welcome. here is your drink. sit over there.
This just in: "English to be the language of the Alien Overlords"
And a remarkably concise form of it too, to be able to spell out like this the human genome in its entirety on any surface smaller the Desert of Gobi.
Whoever was responsible for that script need a basic course in language epistemology...
Madeline Albright is trying to come up with a compromise to get the US to pay its back dues to the UN. What will happen if we don't pony up our dues by Dec. 31?
(Don't send me your answers. This is just a little way to expand your horizons. Honest.)
Darin and I did not rush out to see Pokemon: The First Movie (just in case you don't think they're going to wring this thing for everything it's got--the first movie) yesterday.
Yesterday Darin, Carole, and I went out to look at baby stuff at Babies 'R' Us, which is a superstore off-shoot of Toys 'R' Us. (The theory being, I assume, to start both kids and parents off early in their close relationship as mass consumers of stuff for the real directors in the relationship, the kids.) There is a lot of baby stuff out there.
It seems horrifying overwhelming at first. "Gee-zus there are a lot of models of cribs to choose from," you find yourself muttering. Then you look at them, really look at them, and narrow them down by wood choice. Beech, oak, mahogany? Then by manufacturer. Then by design. Finally you're left saying, "There are exactly three crib models here I would allow my child to get near, let alone sleep in."
Unfortunately, you have to go through this process with about 15 different large objects--car seats, strollers, bassinettes--and you haven't even gotten to stuff like baby clothes. One of the things you're supposed to put together before the baby arrives is a "layette." This is a fancy French word that means "baby's first trousseau." Basically, you need enough clothes so that the baby can change outfit 15 times a day. Not because babies are fashion mavens, but because babies are messy. I am not looking forward to that part.
We signed up for a couple of things but left most of it until we start shopping in earnest, which I assume will have to be soon. I want to see cribs somewhere else, not just for price but because the ones assembled at Babies 'R' Us were put together poorly. Either that, or they're built "earthquake-ready," shifting back and forth with the slightest shake.
Today Carole and I went to get manicures. I needed a manicure badly because my nails had gotten so long they were interfering with my typing. (Well, the fact that I haven't been typing is interfering with my typing. But on those rare occasions when I actually was typing, I kept hitting the wrong keys.)
The manicurist got a cotton wad, doused it in acetone, and started removing my nail polish. She gave a little exclamation of surprise and said, "They're real!" My nails were so long she assumed they were acrylic.
For those of you who don't remember, I've struggled with my nails for years. I bit them or picked them for about twenty years. The idea that I've managed to conquer that bad habit to the point where they have to be cut by more than half is unbelievable. (One word: Nailtiques.)
Now I'm really bummed because they're really short. I think they could be a little longer.
In other news, I'm probably never going to write again.
Conveniently, none of my self-image is wrapped up in my identity as a writer.
This entry was originally going to go up two days ago. I don't remember what I was going to put in it two days ago; I created the file, put in the quote of the day, and promptly didn't write any more. I realize my posting level has slacked way off, even from when I was sick--I expect to get a knock on the door from Tracing and the Often committee any moment now.
Last night my writing group (in which everyone but me drank alcohol) met for the first time in weeks. Everyone's working on something but me (and no, making a baby is not a full-time activity, no matter what some women may tell you).
I could have brought up what I've been thinking about, what I've been spinning my wheels on. But I never feel comfortable discussing works in progress or even the nascent elements of a story. All stories sound stupid at their beginnings, at least to me. As Len always said, You're writing about your own shit and you have to make it taste like ice cream. I get so anxious and self-conscious talking about ideas when I'm putting them together, having to defend these stupid notions that haven't jelled yet.
I still periodically muse about my current screenplay, thought not 8 hours a day the way I should be. I've discovered a major problem: I started with a concept and not with a character or situation (or, best of all, a character in a situation). And the characters are remaining elusive.
Part of this is I'm being very protective--you know, what kind of people would do this (where "this" is the idea behind the screenplay) and do I really want to write about them? But they're also remaining nameless and faceless. Without a name, I can't write word one. I have baby name books all over the place--I always have; I love them--but nothing's leaping out at me and saying, "Here I am!"
(Either for the characters or for the baby, I've discovered. Naming a baby is a much scarier prospect than I ever thought it would be. You're naming a person. Darin is much more sanguine about this--"She can just change her name." That's easy for him to say. What if we bring home little Taylor (#7 on the list of hot 100 names for 1998) or Destiny (#38) or Autumn (#81) and say, "Oh my God! That's not her name!")
(I think 38 and 81 are extremely silly names. That's just me.)
I've wondered if part of my stumbling on this project is because so many people to whom I've told the idea--mistake #1, telling people about it before I've done it--have said, "Oh my God, that's a great idea!" And I feel as though any way I execute the script will be inferior to the mental image of what people are expecting to see.
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Copyright 1999 Diane Patterson
Send comments and questions to diane@spies.com