Pulverizing Writer’s Block

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amazon reviews, frustration, journal writing, journals, Perseverance, product reviews, Writer's Block, writer's life, Writing, writing fun, writing inspiration

There are few things more frustrating for a writer than writer’s block. As it gets worse, more prolonged, it can fuel self-doubt and exacerbate the problem. For me, trying to power through it and continue efforts on my current project only produces inferior writing and more frustration. Ironically, only writing or writing-related tasks seem to help alleviate my severe cases of writer’s block, like the kind I’ve experienced lately.

Finding another writer I can help can stoke my creative fire. I’ve found that regardless of the type of help I give, it prompts me to examine my own writing. Whether taking part in a group discussion or providing notes on a story I’ve agreed to read, I’m surprised at the creative energy this can generate toward my work in progress. When dealing with the frustration of writer’s block has sapped my energy, this is the kind of boost I need to motivate my continued efforts. It’s also personally fulfilling to contribute to the writing community, since there always seems to be a kind member who’s willing to help me when I need it.

Reducing the stakes of the writing I do can also help recharge my batteries. Journal writing is something I do too seldom, and since it’s writing solely for myself, I can write lengthy brain dumps of words at a manic pace. Something about this contrast with the plodding pace of my creative writing is rejuvenating. Likewise, something mundane, like a review of an online purchase, can remind me how much more fun it would be to work on something creative.

Here’s an actual review I posted on Amazon for some electric toothbrush replacement heads:

Like me, you purchased your electric toothbrush with a goal in mind: healthier teeth and gums. Like me, you may have been shocked, nay, outraged at the price of replacement brush heads. Certainly you would find more reasonably priced options online, but which could you trust to deliver the cleaning comfort you need at a price you can afford?

This product’s massaging oscillations provide brush work artistry comparable only to the Renaissance Masters. For a fraction of the cost of name brand brush heads, enjoy a family-size package sufficient for a year in a typically sized household. Finally it’s no longer a compromise between value and the brushing health you deserve. No need to stretch the head’s use past the recommended three-month lifespan. Change the head as the manufacturer intended, and do it with confidence that your wallet won’t suffer.

Yes, I went a little overboard with the dramatic flare, but that was the point. Destroying my writer’s block is achieved by bringing back the fun that started my aspirations to write. Plus, the product makes my teeth feel awesome, so I can stand behind my review.

When writer’s block is frustrating me, I’ll turn to whatever I need to get writing again. What works for you? Please leave me a comment and let me know!

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Writing Conference

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Indie Publishing, Monday Blogs, Self-Publishing, traditional publishing, writer's life, Writing, Writing Advice, writing community, writing conference

Recently I attended  my first writing conference. It had originally been scheduled for fall of 2018, but Hurricane Florence had other plans for us. Thankfully it was rescheduled and not cancelled. A small affair, it was held on a rainy Saturday at NC State’s campus. Armed with pens, notebooks, and a hurriedly written pitch for my first novel, I prepared to engage fellow writers and hopefully entice some agents to read my manuscript.

I was both disappointed and a little relieved that there were no agents attending. At least I had an elevator pitch to use on other writers and ran into another author with a penchant for post-apocalyptic fiction. Over lunch, we discussed indie publishing, the difficulties of gaining blog readership, writing discipline, and a host of other topics. I left with his business card and his hearty encouragement to keep writing, keep working to improve, and never give up.

Even though the majority of people I met were non-fiction authors, even photographers, their desire to be published and share their creative efforts was palpable. I was in good company. Their questions to panelists often echoed by own concerns and confusion about the publishing world, marketing, and a host of other topics. I could feel tension from some who, like myself, were a bit overwhelmed by all the details, especially the expensive ones.

The panels ranged from branding and marketing to publishing and outlining. Again and again, I heard disparaging remarks about traditional publishing that dispelled many of my preconceptions. It was also overwhelmingly obvious that the panelists were entrepreneurs first, drumming up business for their editing, layout, or marketing services. Some of them were also writers. I found myself wishing there were more full-time authors on the panels instead, people who could provide keen insight from their own experiences in the trenches, without the incentive to sell me something other than their novels. I think what I really crave is out there somewhere, maybe in another city not so far away, at a conference that spans a whole weekend or even a few days.

According to what I heard, traditional publishing has changed considerably over the years. Most of these changes benefit the publishers by allowing them to cut expenses. They invest most of their time and money in authors guaranteed to make them money, which makes sense from a business standpoint but sacrifices the discovery and support of new talent. Editing quality and marketing are two areas where publishing budgets have shrunk, and both can have a drastic effect on book sales. Since the publisher would also benefit from additional sales, it left me scratching my head. I guess there’s some mysterious formula that helps compute which books are better off unsold than being marketed more aggressively.

Armed with questions around what I heard the panelists discuss, I turned to an online writing group for some opinions. What I received in response to my questions was phrased in pros and cons of both traditional and indie publishing. Will I continue to submit to agents, or will I self-publish my novels? I’ve read that doing both, when possible, is the best practice. In the immediate future, I won’t do either. I’ve got at least one more revision to make to the novel I finished and more outlining to do for my new project. I’ll continue to submit short stories to publications, when I have time. Self-publishing involves more work on my part, more time spent marketing and leveraging social media. Since I don’t have time for that right now, I’ll have to be content to hone my skills and research agents seeking the kind of fiction I write.

The most important advice I received was that I will need to finish more books before any of the rest becomes important. Keep writing? I can do that.

Too Old for Rock-n-Roll

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aging, bed time, bluegrass, concerts, D&D, dungeons and dragons, jug band, Monday Blogs, Role-playing Games, Self-Publishing, Todd Snider, traditional publishing, willie nelson, writing conference, writing questions

Photo: Jester Jay Goldman

Todd Snider! Squeeee! I’m going to get tickets. The show’s on a Friday when I don’t have to work. I can’t believe I’ll get to see him perform live. I can’t believe the show hasn’t sold out. Tickets: um, one. Section: Floor seats sold out, so balcony. OK, better than standing. Because I’m old. Show time: 8:30. Wait, that means he probably won’t go on until at least 9 o’clock. Figure I get out of there by 11 o’clock, I should be home by…way past my bed time. There’s no way I won’t fall asleep, sitting upright, drool soaking through my shirt, even with hundreds of screaming people and raucous music playing. I think I’ll just buy one of his albums. I guess I’m too old to rock and roll.

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I’m planning a longer blog post about it later but thought I’d write some quick impressions about the writing conference I recently attended. It left me with a lot of questions about my writing intentions. Am I headed down the wrong path when I submit my novel to agents? Can I count on a traditional publisher to present, edit, and market my novel in ways that will reach and satisfy more readers? I don’t know. Many of the panelists expressed opinions that disparaged traditional publishers. The majority of them were also obviously trying to sell services to self-publishers. Can I afford to absorb the costs for editing, cover design, print layout, proofreading, printing, and marketing if I self-publish? Do I want to lose rights to characters and other creative content? Do I want to hand over something that took me years to craft, so I can make 20 percent or less of the money earned from book sales? I have a ton of research to do, and that translates into time I won’t be writing.

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I got nostalgic in my car and turned on some Willie Nelson. He was a favorite of my late grandmother, one of the sweetest ladies I’ve ever known. When I was young, she and my grandfather would take me and my sister with them to bluegrass festivals in their RV. We’d sit on the grass and enjoy the summer sun, while bands picked and grinned. I still remember becoming mesmerized by the hammer dulcimer and remain a fan of bluegrass and jug bands to this day. The best part was watching my grandparents dance. Even at my young age, I was able to imagine what they must have looked like when they were young. The years just sloughed off them as they smiled at each other.

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I remember a day, seemingly eons ago, when I would have painstakingly crafted a role-playing game character with only seriousness in mind. He or she would have some dark backstory that would catapult him/her into a life of adventure, likely seeking vengeance or answers to the mystery of what caused such adolescent trauma. Angst, passion, pain, deliverance, or possibly redemption would follow. Maybe I’m just getting older and having problems taking my gaming as seriously. I certainly spend far fewer hours playing these days. Now I’m more apt to create a hobbit monk that looks like chubby Elvis and plays the spoons, or a roguish conman based on Tim Meadows’ “Ladies’ Man”. Dungeons and Dragons has become just one more example of the fun that can be had when laughing at my own jokes.

 

Lessons from “The Gambler”

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fiction tips, fiction writing, gambling, lyrical stories, Monday Blogs, the gambler, Writing, writing inspiration, writing lessons, writing suspense, Writing Tips

On a warm summer’s eve
On a train bound for nowhere
I met up with the gambler
We were both too tired to sleep
So we took turns a-starin’
Out the window at the darkness
The boredom overtook us,
And he began to speak

The first stanza sets the scene. The characters are succinctly described and their motivations identified. Much like the first chapter of a novel or first paragraph of a short story, the train (metaphor intended) chugs into motion as it stirs our curiosity about these characters and the potential interactions they might have. What will the gambler say? We know it will be something interesting. Here is a person who lives by his wits, fickle luck, and the foolishness of those less experienced. What adventures he must have had, and now we are raptly attentive.

He said, “Son, I’ve made a life
Out of readin’ people’s faces
Knowin’ what the cards were
By the way they held their eyes
So if you don’t mind me sayin’
I can see you’re out of aces
For a taste of your whiskey
I’ll give you some advice”

Stanza two answers some questions about the characters introduced in the previous stanza. Our gambler is older than the narrator, seasoned, grizzled perhaps, in his lifelong meanderings on chance’s highway. He is in a position to provide advice from his experiences, in exchange for a nip from the bottle. Are thees his only motivation, a taste of spirits and a bit of tongue-wagging to pass the evening? Our narrator is younger, fallen on hard times, bereft of money but not currency. Is the price of the advice fair? It is one more gamble the narrator will have to risk. The stanza compels us to continue, in hopes of learning what the gambler will disclose.

So I handed him my bottle
And he drank down my last swallow
Then he bummed a cigarette
And asked me for a light
And the night got deathly quiet
And his faced lost all expression
He said, “If you’re gonna play the game, boy
You gotta learn to play it right

Suspense is prolonged in stanza three. We learn the cost of the gambler’s advice. He ups the ante, demanding a cigarette in addition to his quoted price. It’s not just a sip, but the last sip, of the narrator’s whiskey. The value is increased by the laws of supply and demand. The stakes are higher now, and the narrator has already paid, already invested the precious commodities and received relatively little, except the promise of something greater, something to be revealed in the chorus, and perhaps some foreshadowing.

You’ve got to know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you’re sittin’ at the table
There’ll be time enough for countin’
When the dealin’s done

Finally the much anticipated advice passes from the lips of the sagacious master to the ears of the anxious neophyte, and it is disappointing in its simplicity. What can it mean? There must be more, something deeper, something worth the price paid. “Tell me something I don’t know,” we imagine the narrator yelling. Secrets can’t be revealed too early. Sure there needs to be something dangled to satisfy curiosity, but one can’t reveal his cards until stakes have been raised to the maximum dared by the gambler’s instincts. Or until the very next stanza, to keep the song moving.

Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away
And knowin’ what to keep
‘Cause every hand’s a winner
And every hand’s a loser
And the best that you can hope for is to die
in your sleep

Explanations and clarifications at last begin to satisfy our narrator’s yearning for understanding. Gambling is a skillful art, where success is determined by knowledge and understanding of the odds, the tells of one’s opponents, one’s own tendencies to be too bold or too cautious. There is only one certainty: death. It seems the gambler’s real lesson isn’t about gambling. Here his motivations change and he redefines himself in his cautionary tale. Our narrator is confronted with the realization that his life is in the balance of his decision to pursue Lady Luck’s favor or abandon her for a safer, more peaceful living.

And when he finished speakin’
He turned back toward the window
Crushed out his cigarette
And faded off to sleep
And somewhere in the darkness
The gambler he broke even
But in his final words
I found an ace that I could keep

In the last chapter, er… stanza, our sage exits the stage. Having passed his learning to the narrator, he is freed of his burden. What knowledge he had accumulated during his life of uncertainty and danger has been conveyed to the best of his ability. It is up to the younger version of himself to learn from this wisdom or ignore it at his peril. The narrator realizes it for the treasure it is, but will he push his luck or fold into a life of stability? We are left to imagine the path he will take.

I believe there are writing lessons to be gleaned from Kenny Rogers’ famous song, especially for the type of adventurous genre fiction I like to write. There are nuggets to be mined pertaining to plotting and pacing. There is a reminder that secrets are best revealed slowly, letting anticipation grow. The lyrics also leave us with uncertainty, like some of the best endings in my most treasured books. Perhaps there are even lessons about writing itself, in its parallels to gambling. You’ve got to know which stories to shelve and which stories to submit. Never count your earnings, ’til you’ve reached the end of your royalty cycle. Well, not very lyrical, but the message it still there.

“The Gambler” is one of my favorite stories in song. I hope to find others to share as writing lessons, as my blog continues this year. Here’s hoping 2019 is the year of your greatest hand yet. Leave me a comment, and let me know about your winnings so far.

Lastly, of course, credit where credit is due for these meaningful lyrics:

Songwriters: Don Schlitz

The Gambler lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Puppy Time

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Dogs, meditation, Monday Blogs, present, puppies, Puppy, puppy time, recharge, rejuvenate, stress, Writing, zen

It’s probably not an original turn of phrase, Puppy Time. It likely prompts images of time spent in the company of our canine friends. For many of us, that’s literally our happy place. Dogs have a way of making us feel wanted, loved, needed. They’re so easy to please and ask so relatively little. Mine just wants to snuggle on the couch, worm around in a sunny patch of grass, and eat until she explodes. That last one isn’t allowed, but she’s content enough with the first two.

What I’ve come to call Puppy Time is a state of mind akin to the joyful, zen feeling I experience when I sit with my dog. It’s so easy to get lost in the sound of her blissful snoring, the velvety texture of the hair on her ears, or the gentle rise and fall of her relaxed breaths. It’s like meditating, no, it’s better. So often when I attempt to meditate, other thoughts intrude. I’m not distracted when it’s Puppy Time. Time passes unnoticed. Only when she stirs or licks me am I brought back to future or past concerns.

I’ve started thinking of other moments of zen presence as Puppy Time, too. Increasingly writing is like this, at least the first draft. My computer’s clock will tell me it’s been an hour since I last noticed. I will marvel at a thousand new words on the pages in front of me. What magic prompted such focus and calm creativity? Puppy Time.

One might argue that I’m not “present” when that happens. My mind is racing to deliver words to typing fingers that struggle to keep up. My focus is in another place, a world I’ve created, with characters that aren’t literally speaking to each other. I’m not conscious of my breathing in the now or even the tingling in my wrists from the frantic typing. I’m more hypnotized than meditating. Call it what you want. I call it productive writing time, carefree of the world outside. I call it Puppy Time, even though my dog would rather I were sitting on the couch with her instead of at my desk.

I hope everybody has experienced Puppy Time at some point, and just as much I hope that they get to cherish it often. It’s precious, just like my dog. It’s a time to recharge batteries drained dry by the stresses and schedules of the world. Whichever way Puppy Time is enjoyed, I think we all need more of it. To drift out of Puppy Time is to feel rejuvenated. I think that’s when we’re at our best and most capable of positive interactions with others, our most patient and kind, our most daringly creative.

What’s your Puppy Time spent doing? Leave me a comment and let me know!

Writer’s Muscles

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Blogging, Creativity, Inspiration, Momentum, Monday Blogs, Writer's Block, writer's life, Writing, Writing Advice, Writing Process, Writing Tips, writing workout

I stared blankly at the screen from my comfortable chair. I couldn’t recall how long I had been staring, been sitting, been conscious. My protruding belly served as a coaster. Cheez-It crumbs decorated my shirt and stuck to the condensation on my glass. I strained to lift the weight of my arms, to brush away the crumbs. Eventually the dog would discover me, and the crumb situation would be handled. I could wait.

That’s an analogy, by the way, but I can eat half a box of Cheez-Its in one sitting. The atrophy of my physical muscles from inactivity easily parallels those of my writing. Just like re-establishing a workout regimen, it can be an uphill battle to start creating again. It’s a painful process, working those author muscles that want me to ignore them. I hope some time off at Christmas will help me build some real momentum. Not like New Year’s resolution gym membership momentum, but something that will actually last.

There are plenty of things surrounding writing that aren’t really “writing”. Some time spent just sitting and thinking is valuable, but it’s easy to extend that time beyond what’s fruitful. I’ve been fighting through outlining my next novel with little regard for short fiction or blog entries, until one day I was compelled to write a story. It had to be written, before I talked myself out of it and spent the time on outlining or stuff I needed to do around the house. It was like going for a jog after months recovering from an injury. I think I pulled something. I was definitely exhausted after two thousand words or so. Just like after a good workout, I enjoyed the fruits of my efforts.

My new plan, keeping in mind that the outline still needs to get done, is to allow myself writing time every day. Even if I only get ten or 15 minutes, I can’t afford to lapse and atrophy again. I’ll write anything that comes to mind. I’ll start with the three or four other projects I’ve dreamed up. I haven’t given them time to gestate because they don’t seem as fleshed out or commercially viable as the novel I’m outlining, but it certainly won’t hurt to start writing them. I’ll see where my imagination takes them, just to keep limber and toned. I’ll explore short story and blog ideas when they come, and maybe some will take shape. If I don’t start writing them, I’ll never know.

I’ve toyed with the idea of contracting a highly recommended writing coach, someone to help me finish the outline more quickly and start writing the novel. After the years it took me to finish my first novel, I know there must be a better way, a more efficient way, to get my novels written. I’ve long been hesitant to do this, due to the cost and difficulty admitting I need help. Now I think it might be the long-term investment I need to make if I want to seriously pursue a career as a novelist.

Are you struggling to gain momentum with anything important to you? Leave me a comment, and we can help each other get past what’s slowing us down.

 

Moon-Eyed

Tags

dreams, Fantasy, full moon, magic, moon, moon magic, moon-eyed, moonbeam, Science Fiction

Earth’s moon has always held a special place in my imagination. The full moon especially entrances me and brings to my mind all manner of romanticized and scientifically ludicrous imagery. But I’ve never been one to let science impede my heart’s yearnings or mind’s fantastical frolicking.

I know Earth’s satellite is virtually without an atmosphere, at least compared to Earth. The surface is utterly at the mercy of the sun’s rays on one side and unfathomably cold on the other. There are mountains, but no snow capping them. There are seas, actually plains of dark rock, mistakenly named by early astronomers. There is no cheese. Not a bit. Facts have their place, but my mind rejects what my brain knows.

As I close my eyes in the light of the full moon, I see vast white deserts dotted by lush oases. Pale stone spires reach heavenward, while robed men and women fly graceful ray-like creatures, their winged shadows chased by laughing children. Springs feed clear pools and trickling streams that quench the the sun-kissed vineyards and gardens. One might travel there at the speed of thought to marvel at their beauty, to lounge in a tree’s shade or share a meal with the denizens of the idyllic environs.

My brain remembers trivia about Earth’s tides and the monumental efforts undertaken to leave flags and footprints on the moon’s surface. It appreciates the dangers astronauts faced. Yet my heart declares the celestial body nothing short of magical, seeking to ride a moon beam to the oasis my imagination asserts is real. My face drinks in its reflected light as though thirsting for those springs. Its gravity pulls at my soul as surely as it draws upon our oceans.

Perhaps the moon triggers some ancient instinct within me, some primal or genetic memory, and exerts the same force that inspired legends of lycanthropy. Though on the hirsute side, I’ve yet to transform when the moon waxes full. I have dreamed of it and awakened somewhat disappointed. If I can’t travel to that oasis of my dreams, could I not at least grow some fangs and pursue deer through moonlit corn fields?

I’ll have to be content with writing tales of magic, of psychics who commune with the moon’s people across the gulf of space. I’ll spin yarns of moonbeam riders and heroes whose powers wax and wane with the monthly cycle. I’ll bask in the light, maybe occasionally howl, and sojourn through fictional deserts in my dreams, waking in my bed with an unquenchable thirst.

The Brain Squatter

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concentration, Creativity, depression, Distractions, imagination, stress, tired, Writer's Block

Photo by Ryan Melaugh

There’s a squatter in my brain. He takes up space. His chain-smoking permeates and pollutes every surface. The ashes and butts get haphazardly scattered across my volatile imagination. I spend my energy frantically tidying up after him, left with no creative juice when I’m done. Then he breaks in and tracks muck everywhere, and I’m back where I started.

This is the first bit of writing I’ve attempted since the Traumatic Event, T.E. for short. It wasn’t something life threatening or the death of a loved one. Those would surely be worse, but the T.E. was still devastating enough to steal my appetite, my sleep, my desire to create imaginary worlds with stories to share.

My imagination, always too large and vivid to be suppressed, shriveled away to hide. It bolted the door on the bunker. Now it trembles in the corner, maintaining radio silence. It’s shell shocked and deafened, even to its own voice. My concentration deserted it, and neither one has dared to resurface. They could care less that they’re needed.

I’ve chosen to distract myself with things that often fuel them: books, movies, quiet drives, conversation with friends. I exhausted myself with exercise. I visited family in the peaceful upstate New York summer and stuffed myself with comfort foods. The final dose may have been Mom’s strawberry-rhubarb pie, exactly what I needed. Now time must pass to see if a full recovery is possible.

There’s a periodic clicking, like Morse Code, from the bunker’s depths. My novel beckons to me. I left off partially through my second edit, only a couple of months from the point where I would release it for criticism from beta readers. (Three months have passed since then.) Complications in other writing projects beg for resolution. Slowly they intrude and exert power over the distracting din in my mind. They are the distant construction tools the squatter increasingly fears, and they are coming, if the contractors’ extended lunch break ever ends.

If you noticed my absence, I apologize for the abrupt cessation of my semi-regular posts. I can’t promise the frequency will increase, but I hope you’ll dig through the archives and find a laugh or the results of my writing exercises. I’m proud of a few of them. There will be new entries, but I can’t say when they will appear. Perhaps you’d like to subscribe, if you haven’t already, so anything new will be emailed to you.

I thank you for your patience. Once my mind decides to fully cooperate, I’ll be working it overtime. It owes me for its lengthy vacation.

Nidor- A Writing Prompt

Tags

anticipation, burgers, childhood, cookouts, Monday Blogs, nidor, outdoor cooking, writing exercise, writing prompt, writing prompts

For Christmas, I received a book of “questions for creative exploration”. They are writing prompts, not all questions, and I decided that I would include my responses to them in my blog. They’re meant as daily exercises, but I just picked one I liked and got to work. Because I’m a rebel, baby! I also slightly deviated from the instructions because the book’s not the boss of me. The exercise for this day was…

Write a vignette infused with nidor, the particular scent of cooking meat or burning fat.

The idea might have come from my mother or hers, since we lived next door to my grandparents at the time. I can’t remember my age, but I couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. My sister was seven or eight, a pig-tailed bundle of mixed joy and mischief. Wherever the idea originated, it sounded like fun, maybe the best idea ever (for a bored, pre-internet, ten year old kid, anyway). As the older kid, I was in charge, and I took responsibility as seriously as my Cub Scout oath.

We received empty cans, the family-sized variety that held a week’s worth of applesauce or baked beans. My mom cut little windows on the bottoms of the open ends, where we could feed fuel into the upside-down can. The tops got punctured around their circumferences to let the fat drain and fuel the flames. That was where the meat would cook, as if on tiny griddles.

We turned the cans upside-down in the gravel driveway and set out to find small twigs for our fires. Wood was plentiful where we lived, plenty waiting in the yard normally splintered by the lawnmower. While we gathered, Mom prepared burger patties.

The kindling got stuffed through the window of each can. Mom provided the matches and let us start out fires with bits of wadded newspaper. The flames warmed us in the shade of the maples, summer’s heat seldom oppressive there in upstate New York. My stomach growled in anticipation of lunch.

The can fires consumed the twigs almost as quickly as we could feed them, until Mom pronounced them hot enough to serve as stoves. She fetched the patties and plopped them onto the cans. The roar of sizzling meat startled us, and in moments the heavenly scent of the cooking beef wafted up to taunt us. Fat gathered and congealed along the sides of the patties. Little flames shot up from the grease vents, at which Mom would caution us and snuff them with her spatula. Any moment, the piping-hot burgers would be ready to eat. Or so I thought.

Mom flipped the burgers that still wept blood and grease, fearful they would burn. My hunger built until its ache swelled beyond my belly and threated to eat me. The scent of hot grease engulfed me, teased my nostrils with its promises. Still the burgers sizzled but defied my impatience. They took nearly an hour to finish cooking. To two hungry kids, that felt like forever. Not only were we waiting for them to finish, but one of the neighborhood dogs sat nearby. We’d dubbed him Picnic Puppy after he’d snatched a sandwich out of my sister’s hand a couple of years before. None of us wanted to take our eyes off him while the burgers remained targets.

I don’t know if it was the best burger I’ve ever eaten, but it was surely the most highly anticipated. I devoured it in record time and could have eaten another if there had been room on top of the can. The experiment had been fun, but I remind myself of that day whenever I have to wait more than a few minutes for fast food.

 

 

Boots- A Writing Prompt

Tags

1980's, 1990's, fashion, favorite clothing, grunge, leather boots, Monday Blogs, mullet, nostalgia, writing exercise, writing prompt

For Christmas, I received a book of “questions for creative exploration”. They are writing prompts, not all questions, and I decided that I would include my responses to them in my blog. They’re meant as daily exercises, but I just picked one I liked and got to work. Because I’m a rebel, baby! I also slightly deviated from the instructions because the book’s not the boss of me. The exercise for this day was…

Consider your favorite outfit or article of clothing. Describe it in detail here.

These days, I don’t have a favorite article of clothing. Now that I’m technically a grown-up, I mostly dress for work. I don’t enjoy the shirts and slacks that only remind me of my adult responsibilities. In my off time, I wear what’s comfortable. Usually that’s a worn pair of blue jeans and geeky t-shirt ensemble. I’ve never had a sense of style, but I remember when I thought I did.

My college years were the early 1990s, when grunge crowd surfed its way over the remains of hair metal, and flannel replaced leather. I still clung to my rock-n-roll mullet for a while, even though everybody thought they were duty-bound to convince me to cut it. I wasn’t about to sell out. I met a girl who thought my hair was cool and wore her own tributes to Guns-n-Roses and the rest. For my birthday, she bought me the baddest leather boots ever. They were patterned in faux snakeskin. The silvery caps over the toes protected them from dings during the breaking-in period, when I still felt like they were clown-shoe sized. The heels catapulted me to an almost dizzying 5-foot-six. Flared tops allowed me to tuck my ripped jeans inside. By far, the best feature was the removable leather strap, complete with silvery buckle, that circled each boot like a gunfighter’s belt. ROCK-N-ROLL!

Several years (and girlfriends) later, the boots collected dust in the back of my closet. I’d replaced them with a pair of hiking boots. My jeans were still ripped, but I wore a knotted flannel shirt around my waist, courtesy of my grandfather’s closet. Nobody needed to know that part. My roommates and I hosted a party with the theme: ’80s. My girlfriend talked me into letting her make me up like a glam-rocker, and the boots completed the ensemble. They received enough compliments to outweigh the derision from several years before. My mullet was gone. What was left got spiked and shellacked to lethal sharpness before eye makeup and other assorted powders were applied. When I was at last allowed to view the results in a mirror, I missed my mullet. Even though the costume wowed people, I couldn’t wait to smear cold cream over the gunk and scrape it off my face.

I considered wearing the boots from time to time but never had the nerve. Some kind of nostalgia, even over that short period of time, kept me from getting rid of them. I would look back the days before I sold out and wonder how I could have liked that music and admired those gravity-defying hairdos on MTV. I think my younger sister eventually appropriated the boots, and I never saw them again. She probably wore them far better than I ever did.

Someday my son might own those boots, or more likely some other clothing accessory that he finds awesome. I’ll try to remember how cool those boots made me feel before I tell him he looks silly. If he ever wears anything I think is ridiculous, I’ll bite my tongue and look forward to whatever fashion takes its place. Wouldn’t it be funny if those boots came back into style? For the sake of humanity, I hope they never do. If they ever were.

Do you have a favorite article of clothing or outfit you used to love from earlier in life? Drop me a comment and let me know. Extra points if you look back at it and cringe like I do about my old boots.