The Sitcom of My Life

So yesterday's post was fun. Some good movies (and not so good ones) that I totally forgot had writers in them. I also forgot, and no one mentioned . . . As Good As It Gets. Now HE was a very odd writer.

And Jude's comment got me thinking. Because really? Would a movie about a writer be all that interesting? It would have to be about the oddities and the weirdness.

Unless they were making a show about MY writing life, in which case it would be a sitcom.

Like yesterday walking into my office and finding a LARGE pile of dirt and Demon Baby's pet worms on my carpet. Fun times. And trying to write while a naked Demon Baby climbs on my back. And discovering Demon Baby had found the package of Oreos . . . licked all the cream out, and then left the choclate cookie parts all over the house. Over 100 chocolate disks scattered on carpets. And 42 interruptions while trying to write a key scene. And making dinner--water boiling--while on the phone with agent, and call waiting is beeping . . . and my dad is calling long distance to tell me his and my mom's car broke down . . . even though he is BLIND, he might want to one day drive again . . . life doesn't get more frenzied. Or hilarious. I told him I would have to kill him if he got behind the wheel. Forget sitcom, I am actually a rock solid ad for a phamaceutical company looking to market valium. Or given my propensity for insomnia, Lunestra.

But it also got me thinking about external quirks. I talk to my characters when I am very stuck. "Come on, Theo . . . what would you do here?"

And another quirk. I assess the day by whether I will actually see human beings other than family. That determines if I ever get out of my pjs. That's one of the benefits of being a writer. But I don't know that normal people assess their daily schedule that way.

So . . . if they were making a show about your life . . . reality show? Sitcom? Drama? And what oddity would make it into the script? I'm thinking my dad would DEFINITELY have a co-starring role. "But really, Er . . . if it was a straight line, under the right conditions . . . I could drive."

Are You a Hermit?

I admit it, when I am hunkered down for a deadline, I am a hermit. I emerge from my house for nothing. I chain myself to my computer. I am in my head and in my characters' lives 24/7.

And so which is it? Chicken or egg?

Because here's what's going on in my life. My Baby Girl, whom you all know as a poet and a sweet child, is being bullied by a couple of older girls in my neighborhood, led by the Queen Mean Girl herself. It's enough to make me vomit. And make me put my house on the market, and if it wasn't such a downturn, I swear to you the For Sale sign would be in my yard.

But my immediate reaction is pull my kids in close. Don't talk to neighbors. Close ranks. I generally LIKE hermithood. I genuninely LIKE my fake world in my fake stories. Stick me in the attic like Jo. So did I become a writer because I had this tendency to avoid "real" people for the company of "fake" ones? Or is it part and parcel of BEING a writer?

I don't know. But tell me, blog pals . . . are you hermits?

The Actuary

Before any cocktail party, I read the riot act to anyone I am going with. "If anyone asks, tell them I am an actuary."

Because, and no offense to real-life actuaries, no one (except a curious writer) asks actuaries very much about their job. Writers are a different story . . . people have LOTS of questions for writers.

You all know those questions. The ones you dread. I used to think that, well, if I met another writer, then that would be cool. We could spend the party talking about books and writing. Well, the last time that happened . . . the other writer got all pretentious and made all sorts of pronouncements about literary fiction and his Great American Novel--which was not yet written but was destined for the Pulitzer. Kind of made me want to to retract my "I'm a writer, too" comment and go back to "I'm an actuary. Now move along."

So here are the questions I hate:

• What is your book about? I hate this one because then I have to trot out my pitch. Sometimes I have perfected it, sometimes I haven't. Now, in the comments section of the last post, I DID say having your pitch perfected for conferences is imperative. But the thing is . . . I don't feel like practicing it for every cocktail party I go to.
• Have I ever heard of you? I have no idea, pal. I have no idea what you read. Obviously, if you are asking me that, then likely not, unless you have some sort of brain injury.
• Where do you come up with all your ideas? I don't know. They come to me. They come to me in the middle of the night, in the shower, in the car, and in this constant and never-ending stream of consciousness/prayer life I have going on. I don't know. I really and truly don't.
• What do you read? Now, ordinarily, I wouldn't mind this one. But watch people's eyes glaze over when you tell them you are working through this at the moment. People think I am weird. That I am a physics groupie and find physicists the sexiest, smartest men on the planet, except for him and him. I often wonder what would happen if I went to a cocktail party with all physicists.
• Are you published? Yes. But I used to hate this one.
• Are you published by a REAL publisher or did you publish it yourself? This is an addendum to the question above it. This is something new in the era of the print-on-demand thing.
• I read your blog. Why did you call your neighbor a jackass? Because he is one.
• And my number-one least favorite: I've got a great idea for a book . . . will you help me write it and we can split the royalties? Sure. You stand here and hold my drink, and I'll be back to discuss it. . . . . Now where are my car keys.

So come on . . . there must be questions you dread! Share . . . .

You Know You're a Writer When . . .

Okay, first as a personal aside. What colossal clusterf*ck of bad karma do I have? Last night, I didn't sleep at ALL as Demon Baby and Older Son have the most God awful case of stomach flu . . . I ran laundry and cleaned up things that looked like an Alien had regurgitated after a night of heavy Alien partying. I am telling you . . . this had better not be some sort of omen for 2008. I thought I was DONE with this streak of bad luck.

So moving on to something that will SURELY make me smile and be interactive.

At some point, if you are a writer, you figure out you're not LIKE other people. And somewhere along the way, as you're figuring this out, you start to realize it's because you're a writer. Probably HAVE been one since the second grade. And at some point you cross over some imaginary line in the sand. And you realize . . . THIS is why I am different.

So you know you're a writer when . . . (these are a couple to get you started . . . these are the first ones I thought of this a.m.):

. . . you sit down next to total strangers at a dinner party and ask, "So how did you two meet?" and then shut up and listen for the next half hour.

. . . you meet someone with a really WEIRD profession, like . . . undertaker. And spend the next hour hounding them with questions as if they are the most fascinating person since Barbara Walters invented the celebrity interview.

. . . you realize you sort of LIKE seeing red pen on your manuscript because you know it will make the book better.

. . . your characters have their own songs on your iPod!

All right, gang, let's hear 'em.