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.

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.

As The Sacrifice Wheel Turns

So my book writing has been dead in the water for the past two weeks. I hit 10,000 words, and I stopped writing. Getting tired of sabotaging myself and making this book so hard, I tried to chill out and go with the flow. But you know, I have a deadline looming, so there's only so much of that you can do.

Truth is, I am REALLY getting sick of creating all this drama and tired of being the star of my own personal Soap Opera...So my sister sat down with me on Monday night and did a Sacrifice Wheel with me. What is that? Well, it's a way to get to the heart of the matter. I wasn't writing because I felt resentment, anger and guilt. And there can be no creativity in the face of those ugly monsters.

So the Sacrifice Wheel is an itemized list of all the things I feel I am sacrificing for this book (and oh, it's quite a long list---time, freedom, balance, exercise, friendships, my business...it goes on and on.)

I am sacrificing all that with the EXPECTATION that I will get the book done faster.

Which leads to RESENTMENT about a whole schwack of things---no results, money, missing out, living like a hermit, going against my nature, ETC.)

Which in turn circles around to GUILT. I feel guilty about EVERYTHING. I feel guilty if I am not writing, feel guilty if I am doing anything other than writing, sleeping or eating. Laundry? Guilty. Cleaning the house? Guilty. Getting groceries? Guilty. Going to the library. Guilty. Going out with friends? DEFINITELY GUILTY.

So as the sacrifice wheel turns, I am NOT GETTING ANYTHING WRITTEN. And the resentment and the anger and the bitterness and the resistance builds.

So my sister helped me get off the wheel. Say no, forgive myself and Get Back to Work.

In other words, SHUT UP AND WRITE.

Join us again for another episode of As The Sacrifice Wheel Turns.

On The Throne

Boys: you’ve just gotten yourself comfy in your favourite Barca lounger, the game is on, your beer is cracked and your wife is gone for the afternoon. Does it get any better than this? Well, if you’re a 17th Century French King, it does in fact. Because you wouldn’t even have to get up to take care of your business. Little known fact: there is such a thing as a Toilet Armchair. It was invented by a man.

It’s basically a wooden chair with a hole cut in the seat.

Red Green would have been so proud.

And the next time you complain about your job, think about the long-suffering chair-bearers of the 16th Century. Introduced during the reign of François I (1515-1547), chair bearers carried around His Majesty’s portable toilet and attended to his “Royal needs”. So grown men had potties. Got it. This was actually considered to be a very prestigious career choice, since it meant getting to spend intimate time with the King. One of Versailles’ most esteemed positions was the Gentilhomme porte Coton, (does saying it in French make it sound better?) a man who, armed with little more than a cotton ball and a silver platter, would receive the Sun King’s tragically infrequent droppings and hurry them to the appropriate authorities. Merde, what a job.



No, forget about Versailles, gentlemen; forget about his attempts to transform France into the industrial and intellectual hub of Europe; overlook the new road system, the construction of canals and ports, the organization of a modern police force and the expansion of the navy and merchant marine into major exporters. No, No. Louis XIV should be remembered for popularizing the Toilet Armchair. Louis announced his marriage to Madame de Maintenon while on his “business seat.” Or as he liked to call it, his chaise d’affaires.

And would they have had people leave the room, or was it business as usual?

Louis XIV was known for having a ‘delicate stomach.’ So the toilet armchair would ensure that no opportunity (sorry, can’t help it) passed unexploited. Because although his successor Louis XV was considered the greatest military genius of all time, according to inventory conducted shortly before the French Revolution, he left nearly three hundred toilet seats behind at the Palace of Versailles. And isn’t that the true measure of a man? Isn’t that how we are going to remember him best?

Condolences go to the poor, starving masses of French revolutionists who ransacked and looted the Palace of Versailles after Louis XVI’s reign. To the victors go...the spoils...of three hundred toilet armchairs.

James Joyce Was Addicted to Farts

So, I'm looking up info on my FAVOURITE author, Honoré de Balzac (we share the same birthday, by the way) who was apparently addicted to coffee. He was a man's man. If he was too impatient to wait to brew his coffee, he'd just eat it. Yep. Chew. Right on the beans. Sometimes, if he was poor, he'd eat the grounds. Coffee killed him, in fact. Terrible ulcers. Anyways, so I'm getting the scoop (hehe) and I come across an article about Strange Author Addictions. Not only was Charles Dickens addicted to morgues, but James Joyce, apparently, couldn't get enough of tooting.

"Although they didn’t really diagnose sex addiction at the time, I bet if James Joyce was around today he would be classified as one. He wrote hundreds of letters to his lover, Nora (who later became his wife), and spared no expense in the detail of what he wanted the two of them to do when they were together again. But oddly, he seemed to be most obsessed with her farts. It’s a repeated theme in his letters - here’s one example: “I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have.”

I gotta say: I really didn't see that one coming.

My Motherboard, My Self

I have a boyfriend. I’d like to introduce you: His name is Max. As an Editor’s Note to yesterday’s post about Tori Amos: She may have my back, but does she have my files backed up? I decided to take the fact that I had been listening to that song repeatedly...ad nauseum...to DEATH as a perhaps. SIGN? Yes, I would say a SIGN that I need to BACK UP MY BOOK FILES. I had some ridiculous system for my last book involving saving onto USB sticks and emailing a copy of my manuscript to myself every night before I went to bed. Frankly, it was an exhausting relationship which was doomed to failure. And anyway, his mom never liked me.

We have already had one computer crash on us this year and have had to purchase a new motherboard. Do I really need to go through the prospect of losing every picture I have taken in the last 5 years as well? Do I need to think what would happen if...someone stole the laptop? or it broke? or we had a virus?...or any of the million other things that could possibly go wrong?

No I do not.

Also, I know that none of us have forgotten that horrifying Sex & the City episode when Carrie’s computer crashes and she loses her WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE.

No we have not.

And since there is no Aiden Shaw/John Corbett in my corner to back me up, I will settle for now with Max, or as his parents like to call him, Maxtor One Touch Plus.

I would also like credit a) for knowing what an external hard drive is. b) for figuring out how to actually back the files up and c) for actually owning a hard drive in the first place. I mean, it’s in my home. It took us more than a year to buy a replacement vacuum. I am usually one of those people who thinks that things like lost files happen to “other authors.” An external hard drive? That’s HUGE. And I'm saying it like I've always known what it was. Lookit me with all the fancy lingo. I would like a round of applause for being a girl with the proper equipment. It’s okay: I can see you from here.

P.S. Dear Diary-He's bigger than any others I've ever seen!

P.P.S They don’t call him Hard Drive for nothin’!

A Pound of Flesh

Writing is hard.
Writing is scary.
Writing--along with any other artistic or creative endeavour--will take years off your life.

I imagine that writing a book is a lot like giving birth: you forget how hard it is until you’re right in the thick of it. If you didn’t, no one would ever do it again.

And the reason that we do it again--even if we know what we're getting into--is because the end result is totally and completely worth it and will wash away all the pain, fear and anxiety.

So. I have had a rough week. A shit week. A week which makes Chris Brown's week look like a walk in the park. Yep. Woe is me.

Except that that kind of thinking is not going to get my book written.

All of the tools that I regularly use to pull myself up and out of the gutter weren't working for me this week. Affirmations? Not working. Visualization? Stopped doing it. Meditation? My mind was so up in arms and so, so far away from a peaceful state that I was up until 4 in the morning tossing, turning, agonizing.

So how about asking for support from my Mastermind Group? That is what they are there for, after all. I run to our meeting, in a panic, lost, scared, confused. I tell them my conundrum: I am not writing; I am a failure; I am stuck, I am scared, helphelpHELP!

Eight pairs of eyes stare at me, blinking.

-Maybe you could try setting your alarm?
-Maybe you could create a checklist?
-Maybe it's because you don't like the topic of this book?

!!!!

I leave the meeting thinking: I'M FUCKED. I am rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic here people. My request for support has fallen on its ass. I am on my own.

It's not about organization, time management or alarm clocks. It is about FEAR. Ball-twisting, tit-squeezing, suffocating, destructive FEAR.

It is up to me to find my own way out. Me who is involved in an illicit affair with my demons, french-kissing them inappropriately in a booth at the back of a bar...

I'm Stuck in the middlle...with me.

One more day goes by. Then two. I am waiting for an answer. I am consumed by fear, fear, fear. I am looking at quotes about how courage is strength in the face of fear; I am writing new affirmations about being a talented, competent and dedicated writer.

Nothing.

Fuck you stupid quotes!

I have a ten-ton weight on my back. I am carrying the book around with me like a shackle, a burden. I am trying to carry on with the rest of my life. I am at an aquacize class, lumbering around like a maniacal evil twin, a ghost of myself. I am meeting clients and doing my job, the thought bubble above my head a jumble of swear words and red, angry exclamation points. Another day goes by. Time will not stop for me. It will not wait for me to get my shit together. It will not.


I am entreating the Ghosts of Writers Past to open a door, throw me a bone, cut open a vein. Something. Anything.

I am screaming out for help. Someone help me.

And the help finally comes. A friend. A glorious, glorious friend asks me one simple question:

-'What's your payoff?"

<*blink*>

-What do you get to be right about?

<*blink, blink*>

-What is this fear supporting in your Belief System?

<*blink, blink, blink*>

I sit there, agape. Silent. Heart in my throat. Squirming.

Cheque please.

This, my friends, is what they call Resistance.

And then she sits down and takes me through a series of questions about Forgiveness, Permission, Choice, Freedom and Surrender.

It's called Belief Re-patterning. It saved my life.

I got the answers I was seeking.

Want to know what they are? Read here.

This is What I Live For...

In 1999, a Canadian tourist sued a Starbucks after claiming that a faulty toilet seat smashed his penis against a toilet bowl, which, according to the Toronto Star, left his genitals ‘bruised, crushed and rendered ineffective.’

He sued the giant coffee retailer for $1.5 million.

Edward Skwarek, was in a seated position on the toilet when he turned to retrieve the toilet paper in back of the seat when the seat shifted causing his penis to be caught and crushed between the seat and the bowl.

The suit alleged the coffee house was careless in "allowing a defective toilet seat to remain open ... causing a hazardous and unsafe condition ... in its public restrooms."

Skwarek, a government financial worker, alleged that the incident took place on Aug. 20, 1999 at a Starbucks in the Chelsea district of Manhattan where he and his wife, Sherrie, 37, dropped in for some coffee. The suit also claimed that as a result of Starbucks' carelessness, Skwarek suffered a "crushed penis, Peyronie's disease, retrograde ejaculation with consequent substantial reduction in sperm count, infertility, severe bruising to his penis and sexual function impairment."

Peyronie's disease usually causes deviation of the erect penis to one side. Skwarek sought $1 million in damages and his wife $500,000 because she has been "deprived of his services."

Uh, I would like to meet the man whose "services" are worth half a mil...

CATHARSIS

Is there anything better than a Sunday morning, a good night’s sleep, a good cup of coffee? Toast. Eggs. Carrot juice. And because it’s Sunday—yogurt and strawberries. Sarah Slean is playing, I am writing. I am cozy and dishevelled. I am unkempt and thinking and typing. I am warm and happy.

My last visit out to The Hideout was...well I can’t describe it as anything other than traumatic. I woke up, I ate breakfast, i wrote. I ate lunch, i wrote. I ate dinner. I wrote, i wrote, i wrote, i went to bed. I wrote from fear and panic, i wrote, uncertain if I could do it; i wrote not knowing at all if i was making a horrible mistake, i wrote worried that i wasn’t good enough, smart enough, disciplined enough to pull it off. I wrote. I came back 2 days earlier than planned; fleeing that small Ghost Town like it was the scene of a crime. In fact, it was. It was stark and lonely and harrowing. It was unsettling and disturbing, filled with ghosts and a past that hadn’t yet been cleared. I had worked, being my own slave-driver, driven by fear, fear, fear.

My return back here for my second book was reluctant, inevitable...and thoroughly lovely. A fresh coat of paint, a new window, a burgundy-flowered duvet, some good lighting and curtains which said ‘welcome.’ Oh and running water that didn’t smell like the depths of a horse’s ass.

Some good DVDs to keep me company, even better speakers and Annie, Sarah, Tori, Joni...all my muses to keep me feeling safe, comforted, happy and writing. Mostly, I feel free. And unencumbered from responsibility. All I have to do is write. I don’t have to worry about money, worry about income, worry about income, answer phones, answer questions, worry about income, explain myself, say no, say thank you, say sorry.

All I have to do is write.

And sleep. I write and write and write and sleep and sleep and sleep some more. And eat. Eat without guilt; Eat like I haven’t been fed for months.

Last time it was like a prison out here; this time, it’s a warm cocoon. Just another reminder that situations are what you make of them.

And my eternal lesson: Suffering is optional.

The fear and worry is still there, but for this day, for these several blissful moments, I can put the world and the worry on hold. I can nurture and cuddle and be quiet and unapologetic and be myself. I can think and examine and take an objective look at that life from which, right now, I seem so removed. I can see the truth for what it is; I can see what it is I really need to do. I don’t have to pretend or keep up appearances. Here, I can stop lying, stop pretending, stop, stop, stop. Stop pretending that everything is fine, that I've got everything under control.

But here. Here, I can stop holding my breath. I can breathe and sit in the stillness. Oh, the axe is going to fall square on the back of my neck. It’s only a matter of time. But not today. Not in this peaceful place.

And I don’t want to leave. I want to stay in this false reality for longer. But the real world will not wait; the real world is impatient and needs to be paid. The real world wants its answer. The real world has a return call to make and emails to fake.
But here, in this moment, there is just me. And the writing. Is all I need. And I am grateful.

Listen to these today:

KINGS OF LEON: closer ('Stranded in this spooky town...’ Indeed!)
SARAH SLEAN: notes from the underground
ANNIE LENNOX: wait in vain
A-HA: celice
PAUL SIMON: under african skies
TORI AMOS: parasol
JONI MITCHELL: california
KATE BUSH: sunset
ATMOSPHERE: puppets (because this song kinda sounds like a The Roots song and will make you want to clap your hands over your head)