31 August 2005

Life, the Universe and Everything

So - this here's serving as my personal web site for the time being. I used to be a whiz at HTML - like ten years ago when I was in college - and while HTML hasn't changed much, well, I have. Don't have the time and/or brain space to worry about the details of things like hand coding tables anymore (and every one of those web-page-creator software packages I ever used pissed me off because they stuck in a bunch of messy junk code), so setting up a "real" web site will have to wait until maybe the 3-yr-old is in school. (Ah, the things pregnancy will do to your brain...)

Anyway, I have a feeling I will come here to crank out my "thousand words a day" when I just don't have the courage to face a thousand words of fiction. Fiction hurts - sometimes it hurts good, other times: it just hurts.

I just feel like rambling today -- I don't want to have a destination for this. I'm tired of destinations. Well, more accurately, I'm tired of trying to find a destination for a particular story I'm working on. I think I'm getting tied up with wanting perfection -- which, as we all know, is a Big No-No when you're a writer. I mean, yes, perfection is a goal, but there is a time and a place for worrying about it and when you're just trying to get the fucker written - that ain't it.

Here's the quote I found on some random post on the NaNoWriMo boards:

"Make mistakes. Make great mistakes, make glorious mistakes. Better to make a hundred mistakes than to stare at a blank piece of paper too scared to do anything wrong, too scared to do anything." --Neil Gaiman

I printed it out in the biggest font that would fit on a single page and posted it on the wall just above my monitor. Think it helps?? Well, most of the time it does. But today for some reason, I can't seem to look it square in the eyes... I know I should just open that file, hold down my CTRL key, pop the END key so that I go to the end of the story where I left off and just GO - with whatever the fuck pops into my head and NOT FUCKING WORRY ABOUT IT. The story will tell itself and anything that doesn't work, fit, or otherwise please me in the morning CAN BE FUCKING FIXED LATER.

But it's been a trying day.

My boss is a very nice, very intelligent Chinese man with about a thousand letters after his name and NOT ONE SINGLE OUNCE of tact. See, we - me and another girl who works for him (who also has about a thousand letters after her name, is Canadian and has loads of tact) - are, or maybe I should say WERE, planning a surprise bridal shower for another girl who works for him (who is from Maine, went to UNH like me and has more tact than the rest of us put together). We rather stupidly relied on the very nice Chinese man to come up with a creative - and tactful - excuse to get the bride-to-be into the room where the surprise party will be waiting for her.

We both know better. We do. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, we both assumed that the very nice Chinese man would be able - on his own - to come up with something plausible. At the very least, we were pretty sure he could come up with something that wasn't so alarming the bride-to-be would feel compelled to call me, at home, on a Sunday morning thinking she was about to lose her job and was going to get taken out behind the barn on Wednesday to be put out of her misery.

Now, it's not even like she's the worrying type, necessarily. But she's getting married in about three weeks. She has a THOUSAND things to think about and her nerves are frayed on the best of days.

Today was not the best of days.

Today ended up being all about damage control. Basically, I got nothing of substance done (i.e., no editing) because there were a THOUSAND emails flying back and forth between the damage contollers (me, the Canadian gal and the very nice Chinese man's very nice (and very tactful) wife (who, you guessed it, also has a thousand letters after her name)), the damage inflictor (that would be the very nice Chinese man) and the poor bride-to-be (I'm not sure this late in the evening: would she be the damage controlee??).

The biggest problem was that many of these emails involved me lying, which I do not do well. It makes me ill, physically. I don't bother lying to people face to face because I'm so bad at it, I might as well not even bother. Via email, it's possible, but just. And like I said, it makes me ill.

The poor bride-to-be went home early today because she "wasn't feeling well" - and who can blame her? I would have gone home early too, but was so busy typing little white emails, it was 3:00 before I knew it. Come to think of it, that's probably why I don't feel like writing tonight, since I've already written so much fucking fiction today: I guess my muse is feeling abused. Goddamnit!!