Happy Birftday Day, Poo Poo Pants

My birftday day card from my Aunt and Uncle 2020.

February 1st was my 47th birftday day. Hooray! I survived another year. And… ?

(moving on.)

I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer. “Boo-hoo. Poor me.” It’s just 47 isn’t a noteworthy year—like 21, 30, 40, 50, etc. In other words, I’m simply a year older. So what? At this point, i.e. midlife, and after a “widowmaker” heart attack at 32, survival is about as good as it gets.

(there’s going out to eat several times on other people’s dime.)

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What’s All This Neurotic Writer Stuff, Then?

iPad with glasses resting on the smart keyboard folio surrounded by crumpled up paper.

Neurotic writers are the shit! The raging mental illness Anne Lamott describes in Bird by Bird is endearing. David Sederis’ shame in Santaland Diaries is heroic. The seemingly endless tales of imposter syndrome from all of my heroes is embiggening. I suffer thusly. . .

And yet the reality, in my life at least, is depressing. I’m beginning to think I’ve been duped by some very talented tricksters. But, in all fairness, I can’t blame it all on them.

(though we damned well do it anyway.)

Continue reading “What’s All This Neurotic Writer Stuff, Then?”

Three Principles of the Highly Neurotic Writer

1934 Royal typewriter with glasses resting next to it surrounded by crumpled up paper.

Continuing on the theme from yesterday’s post, GAD Guide: How to be a Neurotic Writer in 15 Steps, I got to thinking about the underlying precepts of the neurotic writer’s life. If you’re going to be a neurotic writer, you want to be as uptight as you can be, right? So here are three principles to cultivate in order to be your unstable best.

(plus, it makes for another listicle and listicles are all the rage with the kids these days.)

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GAD Guide: How to be a Neurotic Writer in 15 Steps

Open notebook with pen and glasses resting on it surrounded by crumpled up paper.

Writing wisdom states: Write what you know. That’s mostly correct. Kind of, I guess. I mean, “write what you know” doesn’t REALLY work. Think about it. How could we have anything science fiction? No one knows hyperdrives or time machines. Or what about fantasy? Orcs, spells, floating castles, no one knows them. Or, take a more realistic example, how could a mild-mannered author write about a psycho serial killer? All she’s murdered are the trees that made the paper she wrote on.

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My Baby’s Got Sauce

Black heart graffiti on wall at local pizzeria.

”Got a sharp mouth a sharp tongue” —G. Love

My wife is the best.

Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Yeah. . . I know. Your baby’s got sauce. But your baby ain’t SUH-WEET like mine.

You’re incredulous. I get it. You’re wondering, out of all the 70 hundred million billion wifes out there, how can I make such a bold claim? Cause this happened:

I was having a bad day. Full disclouse (assuming you don’t want to read the link provided), the shituation was completely my fault. I even realized it at the time. Regardless, a shit storm’s a shit storm and as much as I’d like to be a stoic master, I am not. I went full Hulk over some minuscule entitlement that was being denied me: Popeyes was out of chicken, for the moment, and I was going to have to wait for a full 15 minutes to get a freshly made batch.

(travesty!)

Continue reading “My Baby’s Got Sauce”