Thursday, February 23
Transcript 1
The transcript of a conversation that happened earlier today.
Me: What are you doing?
Myself: No much.
Me: I know.
Myself: So? What's it to you.
Me: We've got things to do.
Myself: Like what?
Me: Duh -- writing the great American novel.
Myself: That's so last century.
Me: No it's not.
Myself: Yes it is. Besides, we've already done that. Seven freaking times already -- well, OK, maybe two of them are truly worthy and brilliant, but still: what do we have to show for it? Nothing.
Me: That's exactly my point.
Myself: About what?
Me: About everything. Get with it.
Myself: With what?
Me: With everything. You know we tend to review our life three times each year: September, when the kids go back to school and is, contrary to the natural world, a time of beginnings, school, TV seasons, new cars and so on; December, right before the solstice or New Year's since the calendar says start over, and now, of course, birthday time.
Myself: Oh yeah. That's right. Birthday time. Another year has passed and we do tend to review, don't we. Well, you do.
Me: Yes, we do. Have you? Our birthday is coming up, y'know. Just a few more days.
Myself: I know, and no, I haven't given it much thought, not so much, no.
Me: I have.
Myself: You have? Of course you have.
Me: Sure. I always do it.
Myself: Well, that's true enough. You are the one who cares more about those sorts of things.
Me: 'Those sorts of things'?!? Wake up man, this is our life, this is our existence we're talking about. It's not 'those sorts of things.' It's everything. It's why we exist. It's the centerpiece of our life, or it should be--
Myself: Now, we've been over this before…
I: Hey dudes, what's up?
Myself: We're ranting about lack of writing progress again, methinks.
I: We are?
Myself: Well, he is.
Me: Someone has to. And why aren't you guys more worked up about this problem, that's what I want to know.
I: What problem?
Me: See!
Myself: I'm not sure yet, actually. I'm just guessing. The usual stuff from him.
Me: Well, you're right. I am ranting about our lack of progress. Because every time, it's the same thing: what have we done lately? Nothing. Have we published? No. Have we contracted with an agent? No. Have we even tried to find an agent? No. Have we finished a novel to our satisfaction? No. Can we just focus on one project at a time? No.
Myself: We'll, we're busy. And it's not like were miserable or anything. Life goes on. Life is good. The weather is warming up, spring is in the air and all that. And you've got pretty high standards when you ask if we've finished to our 'satisfaction,' Mister It Has To Be Perfect And Perfect Is Impossible To Achieve.
I: I've been working out.
Myself: Yes, you have, and you're looking good.
I: I could use a haircut, though.
Myself: It's been awhile, yeah.
I: Last summer, I think. Maybe September? Early October. Looks like crap now.
Me: Hey! Can we focus here? I hate to be a jerk, but c'mon. We're not happy with our career, right? We agree on this? We're not happy with our career options, our prospects, our opportunities of more of the same, right? We have dreams. We have ambitions. We have long-term mental health to consider, right? We know what we have to do, we've listed it a dozen times, some right here. We're a fiction writer. We must write fiction. It's what we do. We must publish fiction. So c'mon. Let's focus. We've got to focus, guys, and nail this down. And not just another plan, not another six-month outline, or a list of deliverables or a visioneering session or tasks, but actual action. Real work this time, OK? We've go to find a way to do it. We need a method, we need a way, we need a process to make it what we do, to make it a routine part of everyday life and let everything else fall in behind our writing time. Right?
I: You're saying I can't walk the dogs at dusk? See the mountains color purple at night and the stars come out?
Me: No.
I: Or go to the gym? Run?
Myself: Sounds like it.
Me: No, I'm not saying that.
Myself: What about TV? Movies? Novels? Magazines? The Web?
Me: Well that's an obvious spot worth reviewing. TV particularly.
Myself: How about the guitar? Blogging. The kids. Scrabble. Dog shows. Deck-building? Studio-finishing? Lawn-replacement-therapy? What about following bicycle racing; the Euro season is coming y'know, and the big guns are in California right now. I was thinking of building a fantasy cycling team this season. What about dreaming of travel? Looking for jobs?
Me: This is what I'm talking about, exactly. All these distractions.
Myself: Friends?
Me: Friends? Almost all of our friends are virtual, dude, e-mail boxes in California and Texas and Illinois and Florida and Washington and Arizona and Utah and Chicago.
Myself: Not all of 'em.
Me: Most of 'em. Besides, we're anti-social, remember? It's what's going to make us a great writer, the willingness -- nay, eagerness -- to sit alone in a room and type.
I: Make us? Future tense? Don't get negative, now, dude, we already are a great writer.
Me: Well, you're the only one who thinks so. My point is we have to make an effort to prove it to everyone else. Anyone else. Someone else, even. Just one person, even, the right agent, perhaps, for example.
Myself: So, what's your big idea?
Me: Who, me?
I: Yeah, you. What's are we going to do?
Me: Well, I don't have one. But that's what I wanted to talk about. I want to schedule a meeting so we can figure out how we're going to make this happen this year. We're not getting any younger, y'know.
Myself: Well, right now's not good. The Olympics are on, dude, and ESPN 2 has California Tour race highlights later, and American Idol is voting four people off tonight and we taped Lost from last night. Two more Netflix arrived today.
I: And I really should get over to the gym for awhile tonight, do some cardio, work the abs.
Myself: The dogs need walking.
I: I could get a hair cut, too, if I didn't have that stupid irrational hair-cutter-pseudophobia.
Myself: C needs help with the props for the movie we're filming this weekend.
I: I’m thinking or reinventing myself, my style. Adapting one, for example. Suits. Glasses maybe. A decent haircut.
Myself: R won't raise herself. I like spending time with K, too.
I: The laptop needs some work, too. And I keep meaning to add the new Yellowcard and Death Cab For Cutie CDs to my iPod. And the Andrew Bird. Oh, and those old Clash albums.
Myself: Laundry. The dishes. The garage is a mess.
I: And I've got those songs lyrics I've been working on.
Myself: I owe Krell a letter. Haven't really heard from Champ in a while either. Or Mel Bay Jr. I should write them, get back in touch. Olsen too. Schedule another lunch with Jared to make sure we're both still on track.
I: The family research is just sitting there from last summer, too. It needs to be organized, cataloged, written up, coordinated, all that. Shared.
Myself: There's all this online stuff I keep meaning to show Hagerty, but it's so hard when we can't e-mail in real time.
I: And we've still got print those short stories and novel chapters for Krell and Jeff and your brother.
Myself. Yeah. We should do that.
I: Yeah. We should.
Me: Sheesh. All we need is an hour a day, super early, late at night, sometime. Ninety minutes tops. Oh, never mind. Just forget it. I'm gonna go work on the novel tonight.
Me: What are you doing?
Myself: No much.
Me: I know.
Myself: So? What's it to you.
Me: We've got things to do.
Myself: Like what?
Me: Duh -- writing the great American novel.
Myself: That's so last century.
Me: No it's not.
Myself: Yes it is. Besides, we've already done that. Seven freaking times already -- well, OK, maybe two of them are truly worthy and brilliant, but still: what do we have to show for it? Nothing.
Me: That's exactly my point.
Myself: About what?
Me: About everything. Get with it.
Myself: With what?
Me: With everything. You know we tend to review our life three times each year: September, when the kids go back to school and is, contrary to the natural world, a time of beginnings, school, TV seasons, new cars and so on; December, right before the solstice or New Year's since the calendar says start over, and now, of course, birthday time.
Myself: Oh yeah. That's right. Birthday time. Another year has passed and we do tend to review, don't we. Well, you do.
Me: Yes, we do. Have you? Our birthday is coming up, y'know. Just a few more days.
Myself: I know, and no, I haven't given it much thought, not so much, no.
Me: I have.
Myself: You have? Of course you have.
Me: Sure. I always do it.
Myself: Well, that's true enough. You are the one who cares more about those sorts of things.
Me: 'Those sorts of things'?!? Wake up man, this is our life, this is our existence we're talking about. It's not 'those sorts of things.' It's everything. It's why we exist. It's the centerpiece of our life, or it should be--
Myself: Now, we've been over this before…
I: Hey dudes, what's up?
Myself: We're ranting about lack of writing progress again, methinks.
I: We are?
Myself: Well, he is.
Me: Someone has to. And why aren't you guys more worked up about this problem, that's what I want to know.
I: What problem?
Me: See!
Myself: I'm not sure yet, actually. I'm just guessing. The usual stuff from him.
Me: Well, you're right. I am ranting about our lack of progress. Because every time, it's the same thing: what have we done lately? Nothing. Have we published? No. Have we contracted with an agent? No. Have we even tried to find an agent? No. Have we finished a novel to our satisfaction? No. Can we just focus on one project at a time? No.
Myself: We'll, we're busy. And it's not like were miserable or anything. Life goes on. Life is good. The weather is warming up, spring is in the air and all that. And you've got pretty high standards when you ask if we've finished to our 'satisfaction,' Mister It Has To Be Perfect And Perfect Is Impossible To Achieve.
I: I've been working out.
Myself: Yes, you have, and you're looking good.
I: I could use a haircut, though.
Myself: It's been awhile, yeah.
I: Last summer, I think. Maybe September? Early October. Looks like crap now.
Me: Hey! Can we focus here? I hate to be a jerk, but c'mon. We're not happy with our career, right? We agree on this? We're not happy with our career options, our prospects, our opportunities of more of the same, right? We have dreams. We have ambitions. We have long-term mental health to consider, right? We know what we have to do, we've listed it a dozen times, some right here. We're a fiction writer. We must write fiction. It's what we do. We must publish fiction. So c'mon. Let's focus. We've got to focus, guys, and nail this down. And not just another plan, not another six-month outline, or a list of deliverables or a visioneering session or tasks, but actual action. Real work this time, OK? We've go to find a way to do it. We need a method, we need a way, we need a process to make it what we do, to make it a routine part of everyday life and let everything else fall in behind our writing time. Right?
I: You're saying I can't walk the dogs at dusk? See the mountains color purple at night and the stars come out?
Me: No.
I: Or go to the gym? Run?
Myself: Sounds like it.
Me: No, I'm not saying that.
Myself: What about TV? Movies? Novels? Magazines? The Web?
Me: Well that's an obvious spot worth reviewing. TV particularly.
Myself: How about the guitar? Blogging. The kids. Scrabble. Dog shows. Deck-building? Studio-finishing? Lawn-replacement-therapy? What about following bicycle racing; the Euro season is coming y'know, and the big guns are in California right now. I was thinking of building a fantasy cycling team this season. What about dreaming of travel? Looking for jobs?
Me: This is what I'm talking about, exactly. All these distractions.
Myself: Friends?
Me: Friends? Almost all of our friends are virtual, dude, e-mail boxes in California and Texas and Illinois and Florida and Washington and Arizona and Utah and Chicago.
Myself: Not all of 'em.
Me: Most of 'em. Besides, we're anti-social, remember? It's what's going to make us a great writer, the willingness -- nay, eagerness -- to sit alone in a room and type.
I: Make us? Future tense? Don't get negative, now, dude, we already are a great writer.
Me: Well, you're the only one who thinks so. My point is we have to make an effort to prove it to everyone else. Anyone else. Someone else, even. Just one person, even, the right agent, perhaps, for example.
Myself: So, what's your big idea?
Me: Who, me?
I: Yeah, you. What's are we going to do?
Me: Well, I don't have one. But that's what I wanted to talk about. I want to schedule a meeting so we can figure out how we're going to make this happen this year. We're not getting any younger, y'know.
Myself: Well, right now's not good. The Olympics are on, dude, and ESPN 2 has California Tour race highlights later, and American Idol is voting four people off tonight and we taped Lost from last night. Two more Netflix arrived today.
I: And I really should get over to the gym for awhile tonight, do some cardio, work the abs.
Myself: The dogs need walking.
I: I could get a hair cut, too, if I didn't have that stupid irrational hair-cutter-pseudophobia.
Myself: C needs help with the props for the movie we're filming this weekend.
I: I’m thinking or reinventing myself, my style. Adapting one, for example. Suits. Glasses maybe. A decent haircut.
Myself: R won't raise herself. I like spending time with K, too.
I: The laptop needs some work, too. And I keep meaning to add the new Yellowcard and Death Cab For Cutie CDs to my iPod. And the Andrew Bird. Oh, and those old Clash albums.
Myself: Laundry. The dishes. The garage is a mess.
I: And I've got those songs lyrics I've been working on.
Myself: I owe Krell a letter. Haven't really heard from Champ in a while either. Or Mel Bay Jr. I should write them, get back in touch. Olsen too. Schedule another lunch with Jared to make sure we're both still on track.
I: The family research is just sitting there from last summer, too. It needs to be organized, cataloged, written up, coordinated, all that. Shared.
Myself: There's all this online stuff I keep meaning to show Hagerty, but it's so hard when we can't e-mail in real time.
I: And we've still got print those short stories and novel chapters for Krell and Jeff and your brother.
Myself. Yeah. We should do that.
I: Yeah. We should.
Me: Sheesh. All we need is an hour a day, super early, late at night, sometime. Ninety minutes tops. Oh, never mind. Just forget it. I'm gonna go work on the novel tonight.
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