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Cosmic Paintball – Why I Write

I was at a party the other day. Quite out of character for me since I’m a virtual recluse since last August except for my part-time teaching gig. And of course, the buzz at the party was that I’d been hit by lightning FIVE FUCKING TIMES!

“Did it hurt?”

That’s a really stupid question.

“Yes, quite a bit actually.”

Go stick your tongue in an electrical outlet and then set it on fire. Yeah – it’s a real rush for the first two seconds. The best part about getting hit by lightning is the MORPHINE they give you for the pain!

The best way to describe being hit by lightning is to imagine yourself in a Cosmic Paintball game. God is the big, really stupid kid whose mother feels sorry for him and buys him the Terminator – Judgement Day Complete Drive-By Screamin’ Paintball Kit. You are the smart-ass small kid that has to borrow chewing gum and tape your glasses together.

You get creamed.

You crawl home and call the ER and drive yourself to the hospital.

Two days later you drive yourself home from the hospital and crawl in the door. At least the neighbors cat is glad to see you.

The lesson here is that God is REALLY good at paintball. He has superpowers. You do not.

I have learned to adjust accordingly to my new limitations. I have pain. On a scale of 1-10 it’s about a 30. The ER nurse said that’s not possible but she of course has not met God.

I can’t paint.

I write.

I talk to God, the neighbor’s cat, and I write.

Grammar Tips from Dumb Little Man

Oh – you’re going to love this link!

40-tips-to-improve-your-grammar

You have to wonder who makes all the rules we’re supposed to use to properly communicate with each other. I’m sure it’s evident that I’m not one of those girls who likes to follow the rules. My mother says it’s because I didn’t take Latin in high school.

Now there’s an excuse you don’t hear every day.

My edgy, nonconformist, screw-you-sideways attitude is all because of my lack of Latinity. Yeah – that’s a word – look it up!

So – just for dear old mom, I’m going to spend my next sleepless night sprucing up the old particulating participle and drinking beer.

I love you mom.

Writer’s Block

When Writers can’t write they have Writer’s Block. When Artist’s can’t paint we’re just pathetic losers who can’t paint. I haven’t quite figured out what makes Writer’s Block romantic and a symbol of the successful Writer and my inability to scrawl the cat stretching out in the moonlight with my squeaky black ink a sure sign of some nameless mental illness.

It doesn’t matter.

Since the lightning came and grabbed me hard, shook my by the collar, and left me feeling like somebody gave me chemotherapy in my sleep – I can’t paint.

Shit – I can barely tie my shoes and brush my teeth in the morning. But I can write. That seems to be going somewhere.

So you’ll have to excuse me if I paint the cat with my best words and make him sing like an Irish Tenor. I am left with nothing but words to color my world and make sense of the darkness.

My writing sucks.

It is common knowledge among my few intimate friends that my writing sucks. I couldn’t separate a predicate adjective from a dangling participle with an egg beater. I think I must have been in a coma during Comp I. Of course, back then it was just plain old English class and was taught by a teacher we had knicknamed Possum.

I am also entering the writing scene as an aging, sleep deprived Ceraunophobic. I have been given very clear instructions that mandate I be terrified of lightning. “DO NOT GO OUTSIDE DURING STORMS!” The nurse in Intensive Care who put up with me for two days had been instructed not to spring me from the joint until I initialed, signed, and dated my discharge papers. I’m sure the hospital’s attorney had been called in about five minutes after I strolled into the ER to make sure I could never hold them responsible for any lightning related issues or other acts of God. Should I have had the foresight to start writing before I got hit by lightning for the fifth time, perhaps I really could have sued the socks off them for my poor grammar and inability to diagram a sentence.

I’m comforted to know that after spending a whole morning rewriting two paragraphs for my Editor, I’m not the only one who has a WRITING SUCKS attitude. Writing reminds of the love/hate relationship I had with my first boyfriend. You never start at the beginning and you’re always ending in the middle.

For those of you who don’t have the time to search the internet because you’re sleeping peacefully in your snug little beds…
go to:
Writing Sucks

Be sure to check out “Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Rules for Writing Fiction”.

I’m going to give myself permission to write badly, think boldly, and forgive my mistakes.

My odds of winning the Lottery…

I’ve been told that the odds of winning the lottery are greater than being hit by lightning. So, let’s do the math. I’ve been hit by lightning five times. Hmmmmmmm…

I think I should start buying lottery tickets.

Since my attempts at writing have been fraught (I really like that word – it makes me sound like a writer) with demons and dreams. I have decided I should learn to write. I don’t want to be Voltaire, Ezra Pound, or a literati. I prefer the simple life. Perhaps a poem here or there. A letter to the women I most admire and the men I should have loved.

I found a post over at WOW – Women On Writing about a course on writing Magazine Articles by Linda Formichelli.
Go to:Magazine Article Writing Course by Linda Formichelli

This could be just what the doctor ordered. I haven’t discussed it with the cat but I think it would be a great diversion while I write my dreaded memoirs. Her next class starts July 30th. I’ll let you know what I learn and post my progress here.

I thought I could write, just ask the neighbor’s cat!

I dream of lightning. I can hear it in my head when I’m driving. I can smell it in the air after a storm.

It keeps me awake at night.

After six months of this nonsense I woke up at three-something in the morning and started writing my memoirs.

I am not a writer.

I thought I could write, just ask the neighbor’s cat. I find most of my time is spent sitting on a broken concrete block by the back door, talking to Tom (the cat) about my memoirs. He’s a good listener, not in the least judgmental, and likes the part about being stranded in the Everglades for five days.

I now have a new appreciation for anyone that writes. Be their motivation for money, love, or some other insanity. I summoned my inner-self and got really serious about writing. Then I found myself wading in the muck of doubt, depravity, and painkillers.

I got an Editor. I joined an online forum for Writers. I threw out two months of sample chapters and quit talking to the cat. By chance I got a copy of “How To Become A Famous Writer Before You’re Dead” by Ariel Gore. You’ve just got to read this book! Go to:Ariel Gore

Be inspired. Laugh! Write.

I’m back!

Although the cat has an attitude and isn’t talking to me – you can never trust a cat. I also had to flirt with the garbage man to get my sample chapters out of the trash.

Thank you Ariel.

Lightning can not kill me.

It has been almost a year. I have not developed super powers or clairvoyancy.

I have to admit that after being hit by lightning five times, I’m beginning to feel a bit immortal.

Lightning can not kill me.

Perhaps this is the sign I needed to write that long awaited book or drag out my old life and paint it with new colors.

Maybe not.

Living with lightning is tortuous. Tedious. Slow. There are no words to describe my life now.

My blinding heart hears the far off thunder and I ache in the empty places not even your love can fill.