Crickets and the Muse

By Molly Field

We were told this month to set out to offend someone (anyone) in our posts for the sake of engagement. This is a desperate attempt to get you, someone who's never commented on this blog before, to do the seemingly impossible: tell us what you think.

click here to hear some of your previous comments.

So I'm just going for it; this is totally full of non-sequiturs, so enjoy the ... whatever.

http://www.scmp.com/sites/default/files/styles/980w/public/2013/02/04/comp.jpg?itok=9JXFZ9H3

In an effort to prove to us that you have a pulse, working eyes, hands that can type, and that you're not a Chinese hacker and that you might disagree with anything I might say, I'm going to entice your wrath and write about the most devious of codependencies: how my writing benefits when someone's life is in the crapper.

If it's your life: I need it to stay there so I can write a story based on it without your permission. Because the more you stay asleep to the desperate existence you're hanging onto by a diaphanous thread, the better my content, the richer my dialogue, the tighter my story. The more asleep and blasé you are all the time, the better for sociopaths opportunists creatives like me.

I have someone in my life whom I've decided likes loves to feel sorry for itself. I'm going write in a  gender neutral fashion or ich können sogar auf Deutsch und Sie benutzen das dritte Geschlecht, aber nein, ich will nicht*.

"Lesley's" rants are exhausting. This perforated, yo-yo height, hermaphrodite, Slavic cat dresser friend of mine likes to fixate on the bad, drink too much, dress in charcoal gray, talk about death and sadness, and listen to The Cure, Nickelback, and Laura Branigan songs and also watch John Waters movies in the dark.

It's bad. "Lesley" needs help. And the name is all of it, the quotations included; its parents were new to the country when they adopted it from Illinois.

But I'm so torn!

"Lesley" is my muse for my main character, Chester Feltentooth! S/he's the pro/pre/ant-agonist (emphasis on agony) in my upcoming novel, People Who Should Have Stopped Trying: The Story of Potters in the Rain, out this summer by Too Bad So Sad press, a joint venture imprint of Cosmopolitan Magazine and Penzoil. Illustrations by Charles Addams and "The Family Circus" are blatantly stolen without any regard to copyright laws whatsoever.

Why so venom on poor "Lesley," Molly? Because I'm in a mood.

But I'm also in a tight spot... I mean, if "Lesley" wakes up and changes and improves its life, then where goes my muse? My fodder for my book? My manna for my novel? It's like this: I want "Lesley" to be just bad off enough to continue to live so I can steal its life for my story, but that's it. Any somatic improvement will knock this book off the best-seller's list.

So I tell this person "Lesley," "You need help! You should take better care of yourself!" (While I walk it back into its dark house, inspect its mail for cash, throw away its bills, and guide it back to its cage. As its back is turned, I rest a case of Mad Dog 20/20 with bendy straws on its cage-side table, where I've tactfully replaced its clock and lamp with a carton of unfiltered Lucky Strikes next to my a sad clown Zippo lighter and play Carole King songs on repeat shuffle.)

http://static.tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pub/images/SadClown.jpg

Why? Because I'm a selfish, craven, unimaginative deviant who needs content and my brain is too jacked up on antibiotics from my gonorrhea strep throat, that's why.

I asked our fearless leader Carrie earlier,

"Are you serious about wanting to offend our readers? Because I'm about to let the snarling, scratching, feral, hissing, and rabid backwater cat out of its tattered burlap sack outside a Kinder Care," 

and she said this (after calling her lawyer):

Ultimately, you've got to decide what you want your name on. Don't worry about the site's reputation. If you feel that it would be helpful, write a foreword to the article that serves as a sort of disclaimer to prepare the readers for a change in tone and give it some context. 

How does that sound?  

How does that sound?! I'll tell you. It sounds like a cop out. (Just kidding, Carrie, I love you.)

So to all you mayonnaise chocolate cake eaters in your three-day-old pajamas, by all means: keep it up. I need you to maintain or elevate the lachrymose in your life so that I can finish my book. Hang out more with your toddler-pageant judges and repo friends! But if you suddenly run out of 20/20, call me you do want progress, and you really mean it -- give me the names and addresses of your toddler-pageant judges and repo friends because I need them. But think about the arts first. We need you.

However, change is hard. So if that second hour without a crisis in your life is too much, definitely consider dwelling in the past, do moan over things you can't change, and keep on licking those wounds, because as we all know: no wound gets better unless you fester over it and lick the hell out of it, just ask my coonhound "Gunther," who's now on his fifth round of antibiotics and steroid injections.

And don't even consider trying to write your own book. Only losers write their own books; here's a white zinfandel slushy, give your story to me. Want some pork rinds? Well, I just so happen to have some... right next to the VCR. Do you smoke? Is it me or is it too bright in here?

I can't say this any better than veteran New Yorker cartoonist, Roz Chast in the April 15, 2013, issue:

So... do you have any comments for me? Who's your muse? Want some 20/20?

*I can even go German on you and use the third gender, but no, I won't.

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"Poltergeist" and Online (Book) Reviews

By Molly Field

Note: I wrote this post Sunday night, when all was mostly well and Boston was preparing for its marathon. I considered pulling this post entirely in light of the tragedy, but I didn't. I didn't edit it, I didn't change it a bit. Part of me wants to remember what Sunday was like before Monday became horrible. My heart goes out to Boston and all who are affected by it near and far. 

Maybe I'll change my mind in a year or two, but I believe 5-stars are the new 3-stars. Sort of like how 40 is the new 30 25.

When I first started this blogging-to-be-a-writer gig, I was dewy and not unlike Carole-Anne when she fell through the ceiling in "Poltergiest," the first time, all lush and covered in strawberry preserves and completely unaware for what was coming my way or how the hell I'd just gotten there.

I mean, look at her... I'll wait.

image: (c) MGM Studios

I know, right? JoBeth Williams too; all slimy and ready to be smeared into a sandwich. Ready to be devoured by the Internets and judged and critiqued and not at all ready for the intensity of the drive to compete and self-promote and cross-promote and sell and promote ... myself. Something that I wasn't even charging anyone to enjoy or debase.

Then came along the Facebook blog/fan page; a so-called Must Have. It has done nothing but confuse me. Then I got to know other bloggers and I built alliances with people I didn't really "know" and became just more confused:

image: (c) MGM Studios

How'd they get there like that? How'd I get there like that? All I did was open a Facebook account in 2008 and then started a blog for grins and giggles only to end up BEGGING for Likes of a fan page that sucked more of my life away.

How'd I get from someone who just wanted to write about my observations from my cheap seats to hone my writerly skills to a gut-wrenching search for relevance? How?

Here's how: Comments. The comments felt like a kissing cousin of reviews which are only realized through constant self-promotion. I have a modest minuscule blog with a lovely following that I am grateful to have. I have no ambitions of unseating The Bloggess or anyone else, but as humans, we are all looking for favorable consideration. And that universal, human need for "favorable consideration" can eventually resemble biased and loaded boardroom backscratching book reviews.

really??

image (c) www.fourthgradenothing.com

The yearning for unbiased comments and authentic traffic (not China-based bots selling counterfeit Louis Vuitton bags) and the tiresome skulduggery (promoting, sharing, linking, tweeting) behavior has put into harsh relief an ugly fear: maybe objective reviews don't exist.

My thoughts are my own; my craft is writing, but despite all of this, I have been pulled into a direction which makes me uneasy and brings me back to feeling like strawberry preserves -covered Carole-Anne: confused. Social media has availed me to witnessing the unfortunate phenomenon of outright requests for favorable reviews of self-published books. I've heard tell of authors ranting over objective less-than 5-star reviews. I get where that comes from, because books are like our babies, but not every baby places first in the toddler pageant, and some judges won't be bribed.

I don't at all like being pulled in that direction. It feels forced.

image (c) MGM Studios

Neither does Carole-Anne. This was just before her second trip to the afterlife, this time through a giant flaming hole in the wall. 

My take on any book review is this: it has to be truly amazing for me to give 5 stars; we're talking Faulkner or (see, it's all subjective) say, The Bell Jar, which I read in one night and loved with my teeth; or as compelling as any previous NYTBSA (New York Times Best Selling Author) and even then, eeeeeeven then, you're never guaranteed of its quality, says my publishing rep.  I love Nick Sparks, but do I give him 5 stars? I give him 4; he doesn't make me swoon. Maybe I'm a Classic-ist. Nope. I'm just a good writer-ist; I want someone who will tactfully push the envelope.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't know who to trust anymore without Oprah's Book Club. Even the almighty Oprah got burned with James Frey's A Million Little Pieces -- that was just a simple matter of genre, he should have never marketed that book as nonfiction autobiography. Just do what everyone else is doing: "creative nonfiction," but I digress.

I do read reviews now when I go to Amazon for a book, but I didn't used to. I've become a skeptic: I also check the dates for most of the 5-star reviews and am grossed out. Say there's 35 5-star brand-new reviews. Of those 35, 27 are written within three days of release, and some of them are reciprocal. Some are completely over the top IN ALL CAPS I COULDN'T PUT IT DOWN I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS BOOK!

Then I like to see what the lower reviews have to say. Sometimes it's totally subjective, "I didn't like the font," or "Not all southerners say y'all." Or "I don't like romance novels, and so I shouldn't have bought this one, but my best friend's cousin wrote it..." Others are really intense: "Georgia bullfrogs don't make calls like that and they definitely don't during the daytime, at least where I live; also, you can't catch a 6-lb rainbow trout in that lake, the limit is 5.5-lbs!!! This author clearly doesn't know what he's talking about," or those reviews written by people with the moniker: "I Will Waste You." Some lower reviews say what I look for: formatting's a mess, dialogue didn't synch up or transitions were weak or nonexistent.  

The proliferation of self-published eBooks bothers me: the quality control is weak. They're like Fan Pages: there are a ton of them and quantity doesn't at all correlate with quality. When it comes to ebooks, quality of the actual product (editing, formatting, etc.) matters to me so much because it's a massive distraction when it stinks. I have stopped reading books when the formatting is wonky or "it's" or "they're" or their ilk are consistently and incorrectly used and/or I get tripped up in the formatting. Don't make me edit this... I was asked once by an eFriend to read an eBook already released, and within the first 11 pages, I experienced about 30 errors and then I started to keep track. I stopped at page 21 when I hit 150 simple errors, including tense and plurality and possession disagreements, bad punctuation, broken sentences, homophones, weird formatting and direct object confusion. I gave up.

Do we have to go through 3rd grade grammar again? YES. I gave those books: 2 stars just for making me wade through their garbage; I felt like this:

image (c) MGM Studios

I couldn't believe I was having to tolerate it. But I will always give more than one star because writing a book is hard. I give mostly 3-star to 4-star reviews if I give one at all.

I wish to give or receive a 5-star review if the book truly moved readers, or if we missed the characters when it ended. I've actually said, "NO!" when a book ended (Kate Chopin's The Awakening). If I learned something about myself, if I highlighted amazing prose or use of language, then I will give it 5-stars. If the artwork captivates me, then I will give it high marks. If it is: mostly flawless and gripping, I will give it 5-stars.

Maybe that's why I'll never publish a book: because I can't play the game and I don't want to waste your time. I'm in this gig to get better at it. I think Anita Diamant hit it so far out of the park with The Red Tent, her stunning debut, that she hasn't replicated it since. "She peaked early," said a good friend of mine. I've become so paranoid about loaded reviews that I'll read reviews in newspapers and then read what people say online before buying.

Last week, I learned that Amazon bought Goodreads. Oh. Dear. Now what? Is this the end of the fair review and awesome reader community? I mean, bully for the Goodreads founders, but many people, including this writer for Salon beg to differ. I can't say I'm surprised. I feel like Goodreads just couldn't resist this:

image (c) MGM Studios

So are they still out there? Do fair, unbiased, unforced reviews exist anymore? What do you think? Do you feel like JoBeth Williams with that skeleton at times?



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Forging Relationships With Other Writers

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by Kelly DeBie

For as much as writing is a solitary activity, requiring us to dig deep within ourselves and tap our inner resources, I’ve found that in many ways it is also a community.

A strange and beautiful community.

That community is the reason that I’m writing here today, at the urging and recommendation of Molly Field, a fellow writer that I’ve never met in person but seem to have more in common with than most people I’ve ever known in real life.

In the past year, I’ve reached out to other writers more.  Many writers have reached out to me.  The nature of blogging is, at it’s core, social.  Blogging is a platform for me to write, usually daily, and immediately share that writing with the world.

Due to the nature of the medium, it seems almost mandatory that a blogger utilize social networking sites.  It’s through these sites that I’ve established, fostered and grown the relationships that I now hold dear.  Those relationships are with the writers I now consider my kindred spirits.

These connections, the ones that often leave me nodding my head in agreement, are ones that I cherish more than I can say.  We aren’t just writers, we often share similar journeys in life.  We’ve known heartache and turmoil.  We have a depth of character and a level of experience that often seems unique to this tight-knit world.

We understand each other in a way that most people don’t.

I know that I’ve made some connections in this past year that have changed my writing.  Tested my abilities.  Pushed my limits, both in terms of subject matter and personal investment.  These friends have encouraged me to try new things, to take risks, to hold myself accountable when I set goals.  

They understand more than anyone how emotionally draining the act of writing can be, and at the same time realize that the therapeutic value of doing so often surpasses the pain.

They see the inherent value in vulnerability.  In revealing the things that we hold closest.

Often, I find myself running things by them before I’ll hit that *publish* button, partially to affirm that I’m doing this all for the right reasons, partially for the moral support, but most often to confirm that I’m not the only one floating around in the ocean of life with this experience.

When it comes to the actual writing, it’s me and my keyboard pounding it out.

Knowing that there are other people out there, typing away in the confines of their isolated worlds, yet wanting to be understood, is what keeps me going.

To my fellow writers, thank you.

Are You Ready or Not? New Beginnings

By Molly Field

As a writer, nothing brings you greater satisfaction than penning that crisp sentence, flowing with the prose you not only create yourself, but with excellent writing offered by other authors.

Because we fancy ourselves a complex species, the opposite side of the same coin proposes that as a writer, nothing brings you greater senses of defeat and challenge than the words of other authors.

Spring is coming. The cherry blossoms on our neighborhood trees are pinking and peeking; the cardinals and robins are chatty, looking for wives. The sun is shining a little stronger and a little brighter every day. Spring, brings Macy's white sales and thoughts of purging, spring cleaning, new beginnings. I believe that many "New Year's Resolutions" should really be made on the first day of spring because in the winter, it's still too cold (at least where I live) to begin training for a marathon outside. (Yes, I am aware that not all NYRs focus on fitness.)

So for this month, we are encouraged to talk to you about new beginnings, fresh starts... This is a challenge for me because I am in the throes of a mental reorganization myself. But no time like the present, eh?

I didn't know what I was going to write about today. I get my prompt from our fearless leader, and sometimes I gnaw on a bone and other times I just bang one out. This time, I did a little of both. 

Without boring you to tears, I gave up Facebook for Lent. I'm not terrifically Catholic, but the opportunity was so well-timed and I wanted an out anyway, that I couldn't resist. It had all become too much for me.

My intention was to spend that time working on my book's drafts and edit it, which I have done, but not with the attention I paid to my Facebook "career." So clearly, I've got some work to do. The thing is though, that yesterday, my cousin sent me the cover art for her friend's new book, Flat Water Tuesday, a story about competitive rowing and young love. As an adult rower who hails from a renown rowing town, whose extended family rowed, whose parents met because of rowing, and whose brothers and cousins and now son row, the book has a no-brainer appeal for me.

It is not ironic (rather I consider it cosmically inspired) that when that cover art came to me, I was also on the phone being wooed by an exiting board member of my novice son's rowing club to be... yeah: president. I have attended one general membership meeting. They do have their ducks in a row over there, but my "pedigree" was undeniable and most of the board members are land lubbers. I said yes. (D'OH!) We'll see how it goes. It could be great. New beginnings, right?

The energy of these new starts, beginnings, etc., theme is intoxicating; it reminds me of when That Boy looked at me for the first time. The theme for today's post is coursing through me like whisky. I am simultaneously totally psyched and utterly petrified. 

It was one year ago this week, that I sat on my cousin's micro deck beneath the unseasonably warm sun in Buffalo where we talked about her friend's book. He'd just signed on with an agent; a publisher was totally interested. The energy was ramping up. They were talking contracts, money, real business. A part of me died inside when I heard all this. I thought, "I'll never be there... this guy's amazing..." and yet a part of me never died, because that summer I wrote my book. The one that needs the editing and the love I need to give it. I can't blame Facebook; I blame me.

I'm stuck now, just a little, but stuck enough to say this about new beginnings: I am considering writing my foreword now. However, I have this sense that I'm going to end up writing a whole new book, in fact the feeling that I will end up writing a whole new version of that book is undeniable. Is that so bad?

I am an Adult Child of Alcoholics, plural. We ACOAs don't have much luck or experience finishing things, but I know this: if I get started on something that I love, I never give it up. I push and push and push. And while I know that writing that first version of my book was cathartic and amazing, the next revised version, the one that spawns through this foreword, is going to be even better, even clearer. I just need six uninterrupted weeks. Why did I say yes to the rowing club?

But I have to be careful. As an ACOA I am constantly doubting myself, my intuition, my gut. I question the enthusiasm I have for something, I wonder if what I'm doing is enough or valuable. I get so caught up in the questioning of the act that I seldom act. It seems the only thing that fuels my fire to get up and keep going is a silent rage that is borne of the frustration that constant second guessing yields.

People who don't know the world of an ACOA look at us when we talk about it as if we have three heads. "What do you mean you hid under your bed for hours listening for your angry parent to close their door for the night?" or "What do you mean you cooked your own food when you were five? Who does that?" or the other ACOAs in your life will nod knowingly. Either way, you end up talking about that stuff for hours until you can't anymore; you're either sharing stories with people who also survived it, or your busy trying to convince people that those memories were real. It can be taxing.

I'm writing about all this here, so candidly, because I can. It's my literary place under the bed. I'm 45 years old and I'm still worried that my parents will be mad at me if I write about my life. The spiteful kid inside me, my Peter Pan, says this, "Do you think for one minute they considered your anger feelings?" and I think for a moment, sigh, look into the distance and tell Peter, "I have no clue."

Just to be clear, I didn't grow up in tatters under a shanty on a mountainside; we had no want for anything material. My parents were well-educated, connected and intelligent people. I was constantly reminded of my potential, that I could be a concert violinist if I wanted, but I didn't want that. Because they are also ACOAs, my parents knew the damage that negative talk can do. However, it can sound cliché, but it was what they didn't say that spoke louder than anything they did say.

Right now, I can feel the energy ebb a smidge, but the passion is still there; the nagging thought that this foreword can be the jack to "unstuck" me must be attended to. It must be honored.

New beginnings are here for all of us. You don't have to be an ACOA to have them. You just have to be willing to leave the past in the past and if you can summon any ounce of courage from those crushing days that kept you going to today, use it to move you to tomorrow and get that book published.

We are writers. Let's do this.

come out come out, wherever you are. photo credit: me

   

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Introducing Kelly DeBie

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By Icy Sedgwick

Kelly DeBie and I are both newcomers to the PeevishPenman blog so what better way to introduce ourselves that to interview each other? Kelly will be interviewing me next week...

Icy: If you could invite any literary character out for coffee, who would it be and why?

Kelly: Frederic Henry from A Farewell to Arms. The book, the setting, the characters in this novel have always intrigued me. Aside from Shakespeare, this was the first book that really spoke to my soul, and Frederic is such a conflicted and tragic character. He could use a cup of coffee and a friend, I think.

Icy: Did you make a conscious decision to be a writer, or did it just happen?

Kelly: I have always loved to write, though I struggled as a student when I was told what to write. I didn't like being required to write things I wasn't interested in, and developed a mental block about certain styles, namely fiction. About four years ago, I started writing a memoir, primarily because I was struggling with how different my life had become from what I'd envisioned. My husband was diagnosed with cancer while I was in law school, and it changed just about everything for me. I started the blog shortly thereafter, which began as a way to chronicle the events in our family. The blog has evolved away from that, and I write less and less about my family for a few reasons. One, I'm tapping into topics I am interested in. Two, I struggle with people knowing too much about my children. Three, sometimes the stories aren't mine to tell. As my writing has evolved, I've started writing three other books and have recently begun writing fiction at the urging of Molly Field.

Icy: Where do you stand on the literary fiction vs genre fiction opposition?

Kelly: I don't honestly think there is a hard and fast line of distinction between the two. It's more of a continuum, and where any piece falls is a subjective determination. Personally, I've been dissatisfied with some of the so-called great works of literary fiction, and drawn in by genre pieces. Much like with the blogging world, where I resist categorization as a mommy blogger, I would resist being called a chick-lit writer. We are writers, and if we write fiction, we write fiction.

Icy: How would you sum up your writing in three words?

Kelly: Intriguing, timely, real.

Icy: Would you consider yourself as a writer who has a message she wants to share, or do you just want to entertain?

Kelly: For me, that all depends on the day. Sometimes I write purely for entertainment. More often, though, I am writing for a reason. I share my life experiences in the hope that someone out there needs to read what I'm writing. I share current events and legal cases because they are important, and far too often people take what the media reports as face value. There are times that I write strictly for therapeutic reasons.

Icy: Has motherhood affected your writing at all?

Kelly: Yes. I didn't begin writing daily until my fourth child was born, and I started doing it to work through my personal issues. Being the mother of four kids forces me to budget my time, forces me to be authentic, forces me to be even more considerate of others with what I write. It forces me to hold back, to temper my emotions, to censor myself when writing about real life. That tempering is also what has pushed me to experiment more with the world of fiction, where I can protect the real people in my life.

Icy: You're also a photographer. How do you find the differences between such a visual medium, and writing?

Kelly: Photography is often simpler than writing for me, yet they both have their challenges. I tend to have more confidence with photography, but have to force myself to make time for it. A well captured image can convey something a million words cannot. Conversely, words can tell us more than what we see at times. They can push us to look further, to examine deeper, to go beyond the superficial. One of the books I am working on is a photographic essay piece on motherhood.

Icy: We always like to share good writing advice, but what has been the worst piece of writing advice you were ever given?

Kelly: The absolute worst piece of advice I've ever received was from someone who tried to limit my work. She wanted me to abandon the fiction writing because it somehow posed a threat to her, which I obviously did not do. As writers, as creators, as artists, my belief is that we should be encouraging each other. We should be helping each other push limits, try new genres, test the boundaries of our creativity. Any perceived threat of competition is just that, perceived. I prefer to work with those who encourage and foster growth, not suppress it out of fear.

Icy: Self publishing - yes or no?

Kelly: I have to say that I have been almost uniformly disappointed with self-published works, primarily from an editorial standpoint. Traditional publishing takes longer, involves rejection and jumping through a lot of hoops, but I think the end result is better quality. When I get to the point where I have something close to finished, I will be pursuing the traditional route.

Icy: What do you want people to know about you?

Kelly: I am real. I am authentic. I don't have ulterior motives. I've been accused of being melodramatic in the past by those who didn't have a full understanding of what the reality in my life is. I don't write about everything, but everything I write is real. I've said many times before that I truly have no need to make anything up. My life is stranger than fiction.

Kelly, thanks for your time!

February - Self Love Means Kicking Yourself Out

By Molly Field

The Peevish Penman prompt for February (really? I'm so sorry about all that alliteration -- I'm slaying myself over here ... ahhh, someone give me some air) is revolving  around:

Love. 

Come back!

I have chocolate!

I lied.


I ate it. It was good. Sorry. Here's the wrapper. Ghardelli.

Moving on, nothing to see here. Oh go on! What I just wrote above does NOT remind you of "This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams about the plums. That was a love note.  

♥ ♥ ♥

We are writing about Love and how we create and write in the face of it... whether that face be a marriage, a new relationship, or with our loved ones around.

Because I am elegant weird, I am going to write about it today in terms of how we show ourselves and our writing love in one simple step: break up with yourself. Show yourself the door and don't come back until you've had time to think about what this relationship with your book or your writing or your blog or your art means to you! You better learn something about how you've been treating that book, art, blog or writing. And when you're ready, show yourself.

And bring chocolate. 

♥ ♥ ♥

This will all make sense shortly, but in the meantime, indulge me as I provide the backstory: so my household has seen its share of airborne illnesses the last few weeks. I will spare you the amoebic details, but the fact of the matter is that since Christmas, I've not spent one week at home without one of my three sons home sick with me or home sick on his own. What this has done for my social life: you don'twannaknow. I've had the frequent displeasure of canceling a lunch four weeks in a row. With the same person. Yes, we're still friends.

I'm back to feeling 100% now, so please stay the hell away from me.

Don't worry, I'll get back to love. Gimme a minute. 

I had an epiphany whilst in the throes of a bout and while it might seem rather pedestrian, it can't be ignored: life is for living and for me (and maybe you?) to be a successful (whatever that means -- it's all subjective, so play nice) writer requires we get the hell out. Ironically, I say all this at risk of sounding myopic.

Surely observations and insights from disabled or impaired people are extremely valuable, but for the overwhelming majority of the able-bodied, we must kick ourselves out of our relationships and dependencies with the everyday and kick up the dust in our own lives, and not let that door hit us on our way out if we are truly going to see results.

We must unfriend ourselves from Facebook, unfollow ourselves from Twitter and unwhatever ourselves from whatever other social media engine within which we frequently engage if we are to bring value to ourselves, our craft, and our readers.

I once challenged a writer to describe an approach to a barn door in 500 words. She couldn't. She did it in 300, which is good, because this writer has limitations when it comes to descriptions. Me? I love them, I get swept up in them and they are like poetry chocolate to me.

We must get out and step into the sunshine, squinting our eyes from its sobering glare in the dead of winter, bracing ourselves against the biting, life-affirming chill and wind which buffets our bodies and whips through our souls. We must take a walk to the pond near our house and when we arrive, we must take off our leather glove, the one with the cashmere liner and touch the massive alabaster rock; and run our chapped index finger along its veins of black coal and crushed quartz as our eyes follow the lines and then wander to the park bench with the flaking paint and rusty legs, barely making purchase of the nails and screws which fasten it to the concrete platform.

We must walk past the bakery with warm and salty aromas of fresh Italian bread, crusty and golden on the outside and downy soft on the inside, the air bubbles inviting our nubby and chilled hands to grab a chunk and devour it; when it's fresh-from-the-oven warm, it tastes better than with any amount of butter on it and the smell alone is an elixir to our souls.

We must pack up our cameras and make sure the batteries are ready. We must bundle up in our trusty pea coats to get into our old cars with seats of faded leather. Turn the key and wait for the engine to start, but turn off the blowers with their frigid air because the crank case isn't warm yet.

We must drive to the old weatherworn and abandoned barn in the countryside, listen to classic songs from Frank Sinatra or Doris Day on our way; keeping that timeless appeal so we transcend the moment in which we exist: 2013, to imagine the world we seek: 1958, so we can embody that lonely farm girl whose eyes linger a little too long on the moon and whose mind tickles the memories of her moments in that barn, with her beau now at bootcamp in Georgia.

We must go to fondue dinner with loved ones during "Restaurant Week," a local week-long program born from post-9/11 sadness and fearful diners when restaurants were shuttering hourly. We must laugh despite our reluctantly transplanted waiter named Nigel who was charming but inattentive. We must kindly ask his peers for water, use our debit cards to pay the check, and hesitantly walk to the car together, wondering what we will do next and then decide, as we approach the interstate sign, with Donna Summer playing in the background, chant, "Go north or go home!" take the onramp to the city, giggle at our spontaneity and feel like teenagers again for our collective recklessness. We must park the minivan, pretend it's one of our parents' car and venture out into the vibrant, windy and pulsing city, seeking tickets to a hockey game already in progress only to discover that once we pass the security check and the baggage search that that game is sold out. But we must decide together undaunted, to go to a bar around the corner, open a tab, have a beer and watch the game on plasmas strung along the walls. See the bartendress with four-inch hoop sparkly earrings scan her smartphone and watch the bar-back in the black longshoreman's knit cap restock the frosted pint glasses; his muscles stretch and contract beneath his t-shirt's rolled up sleeves. We must turn and have no choice but to watch an older man who confessed he was on painkillers and too much beer, dance with a sweet young thing fifteen years his junior, only to see him slow down a bit, get a little too dizzy and then see him maintain his dignity as he surrenders to his age and to the night as he zips up his hoody, walks up the steps and bids the bar goodnight.

We must do these things. We must get out of our own way, even in the face of love: lovers will understand when we need to do these things, to get away. If they are worth having around, they will be there when we get back.

The fact of the matter is that if I love myself, I need to break-up with myself and kick myself out of social media, and make myself take me out on a date, or for a drive, or for a walk, without the computer but only with my eyes and my memory. Same goes for my writing, my art. The only way to get anything gritty, good and new for my work and for my soul is to turn away from what I already know and look boldly into what I see out there.

Take a late-night romantic ride in a crowded car with some coeds here:
http://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/02/08/friday-fiction-6-the-car-ride-dream/

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