A Week’s Worth of Excuses on Why I Couldn’t Write a Week’s Worth of Essays of 500 Words or Less (In 500 Words or Less)

Excuse #7: I Didn't Wanna Do It

No sooner did I declare my self-imposed challenge and hit “Publish Post”, than I began dreading the next day’s assignment.

Writing anything involves a certain amount of passion. And there was nothing I was feeling particularly passionate about enough to write a well-edited essay of 500 words or less---let alone one everyday for a week.

500 Words is an interesting number. It’s a standard length for magazine and newspaper work---generally about the length of a film review. It’s enough where you should have a beginning, a middle and an end---with plenty of space to strut your stuff within its confines.

But you can’t get too in-depth, either. No space for that. Word choice is key. No time to fob around with long descriptions of the director’s uninspiring chase scene when the word “flaccid” will do.

But passion is key.

When I began writing a blog, I didn’t do it to add to my writing workload. I did it to have a place to play around with ideas, words and thoughts I had no other bin in which to toss. In short, it was supposed to be fun.

The sudden challenge to write seven well-edited essays in 500 words or less just seemed like a whole lot of unnecessary work.

In fact, I wasn’t looking forward to this blog entry. I put it off for an extra day. I was dreading it like a grade school book report on Beowulf. Eugh, Beowulf.

But, in the end, you take a few moments in thought and you FIND the passion you need to get thru the next 500 words.

Writing is not always fun. Dorothy Parker famously said, “I like having written.” Not having read much of Parker’s work, I recently stumbled across a copy of The Portable Dorothy Parker---one of the free books that seem to turn up in my laundry room.

The funny thing is, I’m about 350 pages into it, and I see the passion---but I don’t always see great writing. Some of it’s brilliant. A lot of it is pretty banal.

Dorothy Parker was definitely a hired gun. Reading some of her short stories, you can actually see her trying to find the passion to complete the task. But a lot of the time, you can tell her heart’s not into it. It made me sad. Like a whore pretending to like her John---the John knows it’s all fake, he just doesn’t care.

Most of her stories just sit on the page. Flaccid.

No wonder she liked having written. Some of her Johns couldn’t get it up. She was simply looking forward to her post-editorial cigarette and the bedside cash.

As for me? Well, I’m a waitress. I’d write greeting cards if they paid my rent and got me away from Europeans who pretend not to understand the American custom of tipping. Of course, I’d prefer to write those Labors of Love that everyone gushes about. Even whores dream of finding love.

Word Count: 500 Words. I am good. Damn good.

A Week’s Worth of Excuses on Why I Couldn’t Write a Week’s Worth of Essays of 500 Words or Less (In 500 Words or Less)

Excuse #6: That Whole “Well-Edited” Thing

One of the criteria I set for these essays was that they not only clock in at 500 Words or Less---they had to be well-edited.

Yes, I could certainly pull off the task if my JOB were to write 500 word essays. But that is not my job. My job is to wait tables 8-10 hours a day. And, despite the notebook I always have handy in my apron pocket, sitting down to write an essay at work would be frowned up. After all, they’re paying me a whole $4.35 an hour. They expect my absolute attention.

Back in the days when I interned at a weekly paper, there were all sorts of things that kept you on track---the first being that you went to work to WRITE. Wow. The wonder I continue to have for people who have jobs where they can actually go somewhere and be paid to WRITE is…well, it’s like looking at The Pyramids for the first time: How did they do that?

As an intern, I was often given time to write.

Suddenly, there you are. In front of a computer screen. You’re expected to come up with an original 50 word blurb describing a play opening next week. You haven’t seen the play. But you’ve got the press kit in front of you. You’ve got 20 minutes. GO!

As you strain to come up with words, busy editors scurry past, photographers rush in, phones ring, faxes spurt, and all manner of chaos surrounds your big moment to shine in 50 words or less.

But somehow, you do it. Because you HAVE to. You race your turbid words to your editor. As he begins to read, you wait to see the smile on his face as he spots your sparkling wit coming in around word thirty-three.

“Okay, this will work,” he says with a serious face. And then begins cutting, pasting and re-writing your carefully written 50-word blurb.

You feel like a failure. You can’t even write 50 words without help. But the more you write, the more you start to see what he’s doing. And the more you eventually are able to do it for yourself. But even your editor has an editor. The speed of the writing demands it.

All professional writers have editors. You can’t do without them. It’s like a surgeon trying to operate without nurses, residents and anesthesiologists.

I, on the other hand, am performing surgery without a license and in my own home. No nurses. No sterile instruments. Just me. And a few patients who need some adverbs removed.

Due to my primitive methods, I have but one thing to guarantee the operation’s success---time. Letting a piece of writing sit overnight (or a few days to a few weeks for longer works) is the only way to get the proper distance. Sure, in my case, there’s no potential for a medical lawsuit---but I like to think I’ve taken my own Hippocratic Oath: Write No Wrong.

Word Count: 500 Words. Prognosis Positive.

A Week's Worth of Excuses On Why I Couldn't Write a Week's Worth of Essays of 500 Words or Less (In 500 Words or Less)

Excuse #5: My Social Life---Or Lack Thereof

Despite my rigorous 40-hour work week, and my constant output of words-to-paper---I do enjoy having a bit of a social life. If you want stuff to write about, you’ve got to get out of the garret every now and then.

After a particularly grueling break-up last year, I decided to take some time for myself. And just as I was getting back “out there” as they say…I fell and broke my jaw. Dating would have to wait.

Not that dating was something I was looking forward to. I’ve never been good at it. I never seem to know what actually qualifies as a date and have often found myself in a restaurant thinking, “Is this a date? Because I thought we were just eating?” It’s all very confusing.

Nevertheless, I have lately found myself being continually pursued by unwelcome advances. Everything from the Spanish guy in my neighborhood today who yelled out, “Hey sexy!”---to being cornered by Boring Man, who seems to have set his eyes upon me months ago.

Honestly, I have no idea why Boring Man keeps me on his radar. I have shown no interest in Boring Man. Yet Boring Man still keeps popping up.

I guess Boring Man is an okay-looking guy. One of my gay friends said, “Come on, I’d do him! I’d bet he’s got a huge one.”

And I’d bet it’s BORING!

Boring Man has many long, boring stories and is always boringly flattering. Still, I’m pleasant to Boring Man and politely make boring small talk. This alone, seemed to make Boring Man think we were dating. A while back, he became jealous of some of my male friends.

“Wow, those guys really seem to like you!” he said haughtily.

And Boring Man is Crazy.

So recently, when I encountered Boring Man, I could sense the dreaded Ask Out about to occur. Luckily, I was in a bit of a sour mood. And I suddenly discovered the Perfect Turn-Off to avoid the Ask Out---just act like The Most Miserable Woman in the World.

No man wants to ask out The Most Miserable Woman in the World! It was perfect! Oh, I hated everything! Everything was horrible! No boring topic he brought up could even begin to lighten my mood. I was determined to sound like the biggest bitch ever.

“But your hair looks nice. I really like how you changed it.”

AARRRGGGHHHH!!!!!!

I literally had to run away from Boring Man---seriously, RUN! What was wrong with this guy? It’s exhausting!

And that’s how I feel about dating in general.

I went on an actual date last week. Not with Boring Man. Someone else.

Eh.

And there’s a date with another Someone Else next week. Found a killer new (used) skirt at a neighborhood thrift sale today. But I’m already dreading the small talk. I’m a waitress. I can only take so much of the small talk. Especially on my night off.

Oh well. The skirt’s nice.

Word Count: 497 Words.

A Week's Worth of Excuses On Why I Couldn't Write a Week's Worth of Essays of 500 Words or Less (In 500 Words or Less)

Excuse #4: I Was Filing a Complaint Against My Boss

While not the sort of issue I’d generally bring up in either a blog, an interview or a first date---yes, I was busy filing a complaint against my boss.

Old Fish Eye has been my nemesis for months. Where he developed this long-standing dislike of me, I have no idea. The other two managers think I’m more than competent at my job and we all enjoy working together. But Fish Eye is a whole other kettle of…well, mal pescado. His behavior towards me and several other employees has bordered on harassment for months. A few quit. A few pretty much got their backbones removed. A few others decided to pretend they were his friend. And then, a small minority of us quietly rebelled.

Years ago, I heard someone say that their criterion for friends was: If we were in Germany during The Holocaust---could I trust them?

Yeah, it’s a pretty tough standard. But when you think about it and you look at your friends…well, you start to realize the shortcomings of the human race. Let alone your lame-ass friends.

Most people go thru their lives just trying to protect the status quo. This is what I have. I’ve earned it. Don’t touch it. And as long as you don’t touch it, most people will gladly give you whatever you want. This explains the appeal of the Republican Party.

But Old Fish Eye touched it. And kept touching it. And wouldn’t keep his hands off our own, carefully cultivated, status quo. Not only that, but he was doing things that I knew the main office would NOT be happy about. Frankly, we all knew it. And why no one spoke up about it before is beyond me. Apparently, none of these people would have had the moral fiber to hide Anne Frank. Or maybe they just didn’t have a Secret Annex.

But it’s a funny thing about power…men who are comfortable enough to abuse it also wind up being comfortable enough to fuck it all up.

Only the comfortable swimmers risk the deep waters. And the more comfortable he got, the more he fucked up. And fucked up to the point that I was able to take my serious complaints over his head. And, while big companies like a manager who’s a bit of a hard-ass---they certainly don’t like one who fucks up the way Old Fish Eye did.

Is the problem solved? No. But it does seem that my complaints are being looked into. And Old Fish Eye does seem to have calmed down a bit.

Was this fun? God no. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I put up with his behavior for MONTHS before I finally made a complaint. Frankly, I’ve got better things to do with my time.

But after it was over, I felt this tremendous sense of relief and realized the amount of stress I’d been under the past couple of months. And it really interfered with my writing.

Word Count: 500 Words. On the dot.

A Week's Worth of Excuses On Why I Couldn't Write a Week's Worth of Essays of 500 Words or Less (In 500 Words or Less)

Excuse #3: I Was Working on Other Things

Unlike some bloggers, this little blog is not all I write. Yes, I do try to do my best for these little pieces. But frankly, I didn’t spend all those years reading Chekov, Joyce and Gorky so I could become a better blogger.

This blog is way down on my list of priorities as a writer. Why? Because it’s A BLOG!!!

It’s like a writer spending all their time on their diary and not focusing on any real work. Which leads me to one of my Literary Hatreds: Anais Nin.

I am continually seeing this wretched woman paraded to the forefront of every feminist literary website by people who know virtually nothing about her.

I will enlighten. Anais Nin was supposedly the first female writer to explore female sexuality honestly and openly thru her diaries and short stories.

My opinion: Her writing stinks. It’s stilted, self-important, and (worst of all) boring. The so-called “female perspective” was really written mainly for the eyes of men for an "anonymous collector". Yes, it’s slightly more delicate than male pornographic writing---that was the whole catch behind hiring a female writer. Like amateur night in a titty bar---even men get bored with the raw. But the intended audience was always men.

The women who sing her praises, first---generally know nothing about her and have read little of her work. And second---especially enjoy singing her praises in front of…you guessed it…men. Drunk women in a bar discussing Anais Nin are one Cosmo away from French-kissing their best gal pal for attention.

For those of you still clinging to the myth: Anais Nin was a mentally unstable, cold-blooded narcissist. As for those “secret” diaries---well, they were not really all that secret. The woman carted her diaries around for YEARS trying to get someone with connections in publishing to read them. And, in those diaries, she detailed an affair she had with her father---no, not a childhood rape, not even a weird, one-time freak thing---an affair. With HER FATHER! You can read it in her diaries. And she writes about the break-up. Break-ups are uncomfortable enough without it being YOUR FATHER! I’m sorry, Dad. It’s not you, it’s me. As if the holidays weren’t awkward enough. Ick!!!

And then she discovered that she was pregnant and the baby either belonged to her therapist or HER FATHER and she decided to have an abortion. Now, I’m a feminist myself. And I’m certainly Pro-Choice. But I have never been as disgusted in my life as I was reading her nonchalant description of her abortion as if she were going out for a cup of tea. It was so cold. And all about her. Everything in her life was all about her. And she treated people horribly. I have never read a biography in my life where I just kept thinking, “Wow, I hope they die a horrible death.” And when she got a horrible cancer, I couldn’t help thinking there was some circle of karma in this world. She was a horrible, horrible person.

And a terrible writer.

And so am I. I went over my word count.

Word count: 524 Words

Just this once. I really hate Anais Nin.

A Week's Worth of Excuses On Why I Couldn't Write a Week's Worth of Essays of 500 Words or Less (In 500 Words or Less)

Excuse #2: I’m Trying To Quit Smoking

Lest you think (due to my previous blog) that I’m living the life of Amy Winehouse up in here---I’m actually a pretty healthy gal. I eat right, exercise, drink in moderation, take vitamins, drink loads of tea and eat organic when possible.

Yes, I’ve been eating french fries more than I should. And sure, it’s that time of year when your friends want to go out for drinks to “catch up”. And then there is my love for bacon---mmmm, bacon.

But all of these things are within my control. Except the smoking. It’s my one truly bad habit. Yes, I have an addiction to books, tea and hot bubble baths---but these are happy addictions. The smoking---not so much so. Despite the fact that I’ve been told by non-smokers that if they could look as cool as me when they smoke, they might take up the habit…well, I don’t think it looks “cool” at all. At least, not on me. On James Dean, it’s still blazing hot. But he’s already dead, so he can smoke as much as he likes.

Why did I start smoking? Well, I blame it on a little thing called Brideshead Revisited. That damned Anthony Andrews in the PBS mini-series---He was so charming and so British as he sat with Jeremy Irons declaring that Turkish cigarettes went so well with strawberries. And I wanted to be charming, too. So I marched my fifteen year-old self into the local Tobacconists (yes, an actual Tobacconists) and asked the man for a tin of Turkish cigarettes. Now, when I was 21, I once passed for twelve years old. So I must have looked like a babe of about seven when I asked for the imported ones, please. The man didn’t blink.

It wasn’t until a week later, when my Mom bought some strawberries, that I gathered up the courage to try one. I waited till my Mom was at work, cracked open my bedroom window and lit one up.

They might have been delicious with strawberries----if one actually smoked. But I didn’t. I smoked about half the cigarette and ate all the strawberries.

Over the course of my high school years, if I were feeling a bit rebellious---I would light one up. But that tin of 10 cigarettes lasted me for over two years.

These days, a pack of cigarettes doesn’t last quite that long. And, more and more, I find that I need cigarettes to write.

I know this is all in my head. But taking a thoughtful drag off a cigarette does seem to clear away unnecessary adjectives. And does make me feel more like… Well, a writer---something you have to keep reminding yourself of when you feel more valued as a person who wears an apron and pours coffee.

But I’d prefer that my writing remind me of being a writer---not the cigarettes. I’m trying to quit. But it sure makes it hard to write.

Word Count: 497 Words

A Week's Worth of Excuses On Why I Couldn't Write a Week's Worth of Essays of 500 Words or Less (In 500 Words or Less)

Excuse #1: I Couldn't See.

Writers often describe the agony of staring at a blank page. But when you have an ulcer in your eye---staring at the 96 Point Super Bright White blank paper is actually physically painful.

And that’s just what happened to me.

Actually, a whole mess of things stepped in and interrupted my good intentions of writing a daily essay of 500 words or less.

And one of them was the fact that I literally COULD NOT see. After almost three days of walking around my apartment in the darkness like Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark, I finally got in to see the eye doctor.

Yes, the ulcer was back. But what was causing this strange behaviour that now appeared to be in both of my eyes? I suggested a possible allergy to my contact lens solution---after all, the problem went away entirely over the months I was wearing my glasses. But the eye doctor seems to think it unlikely. She simply replied that my eyes appeared to be suffocating behind the contact lenses. Hmmm. Okay. But why now?

She prescribed some more drops to put in my eyes and told me to come back in a week.

I was not satisfied with this answer for which I paid a hefty $15 copay. So, no sooner did I get home that night than I consulted Dr. Google.

Dr. Google is not always the most comforting physician. In the past, Dr. Google has led me to believe that I might have anything from scurvy to The Black Plague. And every symptom seems to lead to the possibility of some rare, incurable form of cancer. Dr. Google is the modern-day version of Dr. Roberts. Only when you’re down, he’ll bring you downer.

But in this particular case, Dr. Google simply led me to a virtual waiting room full of other red, dry, oxygen-deprived eyes like mine seeking answers online.

The good news? Dry eyes don’t seem to be a symptom of any form of rare, incurable eye cancer.

The bad news? Dr. Google advised that I seek the advice of a medical professional.

In the meantime, I began my own form of self-imposed care. I figured it this way---if my eyes are suffocating, then they just need more moisture and oxygen, right? So I took a long, hard look at my diet and lifestyle and tried to find the culprit.

What I discovered was a whole police line-up of scoundrels. Stress, not eating enough fruits and vegetables, fried foods, drinking, smoking, not exercising enough, caffeine use, pollutants in the air.

In short, I was possibly suffering from Oxidative Stress.

Yes, this is a “disease”; and yes, I took the Oxidative Stress Quiz on Google

So tomorrow, I will be presenting my medical theories to Dr. Eye and essentially saying to her, “Yeah, I know you went to medical school and have a degree and experience and a practice and everything. But I was on Google the other day…”

Word Count: 498 Words

On The Art of Over-Writing Into the Twelfth Night or What You Will

I overwrite.

I was about to begin this blog with a fun little paragraph about writers having certain specific problems as writers, or all professions having problems specific to their professions…

But that would be overwriting.

For those of you who only have acquaintance of my writing thru this blog---well, you have first-hand knowledge of this particular compositional malady.

However, in more professional outlets---I am far more cautious.

And far more editorial.

Some writers overwrite due to sheer repetition. Others, due to a little something called laziness (of which we all can occasionally be guilty).

As for me---I overwrite due to an insatiable quest to explore every single avenue, lane and rural route of a possibility on my chosen topic till I poison it, beat it and finally drag it to its watery death like a literary Rasputin.

In short, I don’t want to miss an opportunity to expound.

And frankly, who does?

Nevertheless, I think it high-time to state, for the record, that this little blog of mine is…well, a whole lot of exercises in public.

Sorry.

I do put quite a lot of thought into each and every blog entry. As a writer, it’s a nice little place I can go to explore my thoughts on things that I think about as I go thru my daily life. That’s why writers write in the first place. We’re communicating---in the way we feel most comfortable and the least misunderstood.

Once, in an acting class, the instructor was discussing auditions. He suggested to us actors that we think of our auditions as a gift that we’re leaving for directors, producers and agents.

“They may not open the gift while you remain in their presence;” he waxed on, “but the gift remains for them to open at their leisure.”

A few of the actors in the room beamed.

I thought it was pretty cheesy.

Frankly, as someone who’s done quite a bit of casting in her day, I can say from experience that any audition that doesn’t lead to at least a call-back is the next best thing to getting spam.

You won’t work. We don’t care. Thank you very much. Don’t call us... Etc. etc. etc.

But if any of The Seven Arts can be defined as a “gift”, I would say that writing is possibly the closest.

Something you leave on the page to be opened at the recipients’ leisure.

In Shakespeare’s case, some 400 years after leaving it on The Gift Table, but…

The problem is, MY literary gifts seem to be wrapped in several layers of wrapping paper and completely covered in heavy packing tape. And then, of course, there’s the charming box in a box in a box in a box thing going on.

Before the oft-mentioned “dear reader” even gets to the gem in the middle…well, they’re completely worn out and simply toss the gift aside like tube socks on Christmas morning.

Why would I give such a shitty gift?

Well, I love to write.

I’m the literary equivalent of that great-aunt who drags you over to her house and loads your car up with expired canned goods and mothball-scented clothes from 1972.

I just love giving.

A whole car load of unwanted junk.

Sure, you might find a nice pair of vintage woolen jodhpurs in the mix---but who has the time to go thru a car full of 30-gallon garbage bags full of clothes to get to a decent pair of jodhpurs?

I sure don’t.

And I’m a gal who would look quite fetching in a pair of jodhpurs.

But as much as I would love a photo of myself beside a sturdy horse looking all Marlene Dietrich in my jodhpurs---well, I have about as much spare time as you, “dear reader”.

And, by the way, I think the whole “dear reader” thing was growing whiskers back in the days of Thackeray---so if you’re still pulling that old chestnut out of your Runcible Bin… You really need to update your bookshelf.

What I’m trying to say in my over-written blog, exhausted reader, is that I am quite aware of my short-comings.

Or long-comings, as the case may be.

And, to that end, I faithfully vow that for the next week, I will prove to you that I can, indeed, write AND edit.

Yes, this may simply be a place for me to ruminate at length on the world around me…but I DO have a few editorial skills up my long, puffy, pirate shirt sleeves.

I vow, for the next week, that I will write a column every day in 500 words or less.

Yes, believe it or not, I can write less.

THE END.