Project Writer vs. Mama

I’ve sat and stared at a blank word document for about 10 minutes. Wondering what to write for a blog. Thinking, “what did I used to write about?” and pulling up archives. Life, travel, books and fiction are among the majority of posts. And it’s hard for me to conjure up a new post. Because life these days revolves around a newborn.

A drink for mama, a drink for baby…

Breastfeeding, changing diapers and chasing sleep make up the majority of physical activity. Real riveting stuff. So what do I write about? That’s the question lingering in my mind, so I suppose there’s no better place to spill guts than this blog.

A conundrum that’s bothered me throughout pregnancy and for the last couple of months. Writer vs. Mommy. For so long that’s been my identity – a writer – and now I’m a mama and I’m just not sure if the twain should meet.  How to keep the writer side separate from the mama side. Or better yet, how to keep the writer side alive. Because I know once a woman has had a child, to many people her own self ceases to exist and she’s just a “mother.” Believe me, I’ve had this experience already while pregnant, so I can claim it to be true. And while yes, I am a mother and it is part of me, it’s not all of me.  I look at it as a challenge to not be put in that box. How I can incorporate my new experiences into my fiction and into my blog. How I can still make time to write and be a writer while being a mother. A shit ton of people do it, I’m not reinventing the wheel or anything, but as a newbie it’s daunting to think about. Stealing moments when you can, logging notes away for later, and biding time for that perfect sit-down-at-the-computer-moment.  It’s a new groove to find, but find it I will.

Obviously this space won’t become a mommy-blog with Pinterest bullshit factoids (Make a fur swaddle out of a skunk, mommies!) nor will every post be about my daughter. But I’m sure baby smatterings will find their way into my writing here and there.

Like – did you know the thing that has most made me feel like a mom is picking boogers out of my newborn’s nose?

Like – did you know watching a 90 minute movie takes six hours when you have a newborn?

Like – did you know I sure am glad this baby is out of me because my wine hand has been empty for far too long?

Yeah.

See.

Stuff like that.

A good groove, don’tcha think?

This Message Brought to You by Procrastination and Writer’s Block

Procrastination. As a writer (and human being), I know it fondly and freakishly.

Do not ask.

However, it’s not just a writer’s thing. Everyone procrastinates. It’s human nature. If you say you don’t you’re a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. Or you’re just way too pure for me, so stop reading my blog RIGHT NOW.

I’ll bet even Hemingway wasted time doing other things.

Like boozin’.

Procrastination can be good. It can take the mind to another place; distract you until you’re ready to come back to the story, the problem or the kidnapping at hand.

And yet, while other, normal folk may go see a movie, frolic in the outdoors doing sporty-type related activity, or having fistfights with hobos in alleyways, as a writer my procrastination usually takes place in front of my computer. Doing everything in my power to avoided typing much needed words.

Tweet. Music mixes. Baby talk to my cats. Enough of this. I decided the time was ripe to make another video. And yes. I was procrastinating when I made it.

So crank up the volume and adjust your jockstrap because here is the stupid shit writerly procrastination is made of.

All You Need is Love. And Cocaine Apparently.

Hunter S. Thompson is one badass mofo.

I love the guy. He’s a favorite of mine. He does things with words I can only dream about. I recently finished Hell’s Angels and every chapter, every sentence, left me slack-jawed. Hunter S. Thompson could have written about the mating habits of slugs and I’d gladly devour it.

Wait. Do slugs mate?

Yes. Yes they do. You’re welcome.

I’ll never write like this literary godsend. And I’m okay with that.

I also know I’ll never have a writing schedule like the guy. Although, clearly, cocaine did wonders for the guy. I read this article a few months ago on Uproxx about his daily routine, and while I’m not sure if it’s real or not, I’m kind of hoping it is.

HST’s dietary habits have me insanely jealous. If I ate like that my stomach would capsize and groan like a manatee.

I imagine they sound like a mix of Chewbacca and Lucille Bluth.

I also intensely applaud HST eating fettuccine alfredo in the hot tub. The closest I get to this is using red vines as straws when I drink my glasses of wine while reading my Sweet Valley Twins books in a tub full of Mr. Bubble.

I write sporadically throughout the week but Sunday is my full day reserved to write. I screen calls, I don’t leave the house, I sit my ass in a chair. My schedule doesn’t rival HST’s but I have a schedule and I think that’s what matters.

Or maybe cocaine matters. Beary the Bear seems to think so.

My Sunday Routine

8am – church. Haha. Just kidding.

8am – alarm goes off

8:07am – hit snooze again

8:45am – rise but no shine

9am – coffee promptly made

9:10am – fish oil pills to take the edge off

9:30am – dick around on Twitter

9:35am – coffee, read flash fiction stories at various lit mags

9:45am – coffee

10:15am – coffee

10:45am – story submissions and ZOMGCOFFEE

11:30am – begin blog posting

11:45am – coffee and/or pizza consumed

Noon – shower, consider becoming a carny

12:30pm – put on pants

1:00pm – edit novel-in-progress

3:00pm – consume Michelob Ultra

3:10pm – make poop jokes on Twitter

3:30pm – more novel edits

6:00pm – wine and write/edit flash fiction

8:00pm – scrounge up a semblance of dinner and a TV show

8:45pm – TV or writing

10:00pm – drops iron pills

10:15pm – reads Cracked.com

11:30pm – sleep

There. That’s what my typical Sunday involves. It’s raucous ain’t it?

If you want to share your writing schedule, complete with drugs, alcohol and veiled perverted references, send it to me and I’ll post it next go round.

Deep Tissue Massage Thoughts with Large Marge

Yesterday, I received a deep tissue massage by a Slovakian woman named Large Marge in the massage parlor’s last room on the left. (Only one thing in that statement is a lie.)

She asked me if I wanted my glutes massaged and it took all the effort I had to keep a straight face and resist asking, “Glutes are boobs right?”

It was the most violent massage I have ever experienced in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I asked for deep tissue but by deep tissue I didn’t request “toe-curling-pants-wetting-pain”. But like all good women, I bit my lip and took it in the dark.

Now the point of this post is not to discuss my sadomasochistic massage, it’s to talk about writing, ass faces.

In a roundabout way, I suppose.

I can never relax during a massage. I think this is partly related to my very first massage. I was probably 16. My step-mom booked a couples massage for my sister and I with a husband and wife naturalist team bent on introducing holistic methods to the masses. Sounds like the plot to a Captain Planet episode doesn’t it?

 

Remember these fools? 

 

After much tee-heeing about the hilarity that we’d share a massage room, I was assigned the male masseuse. Or maybe I took one for the team for my 13-year-old sister. Either way – I still remember him. He reminded me of some old hippie…grey hair, ponytail, Aladdin-style vest. This did not worry me. The fact that he had a very long coke nail on his right pinkie finger was the kicker that kept me alert throughout the whole massage. Relaxation was not to be had.

I was terrified. I kept picturing him slipping in the oil and clawing me with his nail. I’d come out of that massage like poor old Rosemary Bathhouse after her demon-rape dream.

 

“Worst massage ever.”

 

So because of that one experience and thanks to an extra-long coke nail, I can’t unwind. I always think. My brain whirls. In fact, there are always three main things I think as I’m being massaged:

1. “What body part are they rubbing me with? Because it feels like a [comment edited]…”

2. “What if lose control of my bowels?”

3. “Cake is awesome. I wish they could rub me with cake. Hey, let’s make that happen.”

But in addition to those slightly improper thoughts, I think of my stories. Stories in progress, yes, but it’s also a friggin’ fabulous time to brainstorm. Your mind wanders. And while I’m busy worrying about if the reason the masseuse is asking me to flip over onto my back is for mere human sacrifice, I’m also brewing up some pretty kooky scenarios in my noggin.

(Doesn’t the word “noggin” really get you jonesing for some egg nog? Think about it.)

I don’t entirely attribute the fact that I can’t relax because I’m a writer. Maybe I’m just neurotic. But what I do when I’m NOT relaxing is definitely related to my writing. I’ve always been like this. I can never NOT know what’s going on around me. I can’t fall asleep in public; I can’t sleep during a road trip or on an airplane. Sure, maybe I’m busy worrying about whether someone will teabag me while I doze but I don’t think that’s it.

I have to be constantly aware. And that’s a good thing for an eavesdropping, quote-stealing writer.

What this shows is that sometimes it’s okay to not to relax during a massage. Chalk it up to inspiration. I also came out of it with an envious case of bedhead.

 

“Helena Bonham Carter ain’t got nothin on me.”

 

After all, without Large Marge and her voluptuous forearms I never would have had this blog post.  So the next time you want to come up with a plot point, drop $60 and head to the nearest massage parlor for a very happy ending.

 

C’mon. You knew that reference was coming.

SF2012 and Killer Cartwheels

My greatest accomplishment of my 20s was puking into a gutter on Haight-Ashbury Street on the day before my 30^th birthday.

I did. I vomited in front of a bum and a restaurant full of people eating burritos. And let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you puke into a gutter. You have not.

Puke.

Hostile Observers.

It was riotous trip, San Francisco was. (For a true recap of the trip, go here). I went with The Cousin and The Sister and between skirting shankings in Oakland, eating Nicolas Cage’s face, and taxi rides from hell, I turned 30 in one of my favorite cities in the whole entire world. And now that I’m older and more beaten down I’ve come to realize a few choice things:

1. Cartwheels Hurt

Every now and then during a sporadic lapse of madness (HAHA, right, when have I ever been sporadic?), I’ll bounce into a cartwheel just to show the world I still got it.

Not like this.

I’ll just kick up my heels, pretending to be five-years-old again with a juice box and spin across the floor.

Like this.

It’s all fine and dandy when you’re in motion but once those feet are planted, you instantly regret the decision. One time my wrist ached for a week.

This Thanksgiving weekend, I did a celebratory cartwheel for simply putting on pants on my day offe and was met with spots before my eyes.

SPOTS I TELL YOU.

2. Food is Dumb

I have to baby my stomach. Somewhere during the last year it must have shrunk to the size of nun’s hymen.

That’s a thing right?

While in San Francisco, dining like a simple serf at RN74 with my sister, I inquired after the good waiter whether or not it was human bone marrow I was noshing on and was promptly rewarded with his phone number.

Clearly, he appreciated a good boner joke.

And then later that night I was promptly rewarded with a case of the roguish flu. No sir, no more eating bone marrow and sea urchin.

Any food with some semblance of fun instantly turns my stomach into the bowels of hell.  It’s depressing. I like masticating. I used to be able to polish off plates of food without running for the nearest shitter. I could mix my solids and liquids. These days my food’s as bland as Ann Veal.

Her?

Now during  dinner I take a few bites, say meh, and stab someone with my fork. I mean hell, a girl’s gotta take her anxiety out on something.

3. GIVE ME MEDS YOU STUPID FUCKS

Pills make everything better. A bright glow on everything that—wait, am I headed towards the light?

This became evident in San Francisco. All three of us have stomach issues. “You want a Xanax or a Tums?” became the motto of the trip. We doled them out and bartered like we were Irish street urchins trying to buy passage to America.

I-I have no idea where my metaphors are going anymore but I’d like to think they’re somewhere between the 3rd and 4th level.

At my house the medicine cabinet is stocked.

I drink one beer and I take an aspirin.

They’re good for the heart I hear. Either. Beer or aspirin.

Stop looking at me like that.

4. I Sneer Far Too Often

Granted, I feel cooler now that I’m 30. I don’t mind aging. It’s a gift. I’m smarter and by god, I fill out a pair of jeans pretty damn nice.

But now I find myself saying things I normally wouldn’t. Most of the time it’s fine but sometimes a choice retort will fly from my lips in a public place and I’m wondering when someone will punch me in the face.

Yeah, fuck you too, sign.

I mean, Monday morning business meetings get pretty awkward at the office when you call the boss a “cockmaster”.

I’m getting cynical and crabby but since I’ve always been an asshole in my private life, I’m looking forward to unleashing it on complete strangers.

5. Your Writing Gets Better (So do you)

It gets better because of the booze and the pills.

Kidding.

Slightly.

It gets better because you finally have the authority to call yourself an idiot. And you embrace that. And you listen.  Anything I write, I try to write it as honest as possible. Except for the dick scenes.

Listening to yourself is the best thing about being 30. I’m glad it’s filtered into my writing. It’s not like I’m going to learn how to become a real estate agent but I can change a little bit.

But I do have a quota on adulthood. There’s only so much I can take. This photo pretty much exemplifying why I will never grow up.

Tee hee. This is a butt.

The Write Space (PUN!)

Everyone needs their own space. Isn’t that what serial killers always say?

Whether it’s the token man cave, hammock in the backyard, or porcelain throne, solitude is important. Epecially if you’re pushing or rubbing one out. But I digress….As writers I think that’s one thing we can agree on. Also, for me, it’s one thing—an important thing—I need to survive and be successful. I’m not speaking monetarily here in terms of success; success of the soul and the imagination. 

I am the type who cannot do focused writing without being in my space. Sure, I can scribble on notepads at work and while driving and during epic dance-offs, but I can never be that person who escapes to a beach or a soiled motel room to write their masterpiece. To really sit down and write my stories I MUST sit my ass in this sweet, sweet, black, leathery chair.

Note the (firm) butt indentations

 

The writing habitats of famous authors astound me. Oh, to have Thoreau’s cabin at Walden Pond. Virginia Woolf’s Monks House, Stephen King’s attic office (which I feel may be suitably haunted) in Maine, Hemingway’s Key West Home…

Been there, bitches.

 

 

However odd, grandiose or even plain, all writing spaces are different and you do what you can to make it yours. 

My writing space is a simple office downstairs in my home. I hesitate to describe the style since I cannot be trusted to decorate. But if my office were a Match.com profile it would read…

Sultry brick orange walls, and one chocolate brown one. Cluttered like crazy.  If you like bookcases filled to the brim, a case of vinyl, and a phrenology skull, then I’m for you. I have a map of Montana stuck to one wall, inspiration for my current work-in-progress. I like to surround myself with photos that make me giddy and remind me of where I’ve been.

God, if that doesn’t turn you on, nothing will.

And so here’s a little peek at mine (no touching):

 

Skulls and zombies. Life is complete.

 

CAT IN A CHAIR

Book boner.

 

 

Since I showed you mine, show me yours.

I want to see your space. The photos. The inspirations. The books on the shelf, shrunken heads on display, cats asleep in chairs (c’mon, we’re all writers, we have cats, people!), whiskey bottles lining the trash.

If you’re comfortable sharing, send me a snapshot of your favorite space, the one that best describes it, and I’ll feature them on my next blog.  

Email to: julia.archer@gmail.com.

 

I Do Not Prefer to Live an Active Lifestyle.

Ask anyone who knows me. I am not an active person. Bench pressing the remote control is a thing of stealth.  My husband asks me to go hiking and I reply, “I would rather cut off my own legs.”

Now this is not to say I do not like the outdoors, after all I am from Montana. I would just rather be reclining in them instead of making some sort of physical movement. I love nature. I can camp. I can shit in the woods with the best of them.

Yeah. Like this.

So naturally I drug the husband along on a hippie retreat last weekend to a little place called Spirit Falls in Pine, AZ. If the name of this cabin doesn’t conjure pictures of machete-wielding strangers and teenagers screaming then I am sad for you. (P.S. I heartily recommend these little cabins for a retreat. Uber-awesomeness).

However, this little cabin in the woods was a gem. Owned by a lovely man named Bodhi Heart (Swoon, AMIRIGHT?) he made us feel at home. He kindly explained the surrounding property and introduced us to the RV-type toilet where all our craps would gather in a little basin at the bottom and then he would “collect the contents” at the end of our stay.

 

I will eat your babies, bitches

Now this is not the point of the story – the point of the story is one of the main reasons I wanted to get away. To clear my fried mind. To read. And especially to write.

Writing was a bit daunting because (to be honest) I have a hard time performing – ahem – a hard time writing in other spaces other than my office. I can’t get the groove; feel the beat, so to speak. So this was kind of like a test.

Which I frickin’ passed.

The Husband went into town leaving me alone with a laptop, a horse head, some wine, and my iPod. I put on Coconut Records, danced some jigs and I really wrote.

 

Look, ma! Times New Roman!

Along with the 4^th of July Incident of 1999, this memory will be engrained in my mind for as long as I live. As writers we all know the feeling of when we dig out of that rut, grab another experience and are able to JUST WRITE. It’s a big deal for me. I’ve never been that person who can load up the laptop and head to the Starbucks. I must write in my chair. At my desk. Cat asleep on my lap. It’s my element. It’s maybe a bad habit but I think I broke it…just a little bit.

Being able to write at Spirit Falls was like popping my writer-ly cherry. I got down and got copacetic with my bad self. Came up with some great scenes for my work-in-progress. Along with chasing squirrels, it was the highlight of my trip.

Clearly it did not want what I was offering.

I Wanna Six You Up

 Apologies to Color Me Badd for the title pun, but the need to use it was great within me.

Being involved in a long WIP gives you an ulcer (hell, any type of writing can do that to you). It gives you time to sob in the shower about plot lines and that damn character you have to kill off (I’m sorry Zack). It also gives you time to think about your writing process. What keeps the progress at steady propulsion or sputtering squirt.

For the last month or so I’ve been continuously working on my Zombie Pulp Novella (if that’s what I deign to call it), a piece of work that has existed for about a year now. I have no shame it’s taken me so long to finish a draft (a freaking draft, people). To do this and keep the pace up, I’m finally saying no to writing flash fiction and other stuff.

NO MEANS NO unless it’s over 30,000 words, baby.

Anyway…in doing so I’ve had time to mull around some thoughts, formulate some writing tips that work for me to get over the humps and roadblocks. And because sharing means caring, I thought I’d post what little I have to say. Maybe they’ll help you. Maybe they won’t. I don’t claim to be a pro or an expert writer or that these will magically cure your writers block or give you the ending you so desperately crave…

[*Side note: I did find an ending for my Zombie story last week while sudsing it up in the shower and singing along to Neko Case. Whether it will work…well, that remains to be seen, but hell, at least I know where I’m going now.]

…maybe you’ll enjoy and use one or two of these tips, or maybe you’ll finish reading this and spit vehemently at your computer screen, your spittle soaking and coating my gibberish.  

Um, gross. And you’re welcome.

 

1.Take a shower

Now this doesn’t mean climbing into the shower with your laptop or a pen and paper. Although, that would be hilariously awesome. This means move around; get the blood flowing. Do something else if you become stuck. Sometimes it’s as simple as heading into the kitchen to refill my drink and voila! There, coated in the fluorescent light of the fridge, chicken wing sticking out of my mouth, I’ll think of that perfect piece of dialogue or character name. Or better yet, hop in the shower. Here is where I really find inspiration. Crank the music (ahem, Neko Case) and just let your mind go. Keep a pen and notepad handy for those random hoppings-out and note-jottings.

 

This is not the kind of shower I mean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2.Don’t read

Never fear, I’m not saying to swear of all your books while you’re writing – just the ones that are similar to your story. If you’re writing a romance, read a mystery.  For me, if I read something comparable to what I’m writing, I’ll endlessly compare my plot to what I’ve just read and won’t end up with something organic. In a similar vein, because I’m writing a zombie novella, I’ve sworn off watching anything zombie-related. You know that cool show everyone’s talking about “The Walking Dead”? Haven’t seen. I want to puke out my rough draft first before I’m influenced by anything zombie related.

 3.Act it out

No need to get kinky. This simply means I talk to myself like  the crazy person I am. Every morning when I drive to work I re-enact my story. I sketch it out, the parts I need help with, pretending I’m in the story. I go back and forth with dialogue, what sounds real and what sounds trite. It may be goofy but that 40 minute drive to work and the 40 minute drive home when I narrate are priceless. Never mind the stares of confusion and sheer disgust from passersby.

 4.Flash

As much as I would love to encourage any one of you don a trench coat and engage in random acts of flashing, this is not what I mean. When the longer stuff gets you down turn to something shorter; maybe a flash fiction piece in progress that needs fine tuning or start a new one altogether. By focusing on something else you get your brain off what it’s dwelling on and in no time at all you should be able to return to your current piece all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

 5.Friends in Low Places

What I really mean is Friends in HIGH places but I love Garth Brooks and just had to throw a reference in there. When I feel stuck I like to head over to a little place called Fictionaut (perhaps you’ve heard of it?), a great source of support. Read the posts, comment. Post your own piece, read the comments.  Getting a boost and giving others a boost usually gets me in the mood to pick it back up and continue my own writing.

 

6.Take a Break

It’s okay to take a few days off or a week. Really. I swear. I won’t judge you for it. I’ve never been one of those people who say “write 1,000 words a day”. And if you are that’s cool too. I just can’t do it. I have to write when inspiration hits. Now this isn’t to say you shouldn’t try to write every chance you get. Try Hulk Hogan hard. Every time you sit down at your computer the aim should be to write. Let yourself stare at the screen. Repeat above tips 1-5. Hop on Twitter to bitch and moan about your lack of progress. Open all your word docs and scowl at them. Then, once you’ve tried, if you still can’t write, it’s okay to go watch TV.  Although, please watch something of substance. No Jersey Shore. If I hear you’ve been watching Jersey Shore I may maim you.

Aaaaand done. There. Those are my Top Six Tips. They work for me. And I wanna know yours.  Writers, tell me, what tips do you use to get in the mood (not that kind of mood), to get over the hump, to just write?

 

Before this blog post I had a sure-fire way to give writing tips.