writing

Day one. Mom is gone and dad is -mostly- here.

Posted on by intownforbusiness

6AM – The alarm goes off. The daughter child apparently didn’t require an alarm. She is dressed, smiling and wearing a backpack at the foot of the bed. I have exactly 30 minutes to dress, carry suitcases to the car and consider my life choices thus far. The wife and daughter are going to Disney. Of all the people living under this roof my wife determined they were the most deserving of some warm air and a monetary sacrifice at the alter of an evil rodent.

6:33AM – I didn’t get out of bed when I was supposed to.  I got out of bed at 6:15AM because my daughter was threatening to remove me by force.  I have exactly 15 minutes to do all of the above plus prep the baby for transit to the airport.  I wrap the sleeping child in a blanket or towel and proceed to the exit.  “Did you change his diaper?”  My wife asks.

“Yes.”  I lied.  I make a mental note to do this when it is convenient.

7:42 –  My wife made a face when she kissed me goodbye.  It’s the same face a person about to bungee jump makes.  It’s a face that says, “I’m doing this now.  I hope everything works out.”  The night before -as she handed me spreadsheets of daily schedules- she did the math and concluded that it had been 10 years since I’d been home alone -overnight- with a child.  This is currently being fact checked.  It’s not death or dismemberment that she’s concerned about.  It’s the E-learning and extracurriculars she thinks I’m going to mess up along with hygiene.  I make a mental note to be sure that the boys are not wearing their current outfits when we pick her up on Sunday.

7:43 – We listen to music on the drive home at a volume considered safe but annoying to mom.

9:00AM – The eldest boy submits a list of “approved dinners.”  In all of my wife’s planning she failed to inform me that our 10 year old is on death row.  “Sushi, steak, crab legs, Chick-fil-A, …smoke a brisket?”  How many days do you think your mother is going to be gone?”

The convict shrugs his shoulders and walks away.  Meanwhile the baby has found a box of coffee creamer packets and has spread them on the kitchen floor.  Either that or a silent ticker tape parade has just ended.  I immediately recognize this war has two fronts.  Mental note:  Do not focus on one for too long.  “Up there you don’t have time to think.  You think, you’re dead.”  Lt. Pete “Maverick” Mitchel.  

9:17AM – Breakthrough!  Upon cleaning up the creamer packets I discovered that we posses enough cereal to not have to leave the house until it’s time to go back to the airport.  Milk rationing is now in effect.

10:40AM – The baby has a nap time.  Romantically I had envisioned 2-3 hours of reading, writing and general “me” time.  The child has a precise circadian rhythm.  His primal instinct warns him of the time.  He runs and hides as my “me” time ticks away.  

10:55AM – All quiet on the Western front.  Me time…  Who was I kidding.  There is no “Me time” in war.  This is a time for re-organizing. For inventory and strategy.  At some point the peace will be over and survival will be the result of planning.  

2:00PM – The little one -somehow, somewhere- found a flask.  The flask could be a relic from happier times or a hint as to how my wife does this full time.  Either way, he now refuses to drink from any other vessel.  I retreat and make a mental note to correct this behavior before Sunday.  

3:30PM – I hope the person who invented “Baby Shark” is in prison.  Like real prison.  Not like the ones Illinois governors seem to like to retire to.  

5:00PM – My daughter has a pet named Fuzz Ball.  As the name would suggest, Fuzz Ball is a lizard.  My wife texted to inform me that leathery freak is also my responsibility and requires food.

5:22PM – The man behind me at the pet store has a bag of fancy dog food over his shoulder.  I am holding 2 boxes of worms.  I contemplate the irony of going to an animal store to buy animals to feed to another animal.  I also contemplate what raw worms must taste like.

5:35PM – Sushi pick up.

6:32PM – I can hear “Baby Shark” however, all electronics are off.  Note to self: google symptoms of insanity, read results then google symptoms of insanity, expect different results.

7:12PM – Home stretch.  Baby goes down at 8.  That’s a threat.  

8:05PM – The eldest boy has the misconception that his mother is the only enforcer of bed time.  In an effort to be the “cool parent” I allow this ideology to continue and oblige his request to watch Top Gun.  The only version available is the unedited version.  I spend the first 40 minutes  attempting to cough over the swear words.  The boy either finds this annoying or has cause to believe that we aren’t socially distant enough.  He goes to bed.  I wait until Goose dies and follow suit.  I have to be ready for tomorrow.  They know my tactics now.  

International (I don’t have a) Dog Day

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It’s International Dog Day.  I don’t have a dog.  I want one but my wife says she can’t deal with another living thing that eats and poops in this house.  3 kids, 1 rabbit and a lizard is where she draws the line.

I already have a dog picked out, a pointer type of dog.  I don’t hunt but I would like to retain the option if by chance I find the urge to murder a bird in the future.  I guess you don’t really need a dog to murder a bird.  But if you want the murdered bird delivered to your feet you’re going to want a dog (Or a not squeamish child).

This dog would be MY dog.  Dad’s dog.  He or she would be loyal to the family but the dog and I would have inside jokes.  The dog would run daily errands with me and be able to keep a secret.

When fly fishing the dog would run the banks in order to warn me about hungry bears.  If we were being attacked by a bear the dog would know to run slower than me.  The dog would escape because it was a diversion.  All part of the plan.

The dog will have to love flying or at least like being around airplanes.  This dog has to be able to go to work with me and not get me fired.  Everyone knows that no airplane hangar is complete without a trusty hangar dog.

When I leave the dog would miss me more than all 3 kids combined.  And that’s the problem.  I pay my bills by “leaving.”  The dog and I would miss each other too much.  My buddy would become my wife’s problem.  They wouldn’t have any inside jokes.  I’ll get my pup when the kids are done playing with their buddy… dad.  I can wait, and so can my wife.  Happy International Dog day!

Donuts and Swords

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“Well it didn’t take them long to turn those into weapons.”  My grandma was talking about my three kids.  They were in the middle of a pirate sword fight with the littlest one targeting shins.  “School” starts tomorrow.  Grandma thought starting the school year with a fresh ruler was a good idea.  As soon as she pulled them out of the plastic shopping bag, I too thought sword.  I know my kids.  They’ll turn marshmallows into weapons.  My 18 month old doesn’t know what a ruler is for.  But he knows what a sword with the numbers 1-12 is for.  He only got in a few whacks before all three rulers were confiscated.

I think -after a summer of quarantine- that our kids have had enough of us.  A few weeks ago the school board asked parents to vote on whether or not to send the kids back to school.  We discussed it with our darling students and they both asked to go back.  They were each offered an opportunity to stay home from school indefinitely and they said, “No.”  I didn’t take offense.  I actually supported their decision.  At this point I would be willing to throw them in giant hamster balls with a Lunchable if it meant I could use the bathroom uninterrupted.

The school board had multiple meetings with multiple votes that came to multiple conclusions.  In the end -as of today- the kids will be going to school from our dining room table.  I know my wife is anxious about having to be a teacher.  She eats donuts when she’s anxious.  I found a box of Krispy Kremes in her car yesterday.  3 were missing.

I’m sure the first few weeks of the school year will follow some form of structure.  Kids will make beds and parents will make breakfasts with multiple offerings.  Pancakes will have fruit and omelets will have options.  Then we’ll hit our stride.  We’ll all have to come to the conclusion that we’re doing what we can.  Some days that will mean dry toast and going through the motions.  Some weekends will start early just because they have to.

This is uncharted territory.  No one signed up for this.  Not the teachers, not the janitors and especially not the children.  Whatever the education course is, it’s the card that was dealt.  We’ll all just have to do our best.  Part of doing our best is not beating ourselves up too much.  It’s about realizing that some of the greatest discoveries happened in uncharted territory.  That sometimes rulers turn into swords and sometimes the best answer is Donut.

 

Going to Work After Quarantine

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I kind of forgot I had a job.  I just figured that quarantine was my new career.  That somebody was paying me to keep these children alive and clean.  Mostly clean.

My phone rang last night.  This means I have to work tomorrow.  It’ll be the first time in over a month.  I’m in no visual shape to be going back to general population.

My last haircut was homemade the day before I had to go to work last time.  My wife watched a video online and sheered me like a lamb.  It got me through the day without too many digs from my workmates.  A month later… well they didn’t talk about that in the video.

I have to be deliberate about getting dressed tomorrow.  I have to make it look like my clothes were on purpose.  Things will have to “match.”  My ensemble cannot be left to the randomness and chance of how clothes are placed in a drawer.  In short, my clothes can’t be what I wore to bed… 3 nights ago.

I’m going to have to figure out my alarm clock again.  I’m sure it’s like riding a bike.  No longer will I be persuaded awake by the sound of songbirds or screaming children.  Theres a complex mathematical equation for what time to set an alarm:

(Required Arrival Time) – (Decency Procedures) ÷ Procrastination

Normally it’s a math problem I can do quickly in my head.  I’m going to have to storyboard tomorrow’s departure.

Then there’s the commute.  Under normal circumstances -when the entire world isn’t fighting a mutant virus- it takes me an hour and a half.  I don’t live that far away from my job.  It’s just that everyone else lives just as far and prefers to drive when I do.  5 years of making this drive has provided me with a set of skills focused on survival and efficiency.  On the road I have the reaction time of a formula one driver with the calculative mind of a Russian chess champion.  At 80mph my mind slows everything down like I’m in the matrix.  I’m seeing 2 or 3 moves before they happen.  I feel the mood of traffic.  Billions of years of evolution unconsciously speaks to me.  I sense detours before they happen.  Cops?  I know where the cops are.  I know where they hide.  It gives me enough time to go into full granny mode (3mph under the speed limit with 2 car lengths in front).

That’s all gone now.  I’m just another motorist.  Mirror, blinker, blindspot at the speed limit.

Then there’s my job.  I have a very specific set of skills that really only allow me to perform one specific job.  I’m a one trick pony.  The only difference between a toll booth attendant and me is some very expensive training.  I’m a pilot.

My job isn’t exactly dangerous.  I mean it has its own level of risk but what job doesn’t.  Pilot risk is also an equation.

Risk = Repetition + Hours Flown ÷ Diameter of Wristwatch + Size of Sunglasses

Repetition is what makes a pilot sharp.  Twice in 2 months isn’t quite “repetition.”  Tomorrow’s performance -by yours truly- should have all the grace and elegance of a middle school formal dance.

At the end of the day I get to drive home (slowly).  I’ll put this weeks pajamas on and wait.  My hair will grow and I’ll forget my alarm clock again.  At some point -hopefully not another 30 days- my phone will ring.  I’ll look in the mirror, consider my appearance and say, “I have to go to work tomorrow.”

Things in our community are beginning to loosen.  More and more pale neighbors are emerging from quarantine and going back to work.  I hope this means more of us will have to re-learn how to “go to work tomorrow.”

Post Coronavirus Party

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When all of this is finally done I think there should be some kind of worldwide celebration.  Some universal holiday that the whole Earth celebrates.  It should last multiple days and involve toilet paper.  All the top mixologists of the world shall convene at the United Nations.  There they will invent a drink known as the “vaccine.”  It should be vodka based and have an umbrella.

There shall be parades of people with disheveled hair, dressed in sweatpants and stained T-shirts.  Plays and epics will be written telling the legends of parent-teachers whose kids still managed to get into college.  On Coronavirus Eve children will go to bed early so that Dr. Fauci -wearing a mask- doesn’t catch them awake.  The next morning the kids will run down -without showering or brushing teeth- to find the practical yet useful gifts he brought them (Exotic hand sanitizers, multiple ply toilet paper, and frozen pizzas.)

The first few days of the new holiday will be the lent period.  Everyone must stay 6’ away and there is to be no touching or shaving.  The day of the party will be all hugs, handshakes and high fives.

But before the party starts (at 7PM) we all go outside. We have a moment of silence for the fallen, maybe some pipes and drums, then we clap. We clap for the hero’s. The doctors, the nurses, the porters, the grocery workers, the police, the EMTs, the science and every person who gave of themselves for others.

The party should be as crazy as this time has been. But at the end of the day we should remember. In all it should be a recalibration. A time to realign our priorities. A time to think about what is important and what is not. A time to think about who is important and who is not. A time to realize that being alone with your family is not the worst thing in the world.

The Hourly Writing Challenge

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I have been suffering from a bit of quarantine induced writer’s block.  In an effort to break through I gave myself a challenge yesterday.  I set my alarm to go off every hour.  When the alarm would go off I had to stop what I was doing a write a few sentences.  This is what transpired:

7:30AM – I can hear my wife in the other room talking to my daughter.  “You need to pick one outfit and stick with it.  You wore 3 different outfits yesterday.”  I may shower today… probably not.

8:30AM – Coffee and the news.  I watch WGN in the morning mostly just for the comedic relief of the 9 at 9.  Once that is done the day can officially start.  I change the channel as soon as it’s over because I can’t stand Rachael Ray.  The baby has kicked his bowl of dry waffles over no less than 695 times.

9:30AM – The virtual school bell is about to ring.  I really only have one job during virtual school.  I have to keep the little one away from the class.  I suck at my job.  School takes hours.  Distilled it’s probably only about 40 minutes of actual work.

10:30AM – I no kidding took a shower.  I always wondered what the seat in our shower was for.  I figured it out today.  It’s a pandemic shower seat.  It’s a seat for when the shower is the destination.   I washed my body with 3 different soaps intended for 3 different body areas.  I took the time to read the directions.  Usually I’m an Irish Spring – once and done – punch out kind of guy.  Not today.  I smell like 3 different levels of heaven.

11:30AM – LUNCH BELL!  There will be ham.  We made a giant ham for easter.  There is enough ham to quarantine until Christmas.  We’ll have ham for dinner too.  We will eat all the ham.  When Sir Edmund Hillary was asked why he wanted to climb Everest he said, “Because it is there.”  Ham is our Everest.

12:30PM – “My Beard.”  A Haiku

My glorious beard

You could use a trim right now

But no, quarantine.

1:30PM – End of the “school day.”  Last lesson was Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) or “Zulu time.”  Pilots tell time using GMT.  I am a pilot, therefore it is officially after 5PM.  It’s 5 o’clock somewhere and that place is here.  Just kidding.  It’s Tuesday.  I can’t be day drinking in case one of these idiots impales themselves and I have to do surgery on the kitchen table.  The dining room table is for guests only.

2:30PM – One thing I’ve learned about my kids since we’ve been quarantined is their fuel consumption.  Snack time. 

“Didn’t you just eat?”

“Yeah at lunch.”

This is how snack time works.  Take a child and offer that child her most favorite food in the world.  Because it was offered first it is immediately rejected.  Next, offer the child any visible food on the counter top.  Welcome to rejection city.  Next, open any two cabinets containing food.  Contemplation, a tap on the chin, a flicker of hope and a great big NOPE.  Go to refrigerator.  The Alamo.  Our fridge beeps when the doors are open too long.  The beeps start sounding like swear words.  “How about some ham?”  Furrowing little eyebrows.  What is requested is a sandwich so complex, so luxurious that it should be considered second lunch or first dinner.  As a parent and not a professional sandwich architect, you begin to question your abilities.  Fine.  Toast the multi-grain bread to the color of an ewok.  Spread the herb mayonnaise with the care of an oil painter.  With the essentials stacked, remove the crust in almost a ritualistic fashion.  You stand back and have a moment.  Pride.  Reluctantly you announce to the child that that your masterpiece is complete, “Child come get your sandwich.”

No movement from the couch.  You try again, “CHILD, SANDWICH.”  You walk to the couch.  2:39PM is nap time.

3:30PM – Of the hours in the day 3:30 feels the most “normal.”  Normally the kids would be getting home from school.  There’s a quick meeting about the evening’s activities and we break.  We don’t do the whole hands in the middle “Grahams on three,” thing but maybe we should.  Instead of talking hockey practice and scout meetings we’re talking movies, bath and bed times.  Bed times are not really a thing anymore.  I mean the Titanic in its current state is technically a boat.  But by definition, is it really a boat?  The bedtime discussion is more like the war council scene from West Side Story.  “What time are starting and are we brining pipes or switchblades?”  “Graham’s on three….  Ready… Break!”

4:30PM – I was thinking about famous quarantines today.  Imagine being stuck in a Volkswagen Beetle for 8 days with two other people.  After the 8 days someone says you can leave the Beetle but you still have to quarantine for another 21 days in a room.  That happened!  Their names were Michael Collins, Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong.  You ever see the footage of them being released from quarantine?  Neil -the most collected of the 3- looks like he wants to punch somebody.  I bet it was Buzz.  People still want to punch Buzz.  

5:30PM – Ham

6:30PM – In between the trenches lies the area known as “No man’s land.”  On one side the Allies on the other the Central Powers.  In this case one side is the mom and the other side are the kids.  Both sides are dug in deep.  It’s dusk.  Show your head or make even the smallest whine and the battle of bedtime begins.  I once saw the battle happen in broad daylight.  They went quick and painless.  We watched a movie with swears that night sans kids.

7:30PM – My daughter is still at the age where she’s brutally honest.  If you want to know if you’re fat just swing by, she’ll tell you.  We’re doing curbside for the time being.  There are two things she will tell you I’m bad at.  (Bad is my word.  She’s been scolded for using the word suck)  I suck -my word this time- at hair combing and baths.  Until I had kids I didn’t even know one could suck at baths.  It’s seemingly simple.  Fill one container with water.  Submerge soiled child then dry unsoiled child.  According to my daughter I make the water too hot or too cold.  I don’t provide enough bubbles or I provide too many bubbles.  It took me two tries tonight but alas here I sit next to the bathtub.  

8:30PM – Each kid has a separate yet very specific procedure for bedtime.  The only commonality in the 3 procedures is teeth brushing.  Beyond that the steps are like the movie scene where -the batshit crazy- Howard Hughes is ordering milk.  “He is to open the bag with his right hand and hold the bag at a 45 degree angle so I may reach into the bag without touching the paper.  If there is any variation of these instructions, even to the smallest degree, the entire process must be repeated from the beginning.”  The baby is the easiest; diaper and 8 ounces of liquid sleep.  The 10 year old only requires a heated blanket, a ceiling fan and about 8 pages of Harry Potter.  The 5 year old is a bit of a moving target.  The pajamas have to be the right pajamas.  The blankets have to be the right blankets placed in the right spot.  A minimum of 3-17 books have to be read using the appropriate voices.  The catalyst to screaming and warfare is that all 3 require their procedures at the same time.  It’s a catch-22.  Catch-22 deals with being sane enough to question your insanity.  If you are sane enough to determine you are insane, you don’t have insanity you have bedtime.  Got it?

9:30PM – That’s it, end of quarantine day 32.  The end of a day in a long string of endless days.  We go to bed with big plans for tomorrow.  We go to bed hoping this day spent separated from the community scored another point for the good guys.  But there’s no scoreboard.  Only some flawed statistics, fear and ham.  This will be over soon.  In some weird way we’ll wear this time like a badge.  We’ll measure time in days and weeks and months since quarantine.  Until then we’ll count things like school work, baths and bedtimes as wins.  Be good to each other.  Each other is the best reason to get out of bed in the morning (and shower).  And pick an outfit.  If it doesn’t work, pick another or two.

I Drank Mexican Coke Before It Was Cool

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When it’s time to cook a big meal in my house we go to a certain grocery store.  Most people head to the fancy – “is this gluten free” – place, but not us.  Our favorite place is what my kids have come to call the Mexican grocery store.  That’s really the best way to describe it.  It’s different.  Everything in the store seems to be slightly more colorful.  The produce in its neat rows is just a little more exotic and the butcher’s counter just a little more (how can put this) all encompassing.  Walking in, the menagerie of smells, the conversation and even the music takes me to a different time in a much different place.

I spent a lot of time in Mexico as a youngster.  My mother was the eldest of 12 children all born in the city of Chihuahua located in the state of Chihuahua.  More than a few holidays and vacations were spent reintroducing myself to the dozens of cousins that lived there.

My Grandmother was without a doubt the single best cook to ever walk this earth.  What she could do with a handful of ingredients and few hours has never and will never be replicated.  She had no recipe books and as far as I could tell no measuring spoons.  She would stand over a pot of something bubbly with palm full of salt and just stare at it.  She would then remove a pinch of the salt then add a half pinch.  When the weight or look or whatever she used to gauge the correct amount of salt was right, she’d flick her wrist and in it would go.

At 2PM every day without so much as a text or email, guests would start to arrive.  An actual seat at the table was harder to get than one at French Laundry.  Most people stood, including my grandmother who rarely left her post tending the tortillas on the comal.  (In retrospect, I can not recall ever seeing my grandmother actually eat.)  My abuela’s joy came from seeing her family standing around eating together on mismatched china.  She was a literal miracle worker.  No one was ever invited, they just knew when to come and yet day after day she never ran out of food.

I remember waking early to the sound of a spoon clinking a coffee cup.  It would stop and I would hear my Grandma whispering the neighborhood gossip to my mother so as not to wake us.  I hated eggs at the time, but for some reason she knew how to make them with that special sauce.  Hers were the only eggs I would eat.

Sopping up the last bits of egg with a broken tortilla she would haul me off to the market.    At that time the market was the only place to buy fresh produce.  It was open air like today’s weekend “farmer’s markets” but with less pretension and more actual farmers.  She had her “guy” for everything.  Meat?  She had a meat guy.  Lettuce?  She had a lettuce guy.  These “guys” knew that you didn’t fuck with the little old lady and the grandson in his Chicago winter tan.

The menu of the day was always planned organically.  I don’t mean she was asking if these cucumbers were free range or happy.  What I mean is that she would peruse the stalls and find what looked best that day.  The freshest and best looking ingredients came home with us.  What she created beyond that  was the result of technique, heart, and La Virgen De Guadalupe who hung on the wall watching all that when on in the house.

The best part of a market run came after all of our purchases were made.  One of 3 scenarios would play out.  In the first case, my grandmother would hand me a fist full of pesos and walk me to the tortilleria or tortilla factory.  This was the most ideal of situations.  I’m a stranger in the neighborhood and although I’ve been in town a matter of hours everyone mysteriously knows that the pale kid is “el hijo de Tere” or my mother’s kid.  This always opened me up to questioning which I didn’t have the time or the vocabulary for.  Grandma had my back.

The scarier scenario was when she would ask me to go to the tortilleria on my own.  (See above)

The last and more common scenario was when grandma needed her tortillas as fresh as possible.  This meant that the dish she was making had the humble starch circle as the headliner.  A call from the kitchen, another fist full of pesos and I was off.  If I was lucky I could convince a loitering cousin to accompany me.

The lines at the tortilleria were always out the door but if you’ve ever been to one you know that you never have to wait long.  The goal was to get inside the door.  Once inside there was only room for 4 humans to stand single filed.  The counter where you made you order was always a new coat of hunter green and stretched the width of the building.  The smell.  To this day even a hint of that smell and I’m instantly transported back to that doorway out of the sun.  An arms length behind the counter stood one of the oldest and most remarkable machines a young boy has ever seen.  It took up what remained of space in the small building and functioned on a exact rhythm of clanking metal and humming conveyor belts.  Rube Goldberg must have started life in the tortilla biz.

What amazed me the most where the gymnasts that worked this amazing culinary gadget.  They all seemed to work within its rhythm.  The point man, the guy I considered the quarterback of the whole operation was my favorite.  The goal was to do whatever it took to not interrupt his synchronous dance.  You had to play by his rules.

In the loudness of the room you had to convey your request in kilos.  If it was round number it was perfectly acceptable to use your fingers.  When grandma would screw you with a 2.5 kilo order, well things would get a little risky.  If that was the case you had to plan out and execute the exact time to yell across the counter.  Too soon and he wasn’t looking at you, too late and the machine blows up taking out the 3 houses surrounding the building.  If you did it right the QB would pivot on his heels to face the beast at it’s mouth with a large piece of brown paper.  The beast would spit out hot tortillas into his waiting hand.  After years of catching hot tortillas this guy could tell you what exactly 2.5 kilos felt like.  He would slap the stack of tortillas on a scale and he was never, ever more than 3 or 4 tortillas off.  With a thumbs up his hands would turn into a blur as he would use ancient origami secrets to seal the package.  The QB would then place his weight guessing hands into a plastic bag where you would unload the pesos.  With that, your relationship was over… until tomorrow around the same time.

Down the counter from the register always sat a lonely salt shaker.  This salt shaker spoke of the owner’s past.  It spoke of a time when his grandmother would send HIM to the tortilleria.  He knew what I knew.  No sane person in their right mind can walk home with warm stack of fresh tortillas and not try at least one.  You weren’t ready to go home until you partially opened the package, put a few shakes of salt on a tortilla, and rolled it as tight as you could.  It was bliss.

The grocery store I take my family to has a tortilleria in it.  It’s much more streamlined and quiet than the one in grandma’s neighborhood.  The product it puts out is great but not like the tortillas of my youth.  Walking through the store the brands, cookware, and little treats make me wish that my kids could experience the Mexico of my childhood.  My grandma never wrote down her recipes she passed them down through experience and teaching.  I can only hope that the experiences I give my children, as mundane as they may seem, are the things they cherish when I’ve gone to the tortilleria in the sky.

Writing and Christmas… Nope

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Today I feel like I crossed some weird finish line.  Like those marathon runners you see being carried across the checkered line, I woke up and declared victory.  Christmas has always been one of the most frustrating times of the year for me.  Everything gets put on hold and you just get fatter.  Like every day… fatter.  I took a few days off from writing.  I just put on my sweats and hopped in the Christmas lazy river.  Minimal effort on everything.  (My wife actually told me that I needed to take a shower)

“What is this stuff?  Don’t know?  It’s on a cracker so it has to be good.”

Now we’re in that zone between Christmas and New Years.  That zone where I can’t remember if I should be at work or if I’m still off.  I think I’m still off…  Too early to start on those resolutions plus these left overs aren’t going to eat themselves.

One thing I did get for Christmas, (since I’m blogging about writing) is some new software.  Scrivener.  Let me tell you my first impressions.

  1.  I will have the book written way before I fully learn the software.
  2. It will not write for you.  Tried that… zero words for the day.
  3. You can learn anything on youtube.
  4. I thought I was disorganized before…. Nope I’m terminal.

I’m hoping to be able to at least get the high points.  What attracted me to the software was the easy ability to look at this project from a big picture point of view with just a click.

Before Scrivener I was using “Pages.”  I liked pages because it was simple.  I could write for the day and hit save.  Instantly I could access my story from my laptop, iPad, or phone.  If I had a quick idea while waiting in line somewhere, boom I could write.

We’ll see how it goes.  I need a cookie.

Write on!

Superstitious Writing or “Workflow”

Posted on by intownforbusiness

In my first post about writing a book I explained how these blog posts were a result of my warm up exercise before I actually start to write.  I thought I would share, not only what MY workflow is, but how I developed it.

I have a long commute to work.  On a good day the drive is an hour and twenty minutes.  This means that I have a lot of “free time.”  After several months of beating my playlist into the ground I realized that (round trip) I had two hours and forty minutes a day where I could learn something.  Having decided to start writing a book I looked to writing themed podcasts.  Using spotify I simply searched “writing podcasts” and clicked on the first one.  It was the KOBO Writing Life podcast which can be found here.  For the most part the podcast interviews published writers about current and past projects.  Listening to how other writers approach their daily workflows started me thinking about mine.  Did I even have a set “workflow?”  Do I “prepare” to write?  One of the authors interviewed made a good point.  He said something to the effect of, “When you brush your teeth before you go to bed, you’re telling your brain that it’s time to start thinking about getting tired.  The same thing works with writing.  If you do the same thing every time you sit down to write, your brain starts to prepare for writing.  The creative juices start to flow.”

I had to get a “workflow.”  (I hate the term workflow)

I bought the guy’s book.FullSizeRender

It’s called 52 Pep Talks for Writers by Grant Faulkner and is actually the first part of my “workflow.”  The book is composed of 52 quick chapters with tidbits about how to approach your writing for maximum creativity.

The 3 most common themes for most of the interviewed artist were:

  1. Try to write in the same physical location.  (Desk, office, bed.)
  2. Start by writing something else.  Write a couple of paragraphs on anything away from your story.
  3. JUST KEEP WRITING.

So that’s what I did.  I set some parameters and figured out what was going to work for me every time I sat down to write.  Here’s what I came up with almost organically.  It has to feel right.

  1. I sit at the same desk.
  2. I quiet my phone or even take it out of the room.
  3. I read for 10 minutes. (See above photo)  I’ll read anything.  Usually something with a lot of dialogue so that I can find a rhythm.
  4. For 10 minutes I’ll write in a journal.  The goal here is to be spontaneous and uninhibited.  Entries range from 200-300 words.  It can be about anything!  I mostly write about where I’m at in my story, what needs to be fixed, or any ideas I had during the day.
  5. I begin to attack my story.  I’m a paper and pen type of guy so I use a notebook and just start writing.  I limit the pen and paper portion to about an additional 10 minutes.
  6. Only after steps 1-5 are done do I actually open my computer.  This, in my opinion, is where the magic happens.  I place my handwritten story next to my computer and will quickly glance at a sentence before I type it.  What I don’t want is to copy it verbatim.  What I do want to do is transform that sentence in the transfer to the word document.  My notebook is my sketch pad, the computer is the canvas.  Make sense?

And there you have it!  Like the kids say, “thats how I roll.”  Here are some things to consider.

  • This is my way of doing it.  What you need to find is what works for you.  What feels most comfortable?  Make your workflow your own, but stick to it!
  • The words you put into your computer are not the finished product.  Remember that even if you finish a 150,000 word novel, IT’S STILL A ROUGH DRAFT!  This is your baby, it’s going to need some rearing.
  • Set a goal.  Be realistic but not underwhelming.  When I sit down to write I take a sticky note and write what my day’s word goal is.  At a very minimum I write 250 words.  That’s about 10 minutes of actual writing.  On weekends I set higher goals.  Stick to at least your minimum number.  Realize that at 250 words a day you could have a 100,000 word novel written in one year!
  • Whatever you do, JUST KEEP WRITING.  You can’t call yourself a writer if you don’t actually write.  Even on days when you can’t seem to make any progress on your story, take out a notebook and write about something else.  In my experience writing about my lunch scene with detail has kick started my story again.
  • Stop convincing yourself that you can’t do it.  I make excuses too.  “I don’t have the education; I’m not talented enough; I don’t have the time.”  Anyone can write, that means you too!  As Grant Faulkner said in his book, “Write in the cracks of life.”  Find the time.

Write on!