issue keeping the spittle inside his mouth, some might say slobbery.

So when I see these feel good, meaningful prompts, I shudder. And roll my eyes. If the prompt/exercise instructions actually includes the word muse, I giggle. No matter what I do, I do not feel inspired to write. Not just uninspired, but frozen, locked, hard pressed to remember that I’ve ever strung more than two words together to form a sentence.

Why are all these prompts designed to be feel good? I know many who feel great about themselves and their writing isn’t very good. They don’t see it, because they’re busy feeling good. I know others who question their every word, torture themselves over each comma, also not a surefire recipe for enjoyable work. Can’t tell as easily with this group, because their manifestos are locked in the attic next to the absinthe, waiting to be discovered posthumously.

This has me wondering thinking about what type of writing prompt will work for me. In the past, deadlines have worked. I’m pretty sure a paycheck would work. It’s self evident that looking at the laundry pile will get my fingers tap dancing across the keyboard. But a single phrase or sentence designed to let my not so inner verbose self loose?

Maybe if it was a clear direction to shut the fuck up.

What works/doesn’t work for you? If you read (or have read) books on writing, do you prefer the inspirational ones, dry and simple mechanics, or stories of other, successful writers?

omit needless words. repeat as necessary. (Photo credit: darkmatter)

XX vs Xwhy

English: A bearded lady from P.T. Barnum’s circus. This is from an article about Barnum in a Russian magazine. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Are we done arguing about whether or not there are gender differences? Really, we’re different. Exceptions in the various ways in specific people, and yes, yes, we’re equally valuable, but different.

Some of these differences are cultural. Others just seem to be hard wired, in the genes, evident in prepubescents. I’d like to explore one of those differences today.

Mission 24 – Empty (Photo credit: Jessia Hime)

Men are unable to replace a roll of toilet paper. I’m not even talking about hanging it from the roller, and won’t begin to touch which is the correct way for the paper to hang. Just taking out a new roll.

I realize women use toilet paper more frequently than men. But they use it. If I go into the bathroom and there’s no toilet paper, I bring in a new roll. If I’m leaving the bathroom and have used the last of the toilet paper, I get a new roll. If I’m in the living room on my computer and hear a masculine call from the bathroom, I get a new roll.

My father was ahead of his time, did a lot of the traditionally “female” jobs around the house. But never once did I see him replace the toilet paper. Maybe my parents aren’t such a great example, though. My mother had a thing about not having garbage in the house. Ever. Of any type. So many times I saw her remove the last twenty or so sheets of toilet paper and flush them just so she could replace it with a puffy and linty new roll. I know this because I watched, always hoping to see her pull out a package of pink toilet paper. Or blue, but the bathroom was pink, so pink would have made more sense. If you’re young, you don’t know that toilet paper used to be available in colors (scented too, but that’s another story). No, it was always white. Cheaper, and my father was a Depression baby who did the shopping–he would drive 3 miles each way for a store honoring double coupons. This is remarkable because there was a grocery store and two drug stores within a three block radius of where we lived. Driving three miles, he passed at least 9 other options.

Husband never replaces the roll. Nor does Man Child or Nerd Child. Flower Child, however, will. She’ll even take the extra 10 minutes to hang it.

Maybe if I could find colored toilet paper, the males of the house would be inspired to replace it.

1970’s Bathroom Suite (Photo credit: libertygrace0)

Dear Hope,

#ds308 – Out of Luck (Photo credit: Sharon Drummond)

Regretfully, this is a letter of resignation. After working for you without a day off for the last 40,ooo years, I feel it’s time to move in a new direction.

So there is no misunderstanding, I have accepted a full time position with your competitor, Drudgery. I confess, I’ve been moonlighting with Drudgery from the beginning of my tenure with you. Unlike the hierarchy here at Hope, where executives walk into their positions with their pockets full, and worker bees are expected to turn their pockets inside out as they pass through the security checkpoint; Drudgery is a true collaboration, with no false benefits.

In the beginning, I was excited to have the opportunity to work for you, believing that one day, I would be made a full partner in the firm. Instead, I was forced to spend my days bringing coffee to Wait and See, and make endless, useless copies for Maybe One Day. There is no teamwork anymore, no excitement when I catch a glimpse of your star partner, Acceptance. I worked tirelessly as an advocate for Acceptance, touting him as the yin to your yang, believing this was how I would get my own office with the view of Waterfront Hope.

I’m sure this notice will make no difference to the unfortunate state of your operations department, and I’m certain your shill game will continue to thrive.

Respectfully yours,

Mrs Fringe

Resigned Intern

Three Card Monte, Jaffa, Israel (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Can You See the Real Me?

The Who – Roger Daltry (Photo credit: Scott Ableman)

Sounds like I’m going to be naval gazing again today, right? Not exactly.

I was on the elevator earlier, saw a young, hip couple that live in the building. Very East Village looking, big gages in their ears, cool drapey clothes in black and odd prints, etc. We said hello, and I mentioned how much Flower Child loves seeing them; the young woman has excellent style, and there’s nothing Flower Child loves more than inspecting a young woman who’s styling. Not to be confused with stylish. They both laughed, said thank you, then told me they often admire her style. Understood, her closet isn’t so much a closet as a costume department. What they didn’t say was what I saw stamped across their pierced faces…where did FC get her style from? Certainly not me. Not Husband, either. He used to be quite the snappy dresser, but no one would have ever accused him of cutting edge fashion sense.

I’m actually pretty good at knowing what will look good on other people, how far they can push the envelope to make a statement. For me, not so much. This all started me thinking about “seeing” myself. Physically. I’m terrible at it, and I wonder, is it just because I’m not especially visual? Is it an American thing? A female thing? An adoptee thing?

When I took psychology 101, I learned about a study that had been conducted, showing photographic representations of the different ways one woman was perceived.

[ M ] Johannes Adrianus van Maanen – Self-portrait with a girlfriend in a funhouse mirror, France (1947) (Photo credit: Cea.)

How she saw herself, how her husband saw her, how others saw her. My money says she was divorced within 6 months of the study being published. But, whether these perceptions are positive or negative, this made sense to me, and it still does. I’m very lucky in this regard. Husband and I met when I was about 14, and I’m pretty sure that he sees me forever the way I looked when I was about 19. Well, plus the gray hair, which he likes and doesn’t associate with aging, since many in his family are noticeably gray by their early twenties.

We all know about body image issues, the way perceived flaws can appear tremendous and exaggerated to the one looking in the mirror. Who among us never had a zit we saw as the size of Mt Everest?

But, where I seem to differ from friends is that I can’t see myself in other people, either. I hear all the time that Nerd Child looks exactly like me, “Did you make him by yourself?” I know we’re shaped similarly (why yes, I could be confused for an adolescent boy from behind); we both blow out the right knee of our jeans before anything else, both have long inseams for our respective heights. Man Child I hear about his eyes and mine, and Flower Child, while not considered a carbon copy, I often hear she looks a lot like me. I don’t see it. At all. I see the similarities and differences between the three of them. I see Mother In Law’s dimples on one, Husband’s chin on another, but me? Don’t see it at all.

Do you/can you see physical resemblance to yourself in others?

English: Vogue magazine cover, May 1917 Español: Portada de la revista Vogue correspondiente a Mayo de 1917 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Splitting Hairs

I need a haircut. In my mind, I look like this:

Nichols as Lieutenant Uhura. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But the mirror shows more like this:

The famous tongue image (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been thinking (read, moaning and groaning to Husband) I need a haircut for about a month now. I know it’s true, because when I walked into Mother-In-Law’s apartment yesterday afternoon, she asked if Flower Child had done my hair for me.

I like to look presentable but I run into several obstacles. 1) I hate looking in the mirror. Truly, I’d rather have the Evil Queen’s mirror (Snow White) than the bitch harping on me from mine.

2) I don’t enjoy going for haircuts, or anything else that involves strangers touching me. Yes, I’m uptight. Accept it, I have.

3) The ever-looming budget. I can get my hair cut next week, but that means I have to skip Friday Night Madness this week. Not a tragedy or a hardship, but a bummer. Even in my broke and Fringe life, I recognize this as a first world obstacle.

4) I haven’t had a haircut in five years that wasn’t interrupted by the school nurse, calling to tell me Flower Child was sick or seizing or both. I haven’t received a phone call from the nurse yet this year, I’d like to stretch this as long as I can.

I don’t dye my hair, it’s salt and pepper and yes, I like it this way. But thanks for giving your best guesstimate on how much younger I’d look and you’d feel if I dyed it. I spend about two weeks googling hairstyles for gray hair before I go. Why? I see the same three images, regardless of year, season, or current styles.

English: Actress Jamie Lee Curtis autographs her books for children in Building 150 at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, Hawaii, April 1, 2010. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Paula Deen holds court (Photo credit: Bristol Motor Speedway & Dragway)

Cruella (Photo credit: KerriNikolePhotography)

Ok, I made up the Cruella one, Emmylou Harris is usually the third photo to pop up. Maybe I should go for Cruella this year. It might just satisfy Mirror.