Of course, I start this potentially epiphanous post with mere moments before I have to head to school to pick my son up from band practice–but:

A friend responded to a ‘woe is me–and so is my writing’ email by pointing out that the problems in my manuscript could be a result of my problems in real life. Which is to say, until I confront my demons, either in text or in person, I won’t be able to write a good story.

Gave me a lot to think about. And I think she’s right.

So I am planning on analyzing my issues EVEN MORE THAN I DO NOW (if possible) to write the best I can.

Or, at the very least, my characters will struggle through their problems, leaving me with a good ms.

Most people who visit here know I enjoy me some good Asian movies. I started out with Crouching Tiger, I think, then moved onto House of Flying Daggers and Hero and all of Zhang Yimou’s movies, and ventured into Takeshi Kaneshiro’s films, good or not, and then wove my way around Tony Leung and Andy Lau.

But, to my eternal dismay, I had never seen an Akira Kurosawa movie. You know Kurosawa, right? The guy who, to quote Wikipedia, “is widely regarded as one of the most important and influential of all filmmaker(s).” Yeah. That guy.

The husband has always wanted to see Seven Samurai, upon which The Magnificent Seven is based. We haven’t gotten there yet, but a few weeks ago we saw Throne Of Blood, which is a retelling of Macbeth. Then, over the weekend, we saw Rashomon and Yojimbo, two totally different films, both starring Toshiro Mifune.

Geez. Where the hell have I been all my life?

It’s hard, watching Rashomon, to think that this incredible, groundbreaking, mind-fucking, gorgeous movie was made sixty years ago. 60. Like, made in 1950. If you like the work of Borges and Escher and Charles Willeford and any artist who takes reality–or what you think is reality–and turns it on its head, you will like Rashomon.

Yojimbo is much more straightforward, based (uncredited) on Dashiell Hammett’s The Red Harvest, and was the basis for Sergio Leone’s A Fistful of Dollars. You cannot take your eyes away from Mifune in this one (actually, in all the films I’ve seen he has such a presence), and it is as dark and noir as anything I like, which is saying something.

Not sure what is next; hopefully Seven Samurai soon, but meanwhile, I just had to gush.

Back to regular whining and programming later in the week.

So the past three days I’ve been wiped–absolutely wiped–by crazy sinus pain. Which definitely exacerbates the feeling of ‘huh?’ I’ve been experiencing, but doesn’t entirely explain it.

But I digress. I’m in the awful ‘why do I even bother?’ phase of writing. That’s really hard, because I can’t imagine not writing, but I’m also not actively writing, at least not very much. It’s not because I am procrastinating, or lazy (although that charge could be legitimately levied at times), it’s because life otherwise is so busy. But, given that so many other writers handle way more than I do and still produce, perhaps I am lazy? Or bad at time management?

My son is in school from 8:40 until 3:00. That gives me six hours of Son-Free Time. But during this S-F T, I do my freelance work, which takes about three hours. I also handle all the household stuff, go to the gym (usually–today I forgot my stuff, which was fine, because I feel awful anyway), do grocery shopping, errands, etc. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for free-flowing writing. And then, when I can sit down at the computer, I wonder why? Why do I bother? I haven’t gotten much positive affirmation for my writing in the past five years or so, although I have written books. I’ve got a few things out on submission, but I can’t allow myself to be way optimistic, since I have to keep a realistic perspective. So why do I bother?

I would go all woo-woo (Thanks for the verbiage, Picky Vegetarian!) and say it’s because I can’t not write, which is sorta true, but really, would it matter so much if I quit? But then I think about that, and it makes me sick inside. So I flounder along, not writing enough, not producing enough to get myself to the point where I might have a chance for success, and then I beat myself up. Oh, yay.

And then here’s where the Carolyn Jewel example comes in to shame me–Carolyn had early success, then spent a long, long time not being published. And then longer after that not sure she would have a career in writing. But she continued to believe in herself, and did crazy things with time management to make it all work, and now she does have a career, and a good agent, and publishers who believe in her. So why can’t I be as strong as Carolyn? I don’t know.

Anyway. This is a lot longer, and a lot less fun, than my usual posts, so thanks if you made it this far.

Megan
*A Bryan Ferry album, obviously. I like the duality of the image.

This past weekend, post-dancing mayhem, I held a friend’s purebred poodle.

And didn’t sneeze.

I’ve been allergic my whole life; I’ve never held a dog more than a few seconds before, and then always had to rush off to wash my hands. And then would usually sneeze or wheeze or get puffy eyes. But this time, I held the soft sweetie, off and on, for at least half an hour, and–nothing.

Earlier in the evening, the dog’s owner had talked to my son:

Dog’s Owner: So, you like dogs, right?
Son: Yes.
DO: Do you think you’d like to have one?
S: I see where you’re going with this, but my mom’s allergic.

I know my son would adore having a dog; I haven’t told him I didn’t react to the poodle because of a host of things–the cost of a purebred (which would be necessary, since a mix would have the bad dog allergens), the cost of dog upkeep, the requirement to walk and feed and take care of the dog even when we’re away, the smell and wear on my furniture (vintage Heywood-Wakefield, about which I am insane. I’ve threatened my son’s friends’ lives if they damage anything).

But the dog was so much fun to play with, and I know my guy would be thrilled.

Aagh!

So the Delightful Phone Friend will mock (”Ratface!”), but I am experiencing a tremendous urge to watch North And South. Dunno why, it’s kinda like a tide coming into my body or something. It’s weird. At random moments, I’ll think “I MUST see it again!”

Only I haven’t done it yet. Huh. Maybe I am good at delayed gratification (and if so, tell that to the coupla handfuls of cashews I devoured earlier in the day).

Oh, and I wrote again today! Inching ever closer to 25,000 words, which is my stopping point so I can send it to the aforementioned DPF for feedback. Will then go work on festive paranormal idea.

Megan
*Now this is a total in-joke between me and my dad. And since Dad isn’t here anymore, it’s now a total in-joke with just me. Which means that I have officially crossed the line from zany to crazy. But I cannot read a compass, not for the life of me, and I cannot understand its point. Hence the compass joke.

So for many, many, many years, my dad and I would refer to our mid-winter malaise as The Februarys. We both got ‘em, there wasn’t much we could do about them, and being the stoic Irish folk we were, we would endure.

In recent years, I’ve been too busy to get the Februarys–last year had its own problems, but I was engrossed with moving and renovating and dealing with some pesky grief issues. Year before that we were working up to close on the house.

But this year? With the recession and job stress and all?

I *just* realized, Dim Bulb that I am, that I have the Februarys. Luckily, the darn month is over next week. Yay.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to go drag my ass to the gym so I can relieve some stress I probably wouldn’t like to know I’m carrying. Le sigh.

[I'd ask you what you to do relieve stress, but I'd probably just get depresseder that I don't have chocolate, am too fat anyway, don't have money to buy a treat, don't have time or money to get pampered, don't have energy for anything but the mopage, and screw you, I'm more miserable than that anyway.]

Tomorrow is a big day, for one sucky reason (death of Dad), and I am hoping to distract myself sufficiently so I don’t break out into sobs at inopportune moments (Someone Else: Ma’am, would you like that to go? Me: Waaahh!). I have a lot of Mom-type chores to do, and then I am taking the Son and his friend to see Twilight (I swear, I did not push them into it!).

Tomorrow night, tea and sympathy. Maybe some wine. Wine and sympathy.

I’ll be posting at the Riskies tomorrow, too, but won’t let any of this drama over there. That’s for business, this? This is personal.

Thanks for not minding when I get all serious and such.

Is woe you?

No, it’s me. Woe is me.

Not for any reason in particular, just feeling the ebb part of the ebb and flow of life. So I’m gonna chill out today and not beleaguer my kind readers with my various Ts and Ts (Trials and Tribulations).

Hope everyone had a great holiday, and please take a moment to remember that today is World AIDs Day, and people around the globe are still dying from this terrible disease (my uncle died over twenty years ago from it, back when it was the “Gay Man’s Disease.”)

Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe this person (Chinese actor Gong Li) and I are the same species:

So ridiculously beautiful. And a darn good actor, too.

Now I must slink off and pretend to be female: Hey, irrational behavior! Wait, overcompensating anxiety, over here . . . and where is that chocolate?!?

Okay, I feel better now.

So my car got towed today. And in a few hours, the Son and I will head to the Brooklyn Navy Yard (it looks as inviting as it sounds!) to free it from the car pokey.

In learning exactly where it was, and how much I had to spend to retrieve it, I ate about a quarter pound of cheese and about 20 Kame Rice Crunch Crackers, Wasabi-flavored.

How stupid is that? Stress eating. When you’re just too dim to drink water.

Feh.

I am SO having a beer tonight.