Here’s another comedy sketch for your enjoyment.
I need to find a constructive way to channel my anger. More constructive, that is, than daily insulting Tweets aimed at Trump and occasional baiting of vocal white supremacists online. It’s not wrong to do those things, exactly – but those activities don’t have any real impact. I may as well stroll pass the white house and give Donald the finger.
Oh! I have relevant media to share! Here are a few non-violent ways to express yourself in the coming weeks and months.
Also, call your representatives and let them know what you’d like them to do. Thank them when they do their job. We’ll all get through this together.
I’m determined to get back into a regular writing habit, but am suffering from major writer’s block. The appropriate way to address a problem is to identify them, right? Ok, then. Let’s do this, Kristen. It’s time to…
Laziness (“I don’t wanna.”) This is a major hurdle for me. Mainly because I fear failure, so a childish inner voice emerges to protect me before I’ve even sat down to work. “I don’t wanna write,” says the voice. “I like TV and I want to see my friends Continue reading
It’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. This week sucks, traditionally. The days are short, the air is cold, I’m often feeling less than healthy, and the blues ensue. Always, always, always. Why would this year be any different?
In some ways it’s worse. We’ll be saying goodbye to the best president I’ve known in my lifetime and ushering in the era of Trump. God DAMN it. That is just wrong. Every time I think of it, my mind starts to desperately backpedal. I’m looking for the UNDO button, and when I can’t find it and don’t want to linger on my despair, I instead hold the DENIAL dial in place. It produces a soft shhhh noise. Sometimes I have to put it on high, but it is never off. Maybe that’s unhealthy.
Reality is unsettling. I’m on the verge of possibly (probably?) being laid off, which is equal parts terrifying and exciting. It’s long overdue and forces me into action. I can’t stay in this apartment in Somerville without a regular paycheck – that is for certain. So, once I hear about the job officially, I’ll move in with Max in Providence. I’m very lucky to have the opportunity to do that.
So. I’ll have a warm, safe place to live with someone I love. I’ll have an opportunity to throw myself into writing, to finish some big projects, to start some new ones. Maybe I’ll make it happen this year.
Or maybe I am about to fail at life, epically, and maybe I will never-
I went to the library today and browsed the “How to Write a ___” books before it occurred to me: I know how to write. I need to learn to work. Discipline is needed. I need to become my own taskmaster, and stop finding excuses to do anything else but the thing I want to do.
I was reading Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast this weekend. It’s an old favorite with a lot of juicy stories about artists and writers living in Paris in the twenties. But it also provided a window into how Hemingway worked. He didn’t merely sit in cafes, drink himself into oblivion, and then go home and write. He wrote all day, often in his studio apartment until his creative juices were almost — but not quite — completely spent. Then and only then would he drink himself into oblivion. He claimed the drinking kept him from thinking about the writing that lay ahead. The booze kept him focused on the present.
I’d like to have that kind of focus and discipline. It’s what I need. To sit and write, edit each draft, get the work into a state that feels satisfactory, and then stop myself. Put the writing down and do something else. Maybe not heavy drinking. We all know how that worked out for Hemingway.
It’s the exact opposite of what I do, which is to:
- Think about the writing for many hours while doing anything but write.
- Remind myself that I’m a delusional idiot who doesn’t have what it takes to write a brochure for compression stockings, nevermind a story that people want to hear.
- Finally sit down to write, and then freeze in terror.
Stuck. Where is my Paris? I can’t imagine it’s easy to be a starving artist in Paris these days. Where do the expats go? Is it warm there? Do they have wi-fi?
Please don’t tell me it’s Detroit.
If a member of the press asks you to answer questions about me, I hereby authorize the following descriptive terms. Be sure to pepper any list of my vast, impressive accomplishments with astonished references to my humility. I thank you. ~kc
- Diabolical Villainess
- Wealthy Socialite
- Any other adjective ending with -ly
- Brilliant Light in a Dark World
- A Book-Smart Dame With Legs That Go For Miles
- A Leggy Dame with Brains That Go For Miles
- A Smiley Dame With Gams That Belie Her Braininess
- The Brainy Gam Lady
- Humble, To a Fault
The end of my driveway is marked on either side by an 8-foot hill of frozen, dirty snow that extends 7 feet into the road. The driveway mounds are massive. There could be people in there, in all honesty. In order to get out of my driveway, I need to maneuver carefully around those monsters with a 12-point white-knuckled blind turn.
What is the rational response to this frigid claustrophobia? I don’t know, but my irrational response is impotent rage. I’ve kept it under wraps so far, but my inner monologue goes like this: “Ngahhh! Beep-beep! Whores!! Hatehatehate!”
I want you to find a recent weather map. Got it? Ok – Is it just me or does some angry god have a vendetta against the Boston area? It just keeps coming, and every storm is aimed at us. Also note that we have a charming historic transit system that breaks down in the cold, just like it did in 1897. History comes to life!
There is nowhere to put this snow. Nowhere. This much is clear. You can shovel snow and throw it on top of the nearest snow mound, only to have it roll off the mound and back down to your feet, as if to mock you. I waved to my elderly neighbor yesterday as he essentially poked weakly at the end of his own 8-foot driveway mound with a shovel. I felt sad for him. For all of us.
It’s cold. It’s going to get colder, somehow. And the weather people show open disdain for commoners like me . I read headlines like “Think It’s Cold? Just Wait ‘Til You See What We Have in Store For the Weekend!” Fuck you, cheerful weather man. Right in the eye. Right. In. The. Eye.
Also, I’m trying to write a screenplay that tells the story of a depressed, recently divorced woman and her miserable winter in Boston. It’s a dark comedy. Write what you know, they say.
I apologize for the rant. And for the weirdness. I stand by the weather man thing, though.
I want to say something about the bleak days of January. But damn it, that’s a hard thing to do when all you want to do is lie on your couch in a fleece space suit watching Investigation Discovery and tossing Trader Joes’ Cheese puffs into your food hole.