When Your Boo’s Your Muse

Well, it’s no secret that Jayne and I love to write.  And that we love to write together, hence our little writing retreats to those dreamy small towns.

It’s once we’re back in the city that things get a little more difficult to orchestrate. There are errands, work schedules, and all kinds of other adult stuff to manage. We barely make time for our boba trips, you guys.

But on the rare occasion that we can make time to write together, it’s like magic.

First of all, there’s food involved (who’s surprised? Show of hands!), because we know that you can’t work on an empty stomach.

In this case, Jayne prepared a delightful breakfast, thoughtfully taking into account my Passover eating restrictions (alas, no French toast for me this time). I’d like to point out that Jayne is pretty much always aware of any dietary restrictions I have and makes sure to account for them, like a sweet grandmother doting on her spoiled, fat grandchild. Like, “Oh, no, he mustn’t have dairy, it upsets his little tummy.”

Don’t worry, I did not touch that heathen bread.

Anyway, no good writing happens without good fuel, so Jayne has that covered. Continue reading

Jayne is an Idiot

I won’t lie to you guys. Even if I was a remotely decent liar (which I’m not [there goes my future as an international spy]), I still wouldn’t lie to you, because you’re reading what I’m writing (even though I take fucking forever to get to my actual fucking point [like now] and every other sentence in my posts are hilarious parentheticals [also like now]) and, brother, I respect that (insert fist-bump from me to you here). So here’s the deal:

I completely forgot till just now (11:45 PM on Monday, December 7th) that it was my day to post.

I was all triumphant and  proud of myself for managing to brush my teeth, wash my face, go through my tedious face moisturizing process, and be in bed a mere 20 minutes after getting home from work that it, of course, only occurred to me that I was definitely fucking forgetting something just as my feet had found the perfect nook of warmth under my two comforters (winter is here, dudes!). My toes have never been so depressed in their entire lives (this includes the period of my youth when I wore Jelly sandals, so you know shit just got real).

So now, I’m this rude asshole in a panic because I have no idea what in the flying rat’s hemorrhoid to write about. One would think I would have an arsenal of partially written drafts set up in the Lady Bromance vault for exactly this purpose. One would think. But that would be assuming that I was actually paying attention in the years I spent as a half-assed girl scout instead of spending the meetings plotting a really elaborate and dramatic escape from all the estrogen.


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It Is Imperative That I Do Nothing: Post-Writing Retreat Adjustment

As you all probably have already noticed (and hopefully are miserable about [not miserable in a depressing way because, while I have very often fantasized about bringing complete and utter demise upon my enemies by holding them captive in a facility called Dr. Jayne’s Torture Funhouse, none of you qualify as my enemy, and also I’m not that cruel and depraved {yet}]), I’ve delayed Mixtape Friday. Until next week. Because, well, because the thing with coming back from vacation – especially from two weeks of non-stop bromancery with your best boo during which the “daily grind” consists of breakfast, a walk around the neighborhood, more food, movie-watching, more food, and irrigating semi-permanent ass-prints into the living room couch – is that there’s a period of readjustment where, as a misguided form of protest against returning to reality, one can do nothing else but succumb to the overwhelming desire to do, well, nothing. And because I am nothing if not brutally (and sometimes offensively) honest, I must make it clear that I am currently in that stage.

Right now, I am watching episodes of TV shows that I have seen countless times because even the thought of thinking, makes my brain hurt. I am still in my pajamas. I am eating tacos because they take less than a half-hour to prepare, and while I would prefer ice-cream to the chocolate bar I’m eating for dessert, guess which was closer to me? Today, I am a failure at life and at writing, and I am okay with this because my bouncing back, and coming at the world full-force with a rejuvenated sense of worth and a complete manuscript of the next Great American Novel is inevitable (so is the return of my modesty, I promise). I mean, c’mon, I already did my lucky “PUBLISH ME!” dance in front of the Ominous Tree.


But all that success can only come after I have thoroughly vegged out and avoided all the responsibilities of life.

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My Novel Will Kill Me: Combating Writer’s Block

If you want to know the truth, here it is: right now, I really, really hate the number eight.

Hate. Hate like how everyone who watched Breaking Bad hated Skyler because she was a selfish, passive-aggressive shell of a human being; hate like how much everyone hated Wuthering Heights because it’s the most glorified abusive relationship between a sociopath and a moron that’s ever been wrongfully considered “literature” and yet has managed to persist in the cannon to this day (please, for the love of John Bonham, tell me I’m not alone in this); hate like how everyone hates One Direction but can’t really pinpoint why. I hate the number eight. (The two words even rhyme – so you know I mean business!)

Because, “eight” is the number of times to date that I have written my novel. And “eight” is the number of times I have trashed it.

From its short story form to its many full-length incarnations, I have toiled and stewed and skipped many a shower (writing is gross, guys, you just gotta roll with it) for the sake of this novel, and have on many hopeful occasions declared to everyone I’ve ever met, “This is it! This is the final draft!” only to be abandoned every time. (Now this is starting to sound like Wuthering Heights.) At this point, my obsession with this thing is nearing a Moby Dick level of tunnel-visioned fixation, and I hated Moby Dick so you can imagine how much I grumble.


My ninth draft is currently a “great white whale” of a blank word document with nothing but a blinking cursor (Ahab, is that you?) keeping it company, and that’s because, honestly, I have no idea where to start. I’ve started it every possible way I can think to start it, and all those ways have turned out to be either dead-ends, or the road in the yellow wood that leads to a 147 Hours type of situation where I’ve gotta cut off my own limbs or learn to purify and drink my own urine or something. I ain’t about that. But the thing is, for the first time in a long time, I want to write it – and feel like I’m finally the right version of myself to write it.

Writer’s block. It kills. Just remember what happened in Adaptation.

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