13-Mar-2007

I am writing a short story.  An embarrassingly personal short story, so embarrassingly personal, in fact, that I want to curl up in a corner and just blush the night away with burning cheeks and pounding heart.  The idea that I will actually be letting people read this blubbering idiocy makes me laugh.  They will see it's me.  They will know.  The questions is do I care?  Do they care?  Probably not.  They will care more about the fact that I am a wee toddler in the prose world, just able to walk and form complex sentences, craving nothing more than a little love and some applesauce.  It's not going to happen.  Did I also tell you I started a novel?  I have let Cliffhanger read the first seven pages (correction:  the first six pages - in typical Hollywood exec/manager/producer form, she lost the seventh page, then blamed me).  Why Cliffhanger, you ask?  That's what one might call a long story, one which, if I told you, would cause you to knock on my head a la Biff Tannen and scream, "Hello?  Anybody home?"  So we'll go with the short answer - she is mean.  So mean, in fact, that it took her THREE HOURS to give me notes on six pages.  Now, granted, she was very kind when giving the notes - she has a very diplomatic side to her, so she'll ask, "Wouldn't it be better if--" or "Maybe it would help clarify if--".  I, however, find diplomacy demeaning, and end up responding, "No, it would not be better!!!  It would be better if I just jumped off a bridge right now and put myself out of my misery because I am not, I tell you not, going to law school."  "Okay," she'll say, "You're overreacting.  As usual."  Me - "But I've wasted hours of your time, and you'll never get them back, and I should just stop, I should stop subjecting everyone to this total crap.  It's total crap.  You're missing your daughter's dance recital, and your marriage is on the rocks, and it's all because you're taking time away from your family to give me notes on my crappy prose!!!"  Her - "Ummm... I don't have children.  Or a husband.  You must take the squawking down a notch.  And then we're going to work on managing your delusions."  Cliffhanger is annoyingly even and soothing when I'm trying to argue with her.  "Also," she continues, "this would go a lot faster if you'd stop arguing with everything I say."  Hrrmmphh...She's right, of course, but I can't resist, "Well, if you hadn't lost that seventh page, you'd actually be impressed with my writing.  Page Seven is awesome.  Pulitzer awesome."  Her - "I'm sure it is."  See what I have to put up with?