"I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better - and maybe not all that much better after all." -- Stephen King
What Does This Have to Do With Writing?
My partner is away from home for thirty-three days. This is a biennial event - accompanying a group of high school students to Mexico for a study abroad experience. Inevitably, I'm left with my least favorite member of the household - the canine. Said canine (aka Mr. Dumbass) suddenly starts experiencing fecal incontinence. We’re only on Day 2 of 33 and it's begun. God help me.
But let me back up the truck. I arrived home from work, on Day 2, at my usual time. As I exited the garage the neighbors' behemoth Golden Retriever charged at me, barking up a storm. (Yep, another canine, as if the one in my own house wasn't enough.) Close on the Golden's heels were two youngsters (a boy and a girl). The boy yelled at me, "Fred won't bite!" the mother of the aforementioned children brought up the rear of this raggedy troupe. "Fred stop barking. C'mon..." She chased Fred who's by this time chasing the two kids and trying to gain access to my yard through the gate. A well-positioned knee (mine) blocked the entry point as I juggled my lunch cooler and backpack. As you might well imagine, I quickly lost patience and didn't find enjoyment from this scene, unlike the other participants. The mom finally corralled the kids as the dog tripped her up and almost landed her in the dumpster parked in their driveway. My partner aptly summed up the scene as a "horror show of good intentions and out-of-control behaviors" (I'd sent her an email after the events). Good grief.
Anyway, safely locked in my own yard, I made my way to the house. I opened the back door and was walloped by the most horrible stench imaginable. I staggered backwards. Had something or someone died in my house? Nope. It was the imminent arrival of the canine's fecal incontinence - also a biennial event. I stood at the back door breathing through my mouth; afraid I would lose my lunch. Certainly, the entire metro area would be enveloped in this toxic cloud. I expected men dressed in biohazard gear to arrive in my driveway. "Ma'am, please step away from the noxious vapors." They'd usher me into the portable decon shower in their biohazard trailer. At the very least the neighborhood would be placed under quarantine.
The canine yawned and strolled past me out the door, as if nothing were wrong. Quickly, I double locked both doors. In the interest of added security, I also nailed two by four boards across and bolted sheets of steel onto the doors. No way was that canine getting back inside! Oh, wait...that was just a fantasy. Sorry.
I grabbed paper towels, cleaning solution and a plastic bag and dragged myself into the trenches - foul, pasty and liquid trenches. My sincere apologies for being so graphic. Within minutes I had more candles burning than a Catholic church's votive altar. I opened every window on the main floor. Ventilation was imperative for survival. Gas mask firmly in place - if only - I began the clean up. At least the mess was confined to the wood floor and not the area rug. I spent approximately 15 minutes cleaning, gagging, cleaning, choking, cleaning and swearing. Good times. After I finished with the actual mass of poo, I made a quick deposit in the trash barrel outside.
The canine was napping on the patio. Oblivious.
Back inside, I scrubbed the floor with special wood cleaner and thusly was inspired to do more cleaning. Much like the Energizer Bunny, I kept going and going and going. After my cleaning frenzy, I stored the vacuum back in the closet in my pseudo office. The giant white three ring binder sitting on the table caught my eye.
I'd been meaning to organize some documents associated with my current book project. Quickly, I punched holes into the papers, added color tabbed dividers and presto my research and draft notes were neatly organized. I was on a roll.
With a head of steam propelling me, I sat my butt in the chair and pounded out several pages of revisions on my manuscript.
That, my friends, is the answer to "what does this have to with writing?"
There are many pages of revisions ahead for me. I'm hopeful that the canine's fecal incontinence won't be a direct correlation to my remaining revisions. Otherwise, I'll have rendered literal meaning to Hemingway's quote, "The first draft of anything is shit."
Write on!
But let me back up the truck. I arrived home from work, on Day 2, at my usual time. As I exited the garage the neighbors' behemoth Golden Retriever charged at me, barking up a storm. (Yep, another canine, as if the one in my own house wasn't enough.) Close on the Golden's heels were two youngsters (a boy and a girl). The boy yelled at me, "Fred won't bite!" the mother of the aforementioned children brought up the rear of this raggedy troupe. "Fred stop barking. C'mon..." She chased Fred who's by this time chasing the two kids and trying to gain access to my yard through the gate. A well-positioned knee (mine) blocked the entry point as I juggled my lunch cooler and backpack. As you might well imagine, I quickly lost patience and didn't find enjoyment from this scene, unlike the other participants. The mom finally corralled the kids as the dog tripped her up and almost landed her in the dumpster parked in their driveway. My partner aptly summed up the scene as a "horror show of good intentions and out-of-control behaviors" (I'd sent her an email after the events). Good grief.
Anyway, safely locked in my own yard, I made my way to the house. I opened the back door and was walloped by the most horrible stench imaginable. I staggered backwards. Had something or someone died in my house? Nope. It was the imminent arrival of the canine's fecal incontinence - also a biennial event. I stood at the back door breathing through my mouth; afraid I would lose my lunch. Certainly, the entire metro area would be enveloped in this toxic cloud. I expected men dressed in biohazard gear to arrive in my driveway. "Ma'am, please step away from the noxious vapors." They'd usher me into the portable decon shower in their biohazard trailer. At the very least the neighborhood would be placed under quarantine.
The canine yawned and strolled past me out the door, as if nothing were wrong. Quickly, I double locked both doors. In the interest of added security, I also nailed two by four boards across and bolted sheets of steel onto the doors. No way was that canine getting back inside! Oh, wait...that was just a fantasy. Sorry.I grabbed paper towels, cleaning solution and a plastic bag and dragged myself into the trenches - foul, pasty and liquid trenches. My sincere apologies for being so graphic. Within minutes I had more candles burning than a Catholic church's votive altar. I opened every window on the main floor. Ventilation was imperative for survival. Gas mask firmly in place - if only - I began the clean up. At least the mess was confined to the wood floor and not the area rug. I spent approximately 15 minutes cleaning, gagging, cleaning, choking, cleaning and swearing. Good times. After I finished with the actual mass of poo, I made a quick deposit in the trash barrel outside.
The canine was napping on the patio. Oblivious.
Back inside, I scrubbed the floor with special wood cleaner and thusly was inspired to do more cleaning. Much like the Energizer Bunny, I kept going and going and going. After my cleaning frenzy, I stored the vacuum back in the closet in my pseudo office. The giant white three ring binder sitting on the table caught my eye.
I'd been meaning to organize some documents associated with my current book project. Quickly, I punched holes into the papers, added color tabbed dividers and presto my research and draft notes were neatly organized. I was on a roll.
With a head of steam propelling me, I sat my butt in the chair and pounded out several pages of revisions on my manuscript.
That, my friends, is the answer to "what does this have to with writing?"
There are many pages of revisions ahead for me. I'm hopeful that the canine's fecal incontinence won't be a direct correlation to my remaining revisions. Otherwise, I'll have rendered literal meaning to Hemingway's quote, "The first draft of anything is shit."
Write on!