A Fraught Affair

We did not suspect a thing the first time we handed each dog a hunk of stale baguette. Nor did anything seem odd when they  trotted off to make slobbery crumbs on the rug. 


But Wally’s bread was soon gone, and Little Guy’s was not. 

We’d previously learned the meaning of, “The bone of contention,” when the two dogs would go to war over any randomly selected bone out of their bone collection. But Wally wasn't interested in Little Guy’s bread and neither were the human members of the family. 

There was no convincing Little Guy of our indifference, however. 

He went on high alert, deeply suspicious of our intentions. Fiercely defending his bread from imaginary threats, he carried it with him indoors and out.

He slept beside it. 

But this love affair seemed to bring him more stress than joy. He dared not leave the grubby, tooth marked, crumbling, object of his devotion unattended. 

His hyper-vigilance soon made movement through his day nearly impossible. How could he bark at the mailman with his bread? What was he to do if cookies were offered? Or a ball thrown? How could he close both eyes to sleep?

By day four, dog and bread were ragged, and just as he'd feared we would, we seize and disappear the remains of Little Guy's beloved. 

Since that first baguette, others have taken its place; whole wheat, sour-dough, classic French. Little Guy’s passion for each remains undiminished. 

This makes us wonder if we are doing him a favor or cursing him with each new offering.  In fact, as I write this, his foot rests protectively across his latest. 

A dog and his stale bread, a fraught affair, a beautiful thing. 

xo Amy

Why Write?

OK so I sent the first draft of my newest book off to my agent last night, partly to make sure she thinks its worth perusing, but mostly because I was overpowered by the urge to SHOW it to someone. The little kid on the slide yelling, “Look Mommy!”  That’s me, only Mommy has morphed into agent, then editor, then reviewers and, best for last: readers.

Anyway, after however long it was of obsessively manic writing, it would have felt way too weird not to return to this awful backache chair and this blinding screen with my morning coffee. This is, after all what I do. I sit here.

So while it is fresh in my mind, perhaps now is the time to write about writing. Writers writing about writing is probably the number one non real writing writing project we writers participate in, plus, sometimes people ask. So: Here goes.

We’ll take my new born draft as example. Dates might be handy here, but I don’t have any. Suffice it to say: One day while on a trip, I was seized by an idea that I loved. I wrote furiously, cracking myself up, until someone told me there was a book newly out that was based on the same premise more or less.

I put my book aside and sulked for seven years, during which time I got seized by other ideas of no relevance to this story. Fast forward to finding those first twenty or so pages in hard copy. Read it, loved it, remembered the fun I'd had writing it.Thanks to a faulty memory, I could no longer remember the gist of the other author's book. So I started copying my found pages into this newer compute... it was fun and I was OFF! 

It is that OFF that I’m here to discuss. It’s the WHY I WRITE. God knows it’s not for the glory or pay, both of which are negligable. And it’s not, as it seems to be for some, the thrill of seeing my books all bound up and pretty, and it’s not for the fan mail, although all those elements are nice. It is for the fabulous buzz of writing. 

When it is going well, writing is the single most absorbing joy ride I've experienced. I am an obsessive kind of gal, so I do not have a schedule, or do word count, or page count or other things that I’ve heard other writers use. I sit down here at the computer, and write until either life intrudes, (must eat, shit, teach, sleep, keep a dinner date, talk to children or parents or husband.) Or until I'm done. I do not want, at times like that, to eat, shit, teach, etc., but it takes a while to finish a book, so many of those other intrusions are unavoidable.

What do I mean by going well? I mean the story is gushing out of my fingertips, and I am scrambling breathlessly to keep up. I only type with four fingers, and still, after all these decades, can’t write without looking at the key board, and yet, except for the neck pain, I have no memory of looking at the keyboard at all. Are my eyes turned inward? Am I in a trance? Channeling? Conjuring? Who knows. It is some kind of mental / emotional altered state, surly, and one like no other.     

When the writing is going, but not going well, I am equally undistractable, and obsessed, but it isn’t one bit pleasant. Those are the plot days, when the character has reached a wall, and I must slam blindly against the stone, again and again, looking for the door. Those are the times I stalk around the house,drag the dog out for a stomp, look down and see that my hands are in fists. Get a head ache from clenching the jaw. Stare uncomprehendingly at the husband as he speaks. Lie awake twitching.

But it is important to note, that as utterly frustrating and aggravating and infuriating as those bad times are, they are not boring. In fact, none of the process is boring. And that is exactly why I do it.

xo

Amy