'Pajamas Worn Boldly...

...in diamonds from Za-ales! Pajamas they sold me, Hon! I'm doing the dog walk, and baking a squash pie. And when the laundry is done.....I'm strolling to my space. To do my own thing! To write with some zing! My blo-ooog, while there's light....Whoo-oo-eee...whoo-oo-eeee..."

To get the real feel for the beginning of this blog, you have to sing it to the tune of "Blues in the Night." Also, it is Rosemary Clooney's version and the best rendering in my estimation. Now try it again, with feeling and emphasis where appropriate. And sing nice and loud; no one can hear you. I can wait....... (As an aside, my diamonds are not from Zales, but it rhymed.)

This is one of my favorite songs from "Rosemary Clooney's 16 Greatest Hits" CD. I listen to this album quite often while I'm writing. The song was written in 1941 by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer for the film of the same name. Arlen is quoted as saying, "The whole thing just poured out. And I knew in my guts, without even thinking, what Johnny would write for a lyric...".

Whenever I read those words "I knew in my guts" and "just poured out" from a writer of any medium, I feel so envious. Is it that writers become so attuned to writing that they eat, sleep and drink it? Is it the years or decades of hard work that result in the flood of so-called "sudden" inspiration? To sit and write with no critical thoughts, no thoughts of rewrites; the words coming from God's mouth to your ear. I am in awe of this entire concept.

"You never have to change anything that you got up in the middle of the night to write." This is quote by Saul Bellow, an esteemed author, lecturer, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1975 for his book, Humbolt's Gift, and the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1976. I would add to that: "... or change anything you wrote under the affluence of incohol before dinner fot cully gooked."

Anyone else have this problem? Ever e-mail anyone after a couple of grogs? "Fix" your resume or your blog entry when you've tried on a few belts for the evening? Got a few night caps pulled on and thought to be irretrievably witty??? Oi. It's not the very worst idea I ever had. My worst idea to date was in helping my friend, Suzy, down a flight of stairs when she was fully debauched. Her big toe folded under her foot, she crunched it like fat African grub and the party ended.

Quite often I revise my blog entries between my first rum and Coke while making dinner and again at the end of my second rum and Coke after the dishes are done and hubby's watching the news. (I'm a very cheap date; two drink limit.) The next day when I review my blogs for content and continuity, I'll notice changes I didn't realize I made. The revisions are usually not so bad that I'm horrified. Sometimes, but not often, they are better, funnier, and wittier. Maybe there a Hemingway-esque, alcohol-induced quality to my writing? It is said he wrote well in spite of his "little problem" and not because of it. But, I don't think ol' Ernie had a two-drink limit like I do.

This process of writing isn't so much about writing after all. For me it's about reading, more reading, research and more research. And let's not forget staring blankly out the window while I pickity-pick a friggin' hangnail clear to my elbow trying to chart my next move on the keyboard. Excuse me while I go get a bandaid...

Those Three Little Words...

...that are four but one is a contraction? You know which ones I mean, don't you? You're afraid to utter them aloud, but you get cornered somewhere by someone you haven't seen in awhile. And you like this person, you've known one another for years, so you feel you can tell them, right? Right? Oh no...here it comes!

"Hey,' they say, 'I haven't seen you in so long. What are you doing now?" "Oh, I pursuing other things, so...." Now you have to tell them, after they ask you what you're doing, and you just blurt it out:

"I'M A WRITER."

(Holy Mother of Goog! Did I just say that to someone other than the dogs and cats? Did that come out of MY MOUTH? In public - - outside of the house? Where it's unsafe, and, and, and... Why are they smiling at me like that? Oh, cock-knocking-son-of-a-whore-to-hell! Now I have to follow through with this and I don't know if I've got what it takes or not! I live in my f--king pajamas and diamond earrings. I've only the barest of fleshed out kid's book!! My mother likes it, but she's hard-wired to like it, and she's lying her ass off because she's my mother!!!)

That's my morning in a nutshell. Yup. I ran into this old friend and former client at the local Dunkin' Donuts, whom I'll call Ezra. He was one of my favorites; a well-educated and well-traveled, very intellectual guy whose charming and eccentric wife, whom I'll call Electra, passed away several years ago. They were a fantastic, exciting couple; the kind of people you wanted to know for a lifetime because they entered a room with an "oh, there YOU are" feeling. I mourned Electra's passing with Ezra, and he trudges along without her, never to be the same again. There's a great mutual admiration between us. You'd want to sip single malt with this guy.

Ezra hailed my new "career" as stellar and wished me all the luck in the world, not seeing any reason whatsoever why I won't be the next John Steinbeck. That's how he is. I told him I "hoped he lived long enough to see me become famous," as he's now in his early 80's. We laughed and went our separate ways. I certainly hope I live long enough to see my own fame and fortune!!!

Samuel Johnson is quoted as saying "When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully." My mind is now a bit more concentrated than it was, Sam, and I can see the gallows in my mind's eye. Say now, that might be a good idea. I'll go make up a symbolic noose and hang it in one of the trees that I can see from my computer chair. Perhaps I could some sort of effigy in it to symbolize the death of my old profession? I'll think of something. I always do.

I once made a voodoo doll for a pal who was going to take over working for my awful attorney when I left. It looked exactly like him complete with velcro rip-off limbs and head. She needed something to take her frustrations out on, being only a few years from her pension. This guy was a misogynistic, twitchy, philandering, knucklehead who thought himself a ladies man and had perpetual jock itch or "something." What is it with some men who cannot leave their junk alone? What IS that? It's attached isn't it? It's not magnetic where gravity might have some say as to where it ends up after walking across the room, right? Or like a compass where it points true north so you have to wiggle it around depending on which way you're facing? (By the way, I've had enough exposure to said "instrument" that these questions are purely rhetorical in nature.) And, let me tell you, gents - - we can see you do this even if we're making eye contact. Peripheral vision is both a blessing and a curse.

"The story of the human race is the story of men and women selling themselves short." Abraham Maslow. This quote speaks eloquently of many people's lives. If I had played it dumb, or dumbed down my resume in any way, to get any of the jobs I've applied for thus far, I would be miserable now. As it stands, I'm very happy being unemployed and striking out at this writing life I've spoken up for. I've gone and said those three little words, "I'm a writer." And so I am.

Not So Much Free As Loose....

Annie Dillard said her father had a dream of spending a summer riding a river barge on the Mississippi. When he found the time, the reality sent his dream to hell. The days were long and tedious, with no one to talk to but dull-witted river men. He had hoped to experience a "Tom Sawyer" kind of freedom, realizing he was "not so much free, as loose." Me, I am loose. Loose as a goose freed by truce from a noose in a spruce by a sluice made of juice that a moose bought from Jews wearing puce in a caboose. Okay I'll stop, but not because I have to.

Most people are hard-wired to work, to do something each and every day. Certainly we're not meant to sit around in our pajamas, swilling Southern Pecan decaf with soy milk until lunchtime, tapping out a dumb, self-serving blog? Or cram into a recliner next to a cranked-up woodstove in our pajamas, swilling now-cold-and-disgusting-decaf with soy milk handwriting a childrens book on a pink-papered legal pad? I'm not even really ashamed to be seen in my pajamas anymore. My husband's grown kids are now pretty used to seeing me any time of day in them, along with the next door neighbors, and the UPS man. To my credit, I am always showered, hair semi-done, lipstick on, with my diamond earrings in place. That counts for something doesn't it? Pajamas, Lipstick and Diamonds. Didn't Peggy Lee record that sultry refrain?

Greg Levoy wrote in his book, "Callings:"

"Last year I saw a movie called City of Angels. It opens in the emergency room of a hospital where a little girl has just died, and the camera slowly pans away from this scene until we're looking down a long corridor in the hospital, with a light at the far end. The little girl is walking down the corridor, toward the light, holding hands with an angel played by Nicholas Cage.

Halfway down the hallway, the angel turns to her and asks, "So, what did you like best about it?" Meaning life. And the girl says "Pajamas!" I've posed this exact same question to several thousand people in the last year in my "Callings" workshops; asked them to imagine that they're walking down The Corridor toward the proverbial light, holding hands with an angel-----or with Nicholas Cage if they prefer-----and the angel asks them what them liked best about it.

Not one person has ever said work."

This was a giant quote, but I feel strongly about Greg Levoy's book and his wisdom. I've owned this book and audio book since it was published in 1997. He was wise enough to quote from many masters throughout his writing. I've listened to his audio book so often over the last twelve years that now it crawls to a near mumble toward the end of the tape. But I almost know it by heart at this point and can speak it right along with him in some places.

Can I do it? Can I live it? Can I, as he says, "walk the talk?" I think I'm getting there. I know I love my pajamas more than I loved my work and I know that's progress.