Note:  In the fall of 2008, I wanted to try my hand at writing a book but that plan quickly hit a snag:  me.  For a month I tried to wriggle my out of some heavy duty resistance, but the resistance ultimately prevailed.  Which was a shame.  (Or, maybe not as I can’t even remember what sort of book it was I wanted to write!)  At any rate, working through the problem did lead me into some interesting exercises.  So, it wasn’t a total loss.  It was, in a way, a partial win. This post was the last of a series I called Writer’s Knot.

My dog is having a tough week.  His seasonal allergies have flared up, his feet itch, and if I don’t give him anti-inflammatory meds and make him wear baby socks, he’ll chew his paws until they’re raw and bleeding.  He beetles around the house just fine despite the makeshift booties secured with velcro strips.  Dogs don’t like velcro, doncha know, which means he’ll leave the strips – and thus the socks – alone. And whenever he’s taken outside, the socks come off and he gets a bootie break.

Literary Ambition has been observing these little attentions and drawing comparisons.  She does not like what she sees.  She wants me to attend to the book in the same vein as the dog, to baby it through all the irritations and whimpers.  She also wants me to remove the sock on my brain, to let the itch to work on the book flare me into action.

Thus, The Organizer was tapped for a follow-up appointment.  Together we scanned the calendar entries I’d made the week before and then the number of checkmarks made on the days when the calendar entry was completed.  The latter took all of two seconds.  Well, murmured The Organizer, at least we have a clear understanding of what hasn’t been done. As if I didn’t already know.

Thus, The Organizer got the boot.  Hence, Literary Ambition began to cry.  It’s been nothing but problems, problems, problems for her.  As soon as she squirts tonic water on a three-alarmer, there’s a new four or five-alarmer for her to deal with.  I empathize.  RE: the grind, the hard graft of the task she’s been given.

I decided that she and I need a break, some breathing space. I want to pfaff around with Dreaming & Scheming for the next three days. They carry the seeds for the next planting, the next project.  Seeds don’t germinate in a packet, after all.  We need to prep the bed and plant those suckers.  While they’re forming roots, shoots and leaves, Literary Ambition and I can get back to the book.  It’s that simple.

Yet it’s not. Because Literary Ambition doesn’t want a break. She doesn’t like sound or the smell of that.

I went ahead with the drastic action of booking a three-day cruise for Literary Ambition against her wishes.  (It’s a 3-day Greek Isle cruise including an outing on Santorini – what’s not to like!)  She refused to pack a bag.  So, I tossed a few things into a tote anyway (including sunscreen), and arranged for a cab to chariot her to the port. I’m sorry she’s discombobulated and feels abandoned and unappreciated.  Who wouldn’t?

Still, I’m not going to let the need for a reprieve become a tsunami in a teacup – which would be my norm.

And it’s 50-50 if Literary Ambition will actually board the ship and take advantage of her all-expenses paid vacay.  I won’t be there to witness her choice.  Perhaps you will.  If so, I don’t mind at all if you tell me the outcome.

******

PS – Also, just want to thank my writing group buddies who have inspired me to post my weekly check-ins no matter the plot.

Rufus is not happy with me today.

I pulled a sock over one of his paws because he’s been gnawing obsessively at one of them (seasonal allergies). When I checked his paws this morning, the one appeared very sore. So, on went the baby sock, and on to his chair went Rufus to mope.

I told him that he’ll have sock “breaks” when it’s time for walkies, but that is not enough to shake his grudge. He’s turned his back and pretends that I’m not sitting four feet from him.

But that’s not why it’s chilly in the kitchen. This is day two of a cold snap. It’s in the mid-forties (around 8-9°C) today with rain showers. The air smells like sleet. I lit a fire after breakfast and all day I’ve been feeding it bits of egg carton and thick logs so that by now the surround is hot enough to dry socks. That’s taken about six logs so far, and I’m estimating that I’ll need another four to get through the evening. Which has led me to calculate that if I continue to burn wood at this rate, we will need approximately 1,350 logs to get through the next five months, and that we have about 400 stacked in the cave.

Rufus may have a sock on his paw, but it feels like I have a sock on my brain. I am that bored.

As a kid if I wanted to piss off my mother, a beeline method would be to tell her I was bored, that I couldn’t think of anything to do. That always gripped her shit. She’d roar a ripe litany of things I could do to occupy myself, and if I continued to dump my boredom problem in her lap she was putting me to work doing chores that a helpful child would have volunteered to do, that I might have stumped up to do if I had inherited the helper gene. (Obviously, I hadn’t.)

Everything on her list – on the list I recanted to myself earlier – was/is perfectly valid. Yet none of it flips a switch, strikes a match, sets logs aflame. That’s the poison of boredom’s bite. It jams the flu and pees on the fire.

Of course I know that my mother was right in the sense that I own my boredom, and that it would behoove me to concoct an anti-boredom/pro-entertainment plan for the winter months ahead. Because counting logs is no way to live. It will not feed my hungry soul.

By the way, cardboard egg cartons make good kindling.

Yesterday I went to Montpellier for the medical exam that’s required to receive a carte de sejour (long stay visa). I had to provide some medical history, do a quickie eye test, strip down and get a chest x-ray, have my blood pressure taken, and then provide some more medical history. Luckily I don’t have much to report in the history department. And the x-ray supported my claim that I don’t have TB. TB, as the nurse explained, in between phone calls and co-worker interruptions, is their main concern.

I was given the all-clear on my exam, although I was told I need to get current on my vaccinations (they want the DTP jab to be done every ten years). Now, I have to take my certificate, buy some OMI or ANAEM stamps worth 275 euros for fees and taxes, and bring them to the Mairie. I think this is the last step in the process, but I’m not betting the farm on it. It’s hard to find one resource that FULLY explains the entire visa process and what’s expected of the applicant (i.e. the shots).

With no idea how long it will be until I have this visa in hand – which does affect how I can travel – I’m trying to not get whiny. I can get another Recipisse, a temporary visa, if need be, but that will require enlisting the help of the Mairie’s office. (They just looove it when people create more work for them.)

I think that all along I’ve been holding to the belief there ought to be a “visa concierge” at my disposal, a representative assigned to me, who’s there to provide an explanation of the whole enchilada, to listen to and answer any questions I may have. That’s a pretty ballsy expectation to be keeping. And I think that the fact that such a person doesn’t exist except in my wildest imagination has been feeding the tension I feel. My advice to me right now is this: get. over. it.

Fair enough.

We’re leaving this morning for a few days along the Côte d’Azur, and the photo of my chest x-ray that I wanted to add to this post will have to wait. I already packed the camera in the car. Mr. Toad is still around. I’ve asked him to keep an eye out on the terrace plants, but he’s non-commital. Wouldn’t you know, I had expected more from Toad as well.

Note:  In the fall of 2008, I wanted to try my hand at writing a book but that plan quickly hit a snag:  me.  For a month I tried to wriggle my out of some heavy duty resistance, but the resistance ultimately prevailed.  Which was a shame.  (Or, maybe not as I can’t even remember what sort of book it was I wanted to write!)  At any rate, working through the problem did lead me into some interesting exercises.  So, it wasn’t a total loss.  It was, in a way, a partial win. This post was the third of a series I called Writer’s Knot.

The progress report on the book in a word: minimal.

The week began well.  I finished the outline and a draft of the introduction.  And then in two shakes, or so it seemed, lightning cracked, thunder roared and Dreaming & Scheming reappeared with a real corker of an idea that they dropped into my lap like a golden egg.  Literary Ambition had her hands full.  For two days I was consumed by this new idea, like a parrot enamored with its newest shiny toy.  For two days I refused to peck at anything else.  Not even the book that Literary Ambition kept quavering about.  At one point, her voice officially hit “shrill”, but in response she received a sorry sweetheart but you have to chill.   But, you’ll feel so guilty later, she said.  To which I responded with a humph and my back.

She was right, of course.  (The bitch. Did I just say that?  No I didn’t.  Yes, I did.  I’m so sorry. But it’s kind of true.  Still, that’s a terrible thing to say.)

By Thursday I had obsessed long enough with Dreaming & Scheming’s latest and greatest idea that I was exhausted by it all.  This is what I call the time testing phase.  It’s a relief, in a way.  But it’s also notable for its emotional freefall.  Some of the shine has rubbed off the idea.  It’s not quite so new anymore.  Which is not to say that it’s not still a corker, a golden egg.  But it’s not brand spanking new and the Voice Of Practicalities prepares to take over and VOP has a completely different way of viewing things and can be a real downer and…well, you get the picutre.

Meanwhile, the guilties had crept in and made camp.

One would think that Literary Ambition would have sent a distress call to Unconditional Love, the guilties would be sent packing, and all would be restored to harmony and equilibrium.

But no, Literary Ambition called up The Organizer, the bearer of calendars and lists, clear plastic folders in which to put the calendars and lists, and a label maker.  She’s perky and prim, The Organizer.  I trust her but don’t want to.  And she has this way of getting you to take sensible steps when you least want to do them that is annoying as hell.  Her saving grace is that TO has zero tolerance for guilt.  It is not in her vocabulary.  Thus, it will not be in mine.  At least for now or once The Organizer has left the building.

TO slid a calendar onto my desk, and said now, let’s break this big ol’ enchilada of a book into smaller chews why don’t we.

So, that’s what I did.  I planned what I would do over the next two months and wrote it on the calendar.  Never mind that I’ve already missed today’s entry thanks to the spontaneous decision to drive to Nice and the ensuing scramble. No, I will not mind that.  I will perservere in spite of it.

That’s what I’m wanting to amplify today, my perservence.  It’s untidy and scuffed.  But from what I can tell, it’s never left the building.

Note:  In the fall of 2008, I wanted to try my hand at writing a book but that plan quickly hit a snag:  me.  For a month I tried to wriggle my out of some heavy duty resistance, but the resistance ultimately prevailed.  Which was a shame.  (Or, maybe not as I can’t even remember what sort of book it was I wanted to write!)  At any rate, working through the problem did lead me into some interesting exercises.  So, it wasn’t a total loss.  It was, in a way, a partial win. This post was the second of a series I called Writer’s Knot.

Back in September I joined a Writer’s Success Group, thinking (quite rightly as it turns out) that it would play a key supporting role in completing my book.  Once a month there are check-in calls with this great group of talented, warm and funny writers during which we talk about our challenges and our progress and the overall experience of engaging in the creative process.  We’ve also agreed that each week we’d send a report to the group – what’s shakin’, what’s still, etc. This isn’t just about accountability, but more about leaning into what connects the six of us – all of us hear the undeniable call to write and create.

So, for the time being, I’m using this blog to update the group (and myself!) as to how I’m doing with my project.  I’ve decided to playful with it, especially the woes, and I’m so enjoying how these check-ins have given me a new way to reconnect with my beloved little ritual of self-congratulations. Thus…

Since we last spoke:

Team Changes:  Dreaming and Scheming got bored with the Just-For-Tomorrows and busied themselves with other projects.  This is fine.  Their job was done.

Mid-week I hit a snag thanks to a lack of sleep.  One night I drank one too many cups of tea and had caffeine induced insomnia.  Another night I drank two too many glasses of vino and had red wine induced insomnia.  On yet another night the phone rang at 2 AM (the downside of keeping our US phone numbers via Vonage) from some Georgia politico wanting me to vote them into office.  As a result there were some Just-For-Tomorrows that never saw daylight, and I began to berate myself and get anxious and seek comfort from a jar of peanuts that had been set aside for a dinner of Szechuan Pork.  I know this state of mind all too well.  I know where it sends me.  The bottom of Stew Pot Gorge.

Literary Ambition stepped in and pinged Unconditional Love, who was meditating (as she usually is) upon a velvet pillow, in her lush retreat high, high, high up in her mist-ringed mountains.  Please, have a word with her, was the gist of the request.  She’s in her Gorge below, picking peanut skins from her teeth and questioning everything. Sooner than later would be good, what with x grams of fat and x number of calories in every ounce of monkey nuts.

Once she regained consciousness (her meditations send her deep), Unconditional Love glided down to the gorge from her velvet pillow, from her high, high, high mountains. And when she landed she had this to say:  How many people do you know sleep with their rough drafts in the bed beside them?  That’s dedication. Finish chewing. Keep on trucking, my plucky duck. And then she smiled one of those cloud-lifting, gorge-busting, light-bearing smiles.  Except for the peanuts, Literary Ambition whispered from behind a rock.  Yes, of course!  Except for the peanuts.  Back up to her lush heights and her velvet pillow Unconditional Love floated, a faint odor of orange zest and sage lingering behind her.

Of course I immediately felt better.  Saner.  Seen.  Like it was safe and sound to climb out of Stew Pot and back into the light that is the imagination, the creative process.

Literary Ambition espied my loosened grip and swooped in, seizing the peanut jar.  Then she placed it in the hands of a new recruit, Peanut Jar Monitor, wisely anticipating that other dips into the gorge might lay ahead.  With her prune face and prison matron uniform and minotaur-like upper body, Peanut Jar Monitor is very, very hard to circumvent. Whatever else may happen to a person, you DO NOT want your face to freeze like that of PJM.  You DO NOT want your upper body to bulge in this fashion.  Trust me.

All through “the troubles”, Literary Ambition has stuck to me like a soft, fuzzy burr.  Enlisting the necessary reinforcements.  Keeping the Just-For-Tomorrow’s rolling with adequate regularity.  Even saying a very gracious à bientôt to Dreaming and Scheming.  We need just such a burr sometimes.  I’m so lucky she showed up.

Despite everything that’s gone one, there’s plenty for which I can self-congratulate today – leaving the gorge, listening to Unconditional Love and resisting the peanuts.  Not to mention that the Just-For-Tomorrow’s, despite the setbacks, have still created real, tangible progress, and the book is just where I want it to be:  nearly at the point where the bits and pieces are ready to be assembled into a true, coherent first rough draft.

But today I’m acknowledging Literary Ambition – my darling burr, for not whisking it off, for letting it stick.

As for the toad in the title…on our back terrace a toad seems to have staked out his winter home.  Since Wednesday he’s been burrowed in the verbena planter, under the mint boughs.  I know he’s alive, because when I water the plants he bristles, a little irritated at being disturbed with a cold shower.  I’m hoping he’ll rouse himself again and eat all of the snails. I hate the snails. They’ve wreaked havoc on my terrace garden since June.

I’m very fond of Toad.  He’s quiet, just blinks, the sac beneath his mouth pulsing.   It makes for nice company.