Day of a Writer

The impression of Mo is she either sits around the house all day doing nothing. Or she's a housewife. I've already addressed the housewife myth, now I'm tackling the "doing nothing" part.

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I understand how the perception of me being a lazy bum came to be. I'm pretty sure I've been leading that charge with comments like 'I'm a ski/beach bum," depending on the season. Or when people ask what's new I shrug and say not a lot, or nothing.

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In truth there is stuff going on, and new things are happening. I swear I do not spend my entire life or my entire day at the beach, pool, or skiing. As much as I would love to do that.

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So you're probably trying to figure out how I do spend my day. So here is a general time line, times vary based on when I wake up.

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10 a.m. (granted I didn't sleep until noon) to about 1 p.m. I write my brains out. I work on short stories, novels, freelance magazine articles, or free writing. Free writing is just taking a pen and writing whatever. Sometimes it is a list, sometimes a random conversation I insert in something later. Or it's whatever, and I never use it. Or I use this time to update this lovely, lovely blog.

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1 p.m. to about 3 p.m. RESEARCH! What happens with steroid use? What does an overdose of heroin and cocaine look like? What is the underground world of surfing like? This will most likely involve me either becoming an amazing surfer or kidnapping one. If I'm at the beach or pool, I make notes of what I need to research later, and will take care of it after Chris has gone to bed.

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I'll also take this time and READ! I'll go to the library and just read. I read everything twice. The first time for the story, the second time on how the author advances the story in first and third person. I think I do more reading than research, mostly because I try to write about what I know, as opposed to making life more complicated.

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3 p.m. to 6 p.m. Edit what I wrote earlier, and keep writing. I refuse to delete anything until the piece is done. I take the editing time to move stuff around, add details or context. Fight with commas (it's a battle I've been fighting since first grade. I still feel like I'm losing). Again, if I'm someplace without my laptop, I'll use a different colored pen to circle and move what I wrote. Sometimes my notebook looks like the Huns are fighting the Greeks.

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I'll also just keep reading. If it wasn't that productive of a writing day, like the clock hit 10:30 and all I want to do is destroy my notebook or computer, I don't try to push it. It's not fun trying to write like that, and it's not good writing.

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Whenever Chris gets home from work until he goes to bed, I don't write. I'll read, or do whatever but I try really hard not to write. One, it's nice to talk to him. Two, it's nearly impossible to get voices on the page or let my characters come to life when other stuff is going on. Three, it's not fair to him to come home and see me with a sign on my back saying "Do not disturb, I'm writing." And finally, he shouldn't have to share me with fictional people. It's not fair to him. On occasion I will jot down notes, quotes, or whatever, but I try really really hard not to.

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So yeah, that's my exciting day of allegedly doing nothing.

Fire!

Dear Sir/madam, I am writing to inform you of a fire. (Context can be found here: IT Crowd Season 1, Episode 2)

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You will not find me reading cook books, or experimenting with recipes, or watching the food network, or spending my weekends making cakes. To my credit I do know where the fire extinguisher is, and I've never had to use it. Shocking, really.

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The stove, the oven mitt, the box, and the grill, the grill shouldn't count since you have to set it on fire to cook. So we'll just say, expect the flames to grow a bit when you open the lid. Also, when you smell gas, you'll get a slightly larger flame. I chalk this one up to a learning experience.

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I could probably chalk all the fires to learning experiences, but I knew better with two of them. I had a friend over to watch the Red Wings, and decided Coney Dogs were in order. Smoke began to come out from the bottom of the pan. Where there is smoke, there is fire. I removed the pan, causing a quick pop sound, and a small birthday candle sized flame.

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My friend and I stared at it for a moment.

"Should I get a lid? or...." I ask.

My friend just blew it out. The source of fire? Food from a previous meal had fallen below the electric burner.

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You're probably wondering how I managed to set an oven mitt on fire. They are designed to handle high heats, and disasters in the oven. Surprisingly, it wasn't the oven that started the fire of the mitt it belongs to. I get along well with the oven, we're great friends. It's the stove that has attitude.

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For the record, the oven mitt is fine. It's probably stronger after the ordeal, just don't try to hang it up on a hook in the kitchen, for that loop has been melted. A touch of water put out the fire, if you could call it that. The flame made birthday candles seem intimidating. When using the stove it is important to make sure everything is at least 10 feet away from the burner.

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Is there a list of cardboard box abusers? If there is I should probably register. Although, I have found a different element to destroy the boxes. I may not be a pro at cooking, but I am a pro at opening a box and adding water. Luckily, I did add water after I managed to knock over the box (no, I was not adhearing to my 10 foot rule) and it landed on the burner. There was a lot of smoke, charring, and there was a flame, but it was so small Smokey the Bear wouldn't have cared. Sorry, he probably would have. He's a bit strict about fire, no matter how small.

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The cooking skills are improving, and while some serious chefs may stress out about the quality of meals, I'm okay with my plan B of ordering pizza.

Subtle Subjet Change

In a family where the only safe subject is weather, the weather is rarely discussed. Everything from politics, religion, politics, healthcare, the Navy, politics and the Navy are discussed.

I have great respect for the military, and no, the military itself is not a controversial subject. The 1948 version of the Navy is on repeat, and most people in the family are getting tired of hearing about it.

So when a controversial subject is raised which is quite often, you can do one of two things.

1) Leave the room

2) Change the subject

I tried option one, but the conversation rolls and I was quickly someplace I didn't want to be, when I returned.

So, what does an adult do when she doesn't like the conversation? Change the subject of course!

The weather is always a safe subject. I tried commenting on the weather. "Wow, it's a nice night out!" I exclaimed as we were sitting outside.

"What?" Someons paused the conversation long enough to ask, before going back to the conversation I was trying to steer us away from.

"Look at those clouds!" I yelled over the others. This time, the crazy person went ignored.

"I have five toes!" I yelled, looking at my bare foot. That, stopped everything. Apparently, a crazy declaration you would expect from a three-year-old, is enough to change the subject to something less controversial.

I know this method will probably not be an approved Emily Post method. In fact, I know this will not work at any dinner party. Standing in my chair and declaring "I hate kiwi!" Will probably have me in the mental ward faster than you can say: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

While declaring how many toes I have, or the foods I prefer is not the most adult thing I could do, it is effective. Darn you adulthood, for making me trade in my effective subject changer for something that does not work. No one likes talking about the weather.

Packing and Sock Monsters

I want to backpack. I don't care where, I just want to throw my life into a backpack and see the world. I want to spend months and months seeing everything and anything.

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Until that point, I will be throwing my clothes into the same backpack that carried my books and booze in college, and backpack my homestate of Michigan.

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My fabulous mother handled empty-nest syndrome by doing what her daughters were doing. She enrolled in university. Unlike her daughters she was not spending her nights at the bar but writing her disertation. While we were complaining about 3 and 4oo level classes, she was complaining about her doctorate.

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Now, after all that work she is graduating from the first class at Wayne State University with a doctorate in nursing. YAHOO!!!

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Which leads me to living out of a backpack. I have no problem living out of a bag, I enjoy it actually. The problem with living out of a bag is packing it. The backpack that will travel with me around the world is large enough to fit me. The bag that needs to fit under the seat in front of me, does not.

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Everything is getting rolled, and wrapped, and folded so tight, it's looking like snakes in a can. The only problem are the socks. I wear two socks, one on each foot, I put both socks in the washer and then into the washer, and somehow, only one comes out.

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I know there is not a green monster in the actual dryer eating them, I've looked. This does not rule out a monster in the lint trap, or in the vents, or even behind the dryer. The sock monster might even be lurking in a corner, wait until I leave, and then steal them. Or, my socks are facing the same marriage dilema as Brittany Spears and K-Fed, and just divorcing whenever or wherever.

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So, wish me luck as I cram clothes into my bag, and Mom, I apologize if I only have one sock on at your graduation.