The Green Coat

Nikolai Gogol has this beautiful short story called ‘The Overcoat.’ I read it in University. I still remember it. That’s the thing about the Russians: they write stories that stick to your ribs.

Basically it’s the story of a poor government clerk—Akaky—whose threadbare coat is the butt of his colleagues’ jokes. Finally exasperated, he decides to get the coat repaired. The tailor declares the coat irreparable, and tells Akaky he must buy a new coat.

The cost of a new overcoat is beyond Akaky's meagre salary, so he forces himself to live within a strict budget to save enough money to buy the new overcoat. Finally, with an unexpectedly large holiday salary bonus, Akaky has saved enough money to buy a new overcoat!

His boss decides to host a party honouring the new overcoat. Akaky goes home from the party, far later than he normally would. En route home, two ruffians confront him, take his coat, kick him down, and leave him unconscious in the snow.

God Bless the Russians and their feel-good stories.

Feeling particularly down and out, I made the mistake of going to the mall the other day. I have gained weight, none of my clothes fit and I am so poor that it would not be out of the question for me to press my nose up against a store-front window and beg, “Please sir, can I ‘ave some more?’

It’s masochistic, going shopping without money, but I did it anyway, happy for the mindless distraction. As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, I came across the most ravishing Spring Coat. It was green. It made me look like a million bucks. I had no intention of buying it, but I also couldn’t bring myself to take it off. It looked that good. I walked around the store, unable to part with it. In a flourish, I bought it and took it home and slept with it nestled beneath my chin.

Of course, I had to take it back.

I know it’s just a coat, but it made me feel good. I know it’s just a coat, but I feel like I have been working hard and I deserve it. I know it’s just a coat, but my identity and self-worth are inextricably linked with the size of my body and the size of my wallet.

I know it’s just a coat, but returning it felt like I was rejecting and denying a part of myself.

The retail ruffians took my coat, kicked me down and left me unconscious in the store.

I cried the whole way home.

Disenfranchised

When you’re writing and been single for as long as I have, a funny thing starts to happen: you start to disconnect from your body. You need to disenfranchise yourself in order to get anything done. Writing is the focus; and if I thought about sex and my body as often as I wanted to, I’d truly never get anything done. You see, I have the blessing and the curse of having the sex drive of a man. It’s cruel because I’ve never –pun warning!—positioned myself to make maximum use of this physiological bequest.

So it is important for me to stay (ahem) on top of it; I never want to turn into a person who is sexually shut-down; I’ve been there. No need to go back. Lessons learned.

Which means I make a concerted effort to seek pleasure with myself on a regular basis. And that doesn’t need to be as lewd as it sounds, though by all means, it can be. Sometimes seeking pleasure is a hot bath and a cup of tea; sometimes it’s a nice meal, a movie or a night out with friends, though usually, for me it needs to be quality alone time. Manicures and pedicures also do the trick. Either way, I am never too far away from my sexy self and am quite proud of that. It is one of the rare occasions in my life where I REFUSE to sell myself short.

Except that sometimes, even that is not enough. Sometimes a hot bath just aint gonna cut it.

Being creative for me, sadly means denying my true self on some level in order to get something accomplished. I got it accomplished alright, but at what price?

I’m exhausted.
Fucking exhausted.

I am feeling deprived and wounded. I need a vacation. I feel like I have been working for YEARS without a break. Toiling away in some rice paddy or something. I haven’t of course, but that’s what it feels like. I need some alone time, some me time. I need to reconnect with myself, be grounded, centred and focused. But I am too fucking exhausted.

Communication in my life has been abysmal lately. There have been more crossed wires and disconnects these past two weeks than I have had in my entire life. People misunderstanding, confusing, taking offense. God, I want to curl up in a ball just thinking about it.

If I had the money, I would disappear for a couple of days. I would get on a plane and go to Vegas. I would do a magic trick.

I feel like I am taking care of everyone and everything and barely keeping my own self above water. I need help. I need someone to show up and take me away and ply me with alcohol and let me be myself. I need for people not to misconstrue what I say—I don’t mean harm! I need your love and your approval. I need sleep. I need breakfast in bed. I need frothy coffee in the morning. I need sex. I need love. I need to wake up somewhere different. I need to laugh, I need to weep I need you to see the value in me. I need not to apologize or recognize or legitimize. I need to sleep.

I need a Jell-o shooter.

Slash Something

When you’re a freelance writer, you generally need to start out doing something else at the same time to sustain your living. For example, I am a Freelence Writer slash Substitute Teacher. I am also a Freelance writer slash Events Assistant. Actually I’m all three. There’s a lot of slash in my life. (Insert obvious joke here.)

I’m actually almost at the point where I could write full-time. Almost. But here’s the thing: I really love substitute teaching. And no one is more surprised at that last statement than me. Yesterday, I made pancakes with a bunch of Grade 5 classes as part of a science lab (don’t ask me about the specific learning outcomes and curricular links—I just show up.) In the past, spending the day with 50 or so 10-year-olds gathered round trying to flip their very first pancake would have been my idea of torture. But I had a blast. And no one is more surprised at that last statement than me.

As an aside, I realized something important about life yesterday: it’s not about the pancakes. It’s really all about the syrup. Pancakes are just the vessel for the liquid sugar. Because it’s deemed socially inappropriate to simply pour maple syrup straight in your mouth. Except in Quebec where they harden it on banks of snow and call it a snack, we Anglophones have had to invent something as a means to get it into our bodies. (The same with bran muffins and corn on the cob for that matter: they’re really just a way to eat melted butter.)

But here’s the best thing about substitute teaching: when I’m not making pancakes, playing soccer or facilitating a visit from the Weather guy—all of which I’ve done in the past three months---I’m writing. I’ll let you in on a little secret: Substitute Teachers are Glorified Babysitters. Most of substitute teaching involves being a warm body/talking head (see, there’s the slash again.) I went to University for 4 years and taught in my own classroom for 6 so I could sit in the back of someone else’s classroom and make sure that your child stays alive and unharmed until the end of the day. Ensuring that he doesn’t accidentally impale or otherwise harm himself or another person is the major component of my job.


I get some flak for this. Some people are truly indignant that their tax dollars are going towards paying me to sit there and write, sit there and read or sit there and do nothing. And I won’t get on a soapbox or go on a tirade about how substitute teachers are important cogs in the wheel (I don’t care that much) but they are.

Ironically, I often get more writing done at school than at home. But there are just as many days when I don’t write one single word. Which means I have to come home and do it; it means I have to work weekends and cram in assignments sideways and backwards. It means I’ve conducted interviews and had client meetings during my lunch hour or in my car.

That’s life in the Slash Lane.

I Can't...

I'm sorry, folks. I just can't. I can't write another word on this blog for a while. Not because I don't have anything to say; not because there's nothing going on; but because I just physically cannot will myself to string together coherent thoughts and sentences at the moment. No siree. The fact that these last few sentences haven't come out sounding like Purple Monkey Dishwasher in and of itself is a miracle.

This is Fun!

My Life (As Told By Tori Amos)

1. Are you a male or female:
Cornflake Girl

2. Describe yourself:
Hoochie Woman (almost went with Fat Slut here. Cheeky. Tempting.)

3. How do you feel about yourself:
Almost Rosey

4. Describe your ex boyfriend/girlfriend:
Mr. Bad Man

5. Describe your current boy/girl situation:
Code Red

6. Describe your current location:
Pandora’s Aquarium

7. Describe where you want to be:
Jamaica Inn

8. Your best friend(s) is:
Mrs. Jesus

9. Your favourite colour is:
Gold Dust

10. You know that:
You Can Bring Your Dog

11. If your life was a television show what would it be called:
Little Earthquakes/Another Girl’s Paradise

12. What is life to you:

Cloud on my Tongue

13. What is the best advice you have to give:
Don’t Look Back in Anger ( I know this is a cover, but I am counting it anyway!)

My Life (As Told By Annie Lennox)

Got this idea from Fire Eater via Sunset Over Slawit.

Pick an artist, and using ONLY SONG TITLES from only that artist, cleverly (preferably) answer these questions.

1. Are you a male or female:
Wide Eyed Girl

2. Describe yourself:
17 Again

3. How do you feel about yourself:
Lifted/ Something So Right

4. Describe your ex boyfriend/girlfriend:
No more “I love you’s”/Sex Crime/The Hurting Time

5. Describe your current boy/girl situation:
I Need A Man

6. Describe your current location:
Downtown Lights

7. Describe where you want to be:
Right By Your Side

8. Your best friend(s) is:
Womankind

9. Your favourite colour is:
Coloured Bedspread

10. You know that:
I Want It All

11. If your life was a television show what would it be called:
Legend in my Living Room

12. What is life to you:
A Thousand Beautiful Things

13. What is the best advice you have to give:
Don’t Let it Bring You Down

Under the Gun

The name Espresso comes from the Latin word "Expresere" which means, "to press out." It also comes from the same Latin root that gives us “expression.” The coffee is denser and more intense because hot water is forced at high pressure through finely-ground beans. Like expression, espresso is literally pressed out, generated under pressure.


The meaning of this little analogy is that pressure is important to the creative process. Pressure can be a good thing, an inspirational force.

Indeed, there is nothing like a deadline to force creativity.
I guess you could say that I’m a Trigger Writer. I work best when I’m Under the Gun. I wish it weren’t so, but alas, the fact that I have belted out 12,000+ words in less than six days would indicate otherwise.

Almost done. I can see the Finish Line.

Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal

From my new favourite site:

I Am on Fiah!

Just thought I would give you an update: I am officially at the half-way mark--> 22 541 words. I was at roughly 17,000 words yesterday, so pounding out 5,000 + words in two days is encouraging progress! I actually feel like I have rounded a corner and I now genuinely believe that I will be FINISHED by April 15th. Hurrah!

Once I started going through the 60+ files that I had already started over the last four months, I realized that I had left a lot of really quality work unfinished, and a few tweaks and some added information here and there with just a little bit of added time has yielded great results.

That's just typical. It's funny how I started all these chapters and sections and then must have gotten so frustrated/tired/resentful/locked in resistance that I didn't even realize how much work I'd already done. As usual, being hard on myself. beating myself up. Not understanding why I was getting nowhere. Well, because I wasn't finishing anything!

And let's be honest: because I really must not have wanted to. I was getting all kinda' PAYOFF for getting to be right about what a FAILURE I was. Except that oh lookee, lookee. I'm not. It's all in my head. It's just a nice little story I've chosen to tell about myself.

Silly me.

For example, today I finished up the Cultivating Coffee Section. Harvesting Coffee is a laborious and painstaking process which earlier I was finding mind-numbing and PAINFUL to write about. I mean, it is complicated. There is Harvesting, Processing, Drying, Hulling, Polishing, Grading, Sorting, Cupping and Roasting. SNORE! Except that today I couldn't get enough about how fascinating it was. And when I went into the chapter, I already had the first three sections written.

And then just now I found another 500 or so words on the invention of the Espresso machine. Just sittin' there.

It's like finding 20 bucks in your pocket.

Anyway, I'm kind of glad I did leave it. Cause it has made these last few days much easier. And it means I am going to be able to burn through the next ten thousand words.

And just so you know, I also managed to squeeze in a pedicure today too ! (It's all about me. :))

The Home Stretch

20,210 words.
Twelve days left to write the remaining 24 790.
That's about 2,000 words a day.
I can do it.
That I can manage.