In my head is the knowledge that camels have pear-shaped erythrocytes, that in oysters copper carries oxygen, not iron. I know that land heats and cools faster than water, that the hand, immobilized in any but the position of function, is destined to be a perpetual fly-swatter. I can recall who cast the vote in the Oregon legislature to doom the first gay-rights bill in the late 70s. I know how to say "welcome to Wales" in Welsh.
All these things I can pull out of the crevices of my mind. But I cannot tell you for sure where my car keys are. Even though I swear I put them the same place. Every. Single. Time. Still, I spend an inordinate amount of time looking for them.
They must move on their own. They tuck themselves into parts of my purse I never open. They hide behind the cushion in the chair near where I dump my purse. They walk into the kitchen and take up residence on the counter near the stove.
If I could find the other set of keys, this would not be a problem. However, I'm the only one who carries a key to my car. My husband refuses to carry more than one remote so the second set of keys is God-knows-where in, around or near his bureau. If I want to leave the house on anything other than my bike or my feet, I need to find my keys.
And I never can.
Other inanimate objects refuse to stay where I put them. Or where I'm quite sure I put them. Things like the hairbrush that belongs in my gym bag. I have, over the years, purchased a half-dozen small brushes for my purse and gym bag. None of them is ever where I need it to be. If I need one in my purse, they're all on the shelf in my closet. Need one in a gym bag? They're all in the purse I left at home. Not a problem after an exercise class, you say? Except that I often go for coffee with friends after our class and drowned-haystack-in-a-windstorm is not a good look for me.
I suppose I don't need to add that my cell phone has learned bad habits from my hairbrush and car keys. Only when I've plugged it in to charge it do I know where it is. And please don't tell me to find it by calling it from another phone. First, I have it turned off most of the time so it doesn't annoy me. Second, do you really think I know the number? I mean, I'm too busy remembering "geography is the study of the relation of man (sic) to his (sic) natural environment" and "i before e except after c, when followed by g as in neighbor or weigh." How can I be expected to remember a phone number?
Okay, some of what I pull out of my gray matter is semi-useful, like the "i before e thing." But the secret to the 9 times table isn't. Nor is the system for numbering the highways and exits of the interstate highway system. And yet I know them.
I have finally given up hope that it will change. I just factor in a ten minute search every time I want to leave the house.
Speaking of time, I see it's time to run errands. Have to find the damn keys first. Maybe they're near my gym bag from exercise class this morning.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
My Imaginary Friends
I saw a sweatshirt recently I think I might have to buy. It says, "Writer's block is when your imaginary friends stop talking to you." I'd wear it on the days when I'm feeling discouraged about something I'm writing. I mean, if they make sweatshirts about it, I can't be alone. Right?
Not that I've ever experienced classic writer's block. If that's a complete throttling of all ability to write, I've had more like writer's Jersey barrier--it keeps me from going in the direction I had planned to go by putting a big, ugly concrete thing in front of me.
It is usually put there by my imaginary friends. Because they do talk to me. My characters, that is. Some days they're more real than some of the folks in the grocery store. (That's not as scary as you think. You have no idea who shops at my grocery store.)
Anyway, my point is my characters and I have a close personal relationship. We talk to each other. They let me listen to them talk to each other, even to other people not in the story. It's how I know who I'm writing about. Until I get it wrong. Then they put up that big Jersey barrier and I'm in trouble.
It's usually because I have forced one of them to do something they would never think of doing. An out of character behavior or bit of dialog. Swearing when they'd never swear. Being aggressive when they're a shrinking violet. Okay, let's get real. Hardly ever do I write about shrinking violets. It's more likely I've made a confident person act tentatively in circumstances where s/he would never behave that way.
What they do, my little imaginary friends, is populate my dreams. They bitch at me, tell me in no uncertain terms how wrong I am. If I'm lucky, they suggest new ways to get through the scene they don't like. If I'm not, they just point out the error of my ways and expect me to figure it out.
It happened recently when I thought I was happy with a revised novel. Amanda wasn't. She gave me bad dreams for I-don't-even-remember how many nights in a row until I made it right.
Genre fiction, the kind I write, is supposed to be plot-driven. Or formulaic. Maybe some of it is. The kind I like isn't. It's character driven. The imaginary friends of the writer show up in the first chapter, hook my interest and lead me through their lives, conflicts and resolutions. Yes, the end of genre fiction is predictable--the killer's caught, the lovers reunite, the world is saved. But only because the writer listened to her/his imaginary friends and let them be who they really are.
Not that I've ever experienced classic writer's block. If that's a complete throttling of all ability to write, I've had more like writer's Jersey barrier--it keeps me from going in the direction I had planned to go by putting a big, ugly concrete thing in front of me.
It is usually put there by my imaginary friends. Because they do talk to me. My characters, that is. Some days they're more real than some of the folks in the grocery store. (That's not as scary as you think. You have no idea who shops at my grocery store.)
Anyway, my point is my characters and I have a close personal relationship. We talk to each other. They let me listen to them talk to each other, even to other people not in the story. It's how I know who I'm writing about. Until I get it wrong. Then they put up that big Jersey barrier and I'm in trouble.
It's usually because I have forced one of them to do something they would never think of doing. An out of character behavior or bit of dialog. Swearing when they'd never swear. Being aggressive when they're a shrinking violet. Okay, let's get real. Hardly ever do I write about shrinking violets. It's more likely I've made a confident person act tentatively in circumstances where s/he would never behave that way.
What they do, my little imaginary friends, is populate my dreams. They bitch at me, tell me in no uncertain terms how wrong I am. If I'm lucky, they suggest new ways to get through the scene they don't like. If I'm not, they just point out the error of my ways and expect me to figure it out.
It happened recently when I thought I was happy with a revised novel. Amanda wasn't. She gave me bad dreams for I-don't-even-remember how many nights in a row until I made it right.
Genre fiction, the kind I write, is supposed to be plot-driven. Or formulaic. Maybe some of it is. The kind I like isn't. It's character driven. The imaginary friends of the writer show up in the first chapter, hook my interest and lead me through their lives, conflicts and resolutions. Yes, the end of genre fiction is predictable--the killer's caught, the lovers reunite, the world is saved. But only because the writer listened to her/his imaginary friends and let them be who they really are.
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