So (anyone notice how I start off a lot of paragraphs/sentences with “so”? I think it’s my most overused word. I blame my mother). Anyhoo, I’ve been spending a lot of time working on this story that grew from a little teeny blog entry into a nearly 20,000 word essay. And if you want to know how long 20,000 words is, let’s just say that you can hear a small tree screeching in pain every time I print it out for review. Writers, by nature, kill a great many trees. This is something I can’t seem to get around, despite my good intentions of only printing when absolutely necessary and my tendency to utilize both sides of every sheet of paper. Don’t even get me started on how confusing that can be when you mix up the pages and go from some emotional prose into a blog entry on how awful this persons breath was in line at Starbucks. It’s like reading Kate Chopin on acid.
Regardless, this little teeny blog entry has somewhat taken over my life. A shorter version of it is to be printed in a magazine later this year (hurrah! drinks on me!) but it now has a life of its own and I find myself waking up at night thinking “Oh YES! I must add THIS!” and peppering post it notes throughout the house with ideas as they come to me. Marc often finds them stuck to his forehead, which is handy as I can sit across from him, listening to his chatter, and simultaneously be in deep thought over a particularly difficult sentence. This is marital multi-tasking at its best. “You have to go to the hospital for what now? Crap…I think this sentence has a dangling participle in it. Stupid grammar.” Don’t worry, he doesn’t listen to me either. It’s how we keep the peace.
My point being that I think I’m finally coming to the end of where I can take this thing, which is a great relief, as my head has been putting in requests for some space/time to think about other things. Like, how it’s sunny out! And how bikini season is almost upon us! And Sweet Mary and Moses – will my ass fit into said bikini? Perhaps we should think about vacationing somewhere that doesn’t involve a beach? And then a panic attack ensues and I go and eat a sandwich and watch Millionaire Matchmaker. Perhaps just focusing on my story is a better idea…for my intellectual health, if nothing else.
Shit. Now I’m all concerned about my ass.
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