Things that make running a marathon look easy November 4, 2008

“When I face the desolate impossibility of writing five hundred pages a sick sense of failure falls on me and I know I can never do it. This happens every time. Then gradually I write one page and then another. One day’s work is all I can permit myself to contemplate and I eliminate the possibility of ever finishing.”  John Steinbeck

 

 

This is where I’m at with respect to writing a novel in one month. Except less positive and more in touch with the ‘sick sense of failure.’

 

 

Thus, to motivate myself through this ‘adventure,’ I’ve combined Mr. Steinbeck’s wisdom with that of Alcoholics Anonymous and the Starship Enterprise. My mission statement has come out a little something like this:

Focus on one day at a time, explore strange new worlds, and boldly go where no wo/man has gone before…or die trying.

 

 

I printed it out and stuck it on the bathroom mirror, but if that doesn’t provide sufficient oomph, I may have to move on to writing myself a manifesto. A manifesto that can hopefully be worked into the book so as to satisfy the quantity of writing required for the day. Or a manifesto so long it becomes the book. Like the Communist Manifesto, but without the words bourgeois and proletarian. And with a philosophy wherein I still get to keep some private property, like my dog and my clothes. And that doesn’t require me to emulate a crazy Karl Marx hairdo (acknowledging that barring the unexpected, I cannot grow a beard.)

 

 

And now you see how I can spend two hours in mock debate with myself or digressing about things that have nothing to do with anything and not writing the great American (or whoever will have it) novel.

 

 

Who came up with this NaNoWriMo thing anyway? And why did I think it was a good idea? It’s like a marathon…except much, much longer. With a marathon, at least you know that in five hours you’re either done or you’re going to be hit by a car when they open the course to traffic, which will render you done.  

 

But like any ‘no pain, no gain’ discipline, I acknowledge that it’s unlikely that I will smoothly transition to a successful writing career if I don’t actually write. That only happens if you’re a celebrity with nothing to say, and they probably give you a ghost writer anyway. However, once in a while, they don’t, as evidenced by these horrifying attempts at ‘poetry’ I found while Googling “celebrity books bad.”

From Charlie Sheen’s poetry book, A Peace of My Mind:

…Teacher, teacher, I don’t understand,

You tell me it’s like the back of my hand.

Should I play guitar and join the band?

Or head to the beach and walk in the sand?

Ouch. Can poetry actually hurt you or did my appendix just burst?

Suzanne Somers chose free verse for her book of poems called Touch Me. If you thought the internal monologue of the woman behind the Thighmaster might be interesting, this poem sets you straight:

Organic girl dropped by last night

For nothing in particular

Except to tell me again how beautiful and serene she feels

On uncooked vegetables and wheat germ fortified by bean sprouts–

Mixed with yeast and egg whites on really big days–

She not only meditates regularly, but looks at me like I should

And lectures me about meat and ice cream

And other aggressive foods I shouldn’t eat.

 

 Who would’ve thought? The mere act of reading this crap has renewed my enthusiasm for my own comparative talent, the NaNoWriMo challenge, and the 26 days remaining…

Time zone!? I refuse to bow to your fascist time zone system November 1, 2008

I don’t even care that you’re turning the clocks back on me an additional hour. I ENJOY the fact that my body thinks it’s bedtime at noon. I PREFER to feel like a zombie and sleep only four or five hours a night. Isaac Newton only slept four hours a night. And Michaelangelo. And he was a genius. Sure, he lived and slept in the same clothes day after day after day and was legendarily stinky. Who has time to shower up when you’ve got masterpieces to release from stone?

Speaking of masterpieces, today is the first day of November. Which also means its the first day of NaNoWriMo. Which also means I should spend some time starting my novel. However, I’m still easing my way back into ‘the real world’ which has made me wildly unproductive. Do you have any idea how many clothes I have!?!? A lot. And accordingly, copious amounts of time can be spent leafing through them and picking out the perfect outfit. And combine that with washing my hair and applying the wide variety of lotions and potions at my disposal, and it’s mid-afternoon before I even get out of the house. Color me shocked, but I kind of miss the simplicity of living out of a little backpack. When your options are limited, you’re a hell of a lot more efficient.

In the same vein, and without a doubt, the primary challenge of the upcoming month will be maintaining my focus and putting a consistent effort toward getting my writing career off the ground. One of the key instincts I have is to do something every day – be it send an e-mail, place a call, mail off a short story, or attempt to assert some Jedi mind-control over Oprah. If I succeed, I promise to use her for good, not evil. Like adopting orphans with physical disabilities and putting my novel in her book club. That stated, if she starts robbing banks or selling plutonium to the North Koreans, it’s not me. I swear.

As for doing a 180 and crafting a career from, well, hope and a prayer, if anyone has any advice or input in this regard, I’m all ears. For many years I worked from home, so drive and discipline aren’t a problem for me…it’s spending my time on stuff that will actually (possibly) be fruitful. Or maybe I could conduct my writing like improv comedy? Everybody contribute some words and plot twists, and I’ll write you a story from it! If you what you would pick for your last meal if you were on death row and thus able to accurately predict your last meal.

In the meantime, I need to go chug a few espressos, watch a horror movie, and take a cold shower in order to convince my body clock that it’s not half past midnight. Wish me luck!

Shock Therapy September 5, 2008

Thun (the town where I lived in Switzerland) was every bit as beautiful as I remembered

I’m pretty sure I mentioned this before, but part of the reason I’m on this journey – a big part of the reason, actually – is because I’m writing a book. The book, however, is nothing like this blog. It’s a fictionalized account of the last time I did this trip (or, more accurately, the period of the trip that I developed kidney stones, became incredibly ill in Switzerland, and fell in love with the man who took care of me. Actually, those tidbits are still just a small part of the story, but you get the drift).

Anyway, I had the idea that it might help me remember what it was like fifteen years ago and tell the story with more emotion – and perhaps weave in the perspective of being definitely older and hopefully wiser – if I went back and retraced my steps. Not to drone on and bore you with the details of a book you can’t read (yet), but I will add that there is a second story line about the trip I am on now. That was something I didn’t anticipate writing, but which seems to be working.

So a few nights ago (a week ago?) in that awful room in Madrid, I watched an episode of House on YouTube. It seemed to be a two-parter and I tuned in for part two, but the general gist was be that House had been in an accident of some kind, had a heart attack as a result, and couldn’t remember what had happened. Eventually, he realized that one of the other doctors was involved, but the details eluded him. At the end of the episode I watched, they decided to drill a hole in House’s head in order to send electricity directly into the cerebral cortex or some similar part of your brain that holds memories. With enough of a jolt, his memory came back.

For a while, I lived in the basement of the little house one from the right

Although a slightly less dangerous approach, the last two days in Switzerland have been the equivalent. I have never felt so emotionally overwhelmed by a scent, remembered so many small details about the way someone walked or talked or smiled, been moved to such intense emotion over the mere sight of a place, or slept so poorly in my whole life. I think I’m in information and stimulus overload. I have had a virtual shock therapy performed on my brain.

Add that to my general schedule. In contrast to the slow travel movement, wherein you might go to, say, Florence and stay there a week and then drive two hours south into Tuscany and stay there two more weeks, and slowly progress such that thirteen weeks pass in just Italy, I have developed a ‘two night rule.’ Generally speaking, I stay in any given town for two nights (planned exceptions for slightly longer include Rome, Vienna, and a couple Greek islands).

There are three reasons for this:

1. When I made this trip in 1992/1993, I had no money and a Eurail pass. As a result, I would show up at the train station around 22:00., figure out what were the overnight trains and get on one. The next day I would store my luggage, tour that town, and repeat the process. I don’t think I could survive that schedule again. I don’t even want to try. However, in the spirit of my original journey, I am a rolling stone.

2. Spending days and days sampling the restaurants of London, strolling the bridges of Prague, and shopping the boutiques of Paris is wonderful if you have disposable income and a friend or lover by your side. When you have neither, it’s much easier to evade loneliness and homesicknesses – or just plain old moments of misplaced jealousy at the sight of happy couples or laughing friends – with new stimuli (i.e. a new place). I have nothing against that type of travel (in fact, there are quite a few days it sounds damn good), that’s just not what this trip is about for me.

3. They call it ‘travel’ for a reason! The train time is good for writing and thinking – after a full day of taking in a city or (more recently) crawling through the ashes of my own past – I relish the time to process my thoughts and just breathe.

However, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that moving every few days exacerbates the culture shock. I get attached to the soda bread of Ireland, but get cut off. I develop a real zeal for the sardine-stuffed olives of Spain…and then they’re gone. I trade them in for fresh baguettes and brie at bargain prices, when suddenly there’s nothing but dense grainy breads and Gruyère cheese.

The Jungfrau (happily, not completely covered in clouds for once!)

Similarly, just when I get used to saying, ‘Abrigado’, it becomes ‘Gracias.” I no longer have to remember whether it’s day or night, as now I’m back to saying “Grüezi” at all hours like I did 15 years ago. And as I adjust to ‘S’il vous plait’ it turns into ‘Bitte.’ For some unfathomable reason, I have resorted to saying, “Scusi” as my multi-cultural “excuse me.” Every time it pops out of my mouth, I briefly stop just to check that some miracle hasn’t occurred and maybe now I’m fluent in something besides English? No such luck. Apparently the “scusi” is just my poor, overwhelmed brains attempt to do some advanced prep work for Italy in a few weeks?

There is a lady standing by the seat where I’m sitting on the train from Zürich to München, just staring at me. Very weird moment here, folks. I’ve smiled at her a couple times and said, “Hi” (when in doubt, I just speak obvious American English to make it clear I’m not going to understand much anything else) to no avail. If I had to guess, I’d say it was fascination with my mini-computer. That or my captivating smile. Who knows?

Meanwhile, in a couple days (Sunday), I’m supposed to have free wifi in the room. If that works out, I’ll backtrack and add a bunch of pictures for your viewing pleasure. Meanwhile, wish me a couple dreamless nights to get myself back together. Gute nacht and viel glück!