773. MOV's Rules About Writing

The most important rule of writing:  There are no rules.  Seriously.  I write in first person, second person (you might like writing this way if you tried it) and even third (Queen Virgo has a thing for third person).  I write long, demented, deranged run-on sentences that twist and turn and convulse then back up only to turn around and lead nowhere but then seductively circle back and make no sense but then mysteriously provide a crucial key that unlocks a joke in a later part of the post.  Yeah, I write that.  And fragments. 

I love fragments.  So much!  Fragments audition for my blog.  They stand, waiting patiently on the side of the desk.  Hopeful.  Frisky.  Nonchalant.  Nervous.  Indifferent.  I see them there, primping, straightening out their letters, standing all alone, moving away when another word tries to be polite and make small talk.  Sometimes I just abandon them, tell them I don’t need them, but they grin because they know I’m lying.  They know.    

Surprise!  One will show up. 

Here is another rule:  Show, don’t tell.  My very disheveled 9^th grade English teacher would run around the classroom, tapping an imaginary ruler in her hand, then she would cry out, “Show, don’t tell!”  I had no idea what she was talking about.  I didn’t want to look stupid though, by asking the question that the other 99% of the students already knew the answer to, so I would just nod-nod-nod.  Of course, of course, Mrs. Bowles (with your unflattering bowl cut hairstyle), of course!  Show, don’t tell!  I get it! 

I didn’t really get it.  Not then. 

Twenty years later, I had my Oprah Winfrey lightbulb moment when I was explaining to my younger cousin my definition of good writing. 

“Elyse, you should say, ‘I forgot my coat and it began to snow,’ not ‘I am cold.’  You write, ‘The neighbors had a party and blared heavy metal through the paper-thin walls until 3 AM, and of course I had to be up at 6 for work.  No pot of coffee is large enough for me today,’ not ‘I’m tired.’  You write the situation without spelling it out for the reader, you let them make the connections, do the translations, for themselves.” 

Wait—this was what Mrs. Bowles must’ve meant!  Egads! 

Now I felt like Christopher Columbus when he discovered President Lincoln lied about being shot.   

Huh? 

Yeah, there’s another one of my rules:  don’t do the expected thing.  Avoid clichés.  Don’t say, “Raining cats and dogs” (unless you are a cartoonist and you’re going to provide the visual—then by all means!).  Don’t type “It was pouring outside.”  Find a new, creative way to say it.  How about, “The sky growled, it seemed the black clouds were angry at me personally, and then they released their violent gray pellets of water directed maliciously at my pristine new silk dress.  Yes, the one with the rainbow ribbon at the hem.  The irony was not lost on me.” 

How much more interesting than the pedestrian “cats and dogs.”  The reader has read cats and dogs a million gazillion eleventy billion times, he is sick and tired of cats and dogs.  He feels like he was stampeded by a wild herd of clichés, ugly ones with rabies and matted fur.   

And people don’t like to read more than 500 words.  So stop there. 

MOV

770. Where, Oh, Where, Has My Little Muse Gone?

As you may remember, Muse had disappeared.  I was at first blasé, but then became, oh, what’s the word?  Distraught?  Despondent?  Yeah, one of those. 

I tried to take my mind off her disappearance by watching old episodes of Top Chef and eating Ben and Jerry’s.  Next, I decided to check my email in case someone had sent me news of Muse’s whereabouts. 

I was momentarily distracted by all the new blog posts from bloggers I like.  I casually clicked my computer mouse to read one of my favoritist blogs of the whole universal, Haley’s Comic, when GUESS WHAT?!? 

THERE WAS MUSE!!!!!!!!!  See for yourself:  click HERE.  And then follow Haley.  That might be the only way we ever get Muse back.  Think about it.    

(And by the way, she looks good in red, eh?) 

MOV 
p.s. Gotta say, Bob’s got good taste.  :) 

769. The World and The Way It Would Be If Everything Were As Fragile as Legos

Tall is a great cleaner-upper.  This stems primarily from me showing him from the time he was a baby how to put his toys away.  Sure, it may have taken him a little longer since he was just crawling at that point, but we had all the time in the world.  I would point at the shelf, and then cheer when he finally put the stuffed animal away. 

Short is not a good cleaner-upper.  For this, I blame myself.  I tried everything the books recommended:  sticker charts, rewards, punishments, praise, ice-cream sundaes, wine (that was for myself when we had a victory), and unlimited trips to Target (again, for me).  Oh, how much easier it was to just say, “Short, Hon, don’t worry about putting those toys away.  Mommy will make sure it gets done … hey, Tall!  Wanna earn a dollar?” 

And thus, I have ensured a future full of both capitalistic ventures (Tall) and pawning work off on others (Short). 

But that is not what this essay is about. 

I want to talk to you about Legos.  Specifically, how Legos break apart the second you touch them.  Or breathe on them.  Or look at them.    

As I previously mentioned, Tall puts his things away.  Short does not.  The result is about a million gazillion stray Legos pieces strewn about as if a nuclear bomb made of (you guessed it) Legos went off.  Twice. 

In our last house, the kids’ play area was the basement.  The basement also served as the laundry room and family room.  Really, why did we even need three bedrooms, a study, a living room, dining room, and kitchen, when 99.9% of our living was done in the basement? 

This became very problematic for me as a lifelong Virgo because I am one of those people who absolutely cannot relax unless everything around me (in the immediate vicinity) is picked up and put away.  As you can imagine with a two-year-old and a four-year-old, that never happened.  I would get stressed out trying to “relax” and watch TV when the kids had gone to bed because there were 10 loads of laundry to fold and dozens of plastic trucks littering the landscape of my basement. 

This made me sad. 

So we moved. 

I told The Husband that my number one priority in finding a new house was that the kids have a separate area to play in that is not the family room and not the laundry room.  Who cares about good schools, a nice yard, or walk-in closets?  My must-have list was short:  a play area.    

I got my wish.  The kids’ play area (we have affectionately dubbed it the “toy room”) is a 13 x 17 masterpiece in lime and turquoise paint, and the kids love playing in there.  It is directly adjacent to my study, where (you may or may not already know this) I write my blog. 

I can see the kids play, they can see me write, everyone is happy. 

Did I mention I can’t relax until things are picked up?  Did I mention that Short is not a good picker-upper? 

At 5 AM today (when I first went to sit down at the computer), I could not take it.  The messy toy room was swearing at me.  Loudly.  Against my better judgment, I walked in the toy room with the intent of “straightening it up a bit.” 

In Virgo Land, this means putting everything away. 

Things were going well until I got to the Legos.  I have been a mommy for over eight years.  I am well-aware of how precious Lego creations are, and how very, very fragile.  Over the years, many a heart has been broken in my household when well-meaning Mommy attempts to gingerly move a Lego creation but accidentally breaks off an essential piece.   

You know what comes next:  I broke some Legos merely be lifting them slowly and carefully and attempting to carry them to the bookshelf.  (I am hoping to get the kids off to school without them ever coming in this room, so we can at least postpone the inevitable meltdowns until later this afternoon.)     

And now we are at the title of this piece.  This of course got me thinking, “What if every single thing in life was a delicate as Lego construction?”  Imagine:  

• “Honey, sorry—that sleeve just ripped right off your jacket when I picked it up at the dry cleaners.  You can try to stick it back on.  Oops, it’s upside down.”
• “I was going to reheat the lasagna for dinner, but all the knobs came off the stove.  Oh, and so did the door.”
• “Speaking of doors, the basement door fell off.  Again.” 
• “You weren’t going to take a bath, were you?  The tub broke in half when I was cleaning it.”
• “Yeah, I was going to drive to the drug store, but the steering wheel of my car came off.  I tried to put it back on, but it just kept happening.  So frustrating!”  
• “Be careful when you make the bed, the mattress keeps breaking.” 
• “Boss, looks like I won’t be coming in to work today.  None of my shoes will stay together.  Every time I go to put one on, it breaks.  Bummer.” 

I think back to when we took the boys to the Building Museum last summer.  There was a special Lego exhibit where highly-educated Lego enthusiasts who are on the museum payroll put together incredible Lego masterpieces to mimic famous landmarks.  There was the Sears Tower, The Gateway Arch from Missouri, The White House, Frank Lloyd Wright’s iconic Falling Water, and many others that I am too lazy to google.  They were all under glass or cordoned off with velvet ropes. 

Tall stood staring at one of the “buildings” for a very long time.  I asked him what he was thinking.  “I was just thinking how lucky that Lego architect is.  His mommy got that in here without breaking it.”

MOV  

767. Muse Gets Arrested

Honestly, I can’t say I was surprised.  I hadn’t heard from her in days, and when she did make a brief appearance, she was hung-over.    

Still, when my phone rang at 3 AM, I wasn’t quite prepared. 

“MOV, don’t hang up,” she said, as if I would ever hang up on the source of my inspiration, “you are my one phone call.”  I heard sirens in the background.    

Of course I zipped right down to the police station to get her out.  The Husband wasn’t happy about my late-night rendezvous.  “Geesh, MOV, there are other people she could call!”  He refused to go with me.  “What did she do this time, kill someone?”    

Turns out, she had been arrested for resisting arrest. 

“How can you be arrested for resisting arrest?” I asked the policeman at the desk. 

“Well, technically, we pulled her over on suspicion of DUI, but then her blood alcohol level tested clean as water.  But she did seem drunk.  She’s an enigma, that one.”  He shrugged, then went back to scribbling down important police notes. 

“I posted your bail,” I said to Muse as a different policeman unlocked her cell, “you owe me.” 

She guffawed.  “Let me get this straight:  I have inspired every word you’ve ever written, yet I owe you?  Ha!” 

I did not like this bitchy side of her.  The policeman suppressed a smile.  Even messy, Muse titillated men and women alike.  She was like a magnet, a beautiful and defiant magnet.           

I took a deep breath and stated calmly, “Muse, I called an attorney.  You’re paying for that, though, I don’t care how many good ideas you have.  I am running out of patience and money.” 

She sauntered over to a small mirror hung on the side of the office and studied her reflection.  She puckered up her lips provocatively; I thought she might kiss the glass.    

“That’s okay, I think I’m going to stay here.” She winked at me, then went back in her cell. 

**********

765. Muse Gone AWOL

I hadn't seen my muse all weekend.  She had been known to disappear for days at a time, so, really, I wasn't too concerned just yet. 

Monday morning rolled around, and I headed out my front door to get the newspaper.  I was in my pajamas, as it was only 6 AM.  There was Muse on the front porch, waiting for me.  Or hiding from me, I couldn't tell which. 

She said, "Oh, hey, it's you, MOV, what's going on?"  Her make-up was smeared, she looked like she hadn't slept in 48 hours, and she was still wearing the same outfit  I had last seen her in on Friday. 

"What do you mean, 'What's going on'?  I live here,"  I replied tersely.  "I am getting my newspaper.  You look terrible, Muse, you should take a shower and maybe drink a pot of coffee.  Hold on, I'll just throw some jeans on and drive you over to Starbucks." 

"I have some ideash for you, MOVee, some realllllllllly good ideash.  We gotta talk."  She reeked of alcohol. 

"Oh, Muse, not again.  Forget the coffee, why don't you come in and just take a nap?  Hmm?  Come on, just lie down on the couch for a while." 

"New York," she whispered, "You have to write the story about that flight you had there, you know, when Nick Nolte was in first class?  That is a great story." 

"It wasn't Nick Nolte, it was Michael Keaton." 

"Nick Nolte." 

"Michael Keaton."  Now I was beginning to doubt myself.  Well, Muse had never been wrong before, I needed to scribble down the idea before she took off. 

"Hold on, Muse, let me grab a pen and paper, gimme a sec."  I walked in the front door and picked up a pen and grabbed an old envelope off the top of the trash. 

"Ok, I'm back.  What was it now?" 

She was gone.  And so was the idea. 

MOV

764. The Muse

My muse likes to strike while I am driving.  I might be driving to work, or the grocery store, or the post office, and all of sudden, Muse gets chatty.  “Hey, the Raccoon Story!  You never wrote about that yet, did you?” (Muse has a talent for ideas, but alas, no talent for grammar).  I glance at Muse out of the corner of my eye, then ask if she could pretty please hand me that pad of paper and pen Queen Virgo keeps in the glove compartment. 

“Oh, I can’t quite reach it,” says Muse, looking at her fresh manicure and then flipping the sun visor down so she can double-check her lipstick, “but don’t worry, you’ll remember it!” 



Muse does not realize that I have the memory of an elephant who lost a chunk of his brain in an overly aggressive skiing accident. 

I have no memory.  Less than none, I have negative memory.  I remember things that never happened and forget things that might never have happened or happened to someone else when they should not have been happening to me.   



For now, I focus on the yellow traffic light, mentally calculating if I should run it.  I step on the gas.  Then, I take a deep breath and slowly count to ten, take another deep breath, and yell at Muse anyway.  “Give me the %#*@ paper, Muse!  Hand it to me!  Stop fussing with your appearance, no one but me can see you anyway!” 

Muse slams the mirror back up.  “Well, if you are going to talk to me that way, Missy, you have another thing coming!  I hear Mitt Romney needs a muse!  I’ll just zip on up to Boston.  I am outta here!” 

  

And like that, she’s gone.  I am despondent.  I did not have a chance to write down the Typhoon Story (and seriously, this is how she confuses me:  I do not even remember being in a typhoon, so why did she recommend that as a story idea?), and now the idea is lost forever. 

The next day, I am getting out of the shower and there she is.  “I think you should write about that restaurant, you know, the one that had the red mosaic tile in the hostess area?  Remember when you took the kids there?  That is a super-funny story!” 

“Yes, you’re right!  Yes!  Red-tile-restaurant-dinner, red-tile-restaurant-dinner, red-tile-restaurant-dinner,” I begin chanting it like a mantra while I grab a towel. 

“What are you talking about?” shouts The Husband from the next room. 

“Nothing, Sweetie, nothing—I just had this great idea to write about, uh, uh … the restaurant with the red bench outside?  Wait, no.  The store with the blue chandelier?  Wait.  No!” 

Damn, Muse!  Come back! 

That night, I am lying in bed, just about to doze off. 

“Hey, MOV, it’s me!  I have such a great idea about the Space Shuttle!  You need to write this one down though.”  She pokes me in the arm with a sharp pencil.    

I ignore her, roll over, and go to sleep. 

I know I’ll probably see her again somewhere tomorrow, who knows-- maybe even on my drive to work.

MOV 

763. The Perfectionista

Queen Virgo sees people struggle every day to be more organized and get things right. 

She tries hard to educate them, but frankly, she’s tired.  Here are some differences she’s noted: 

The Rest of the World:   Eats over the sink if company will be coming over
Queen Virgo:  Eats over the sink always

World:  Sharpens pencils if/ when they need it
QV:  Sharpens pencils daily

World: Makes mistakes
QV:  Points out other people’s mistakes

World:  Writes illegibly
QV:   Types neatly on the computer, then spellchecks, grammar-checks, proofreads, cross-references, and edits.  Twice. 
     
World:  Forgets grocery list at home
QV:  Forgets grocery list at home, but has back-up laminated grocery list and dry erase marker in the glove compartment

World:  Likes to watch TV
QV:  Likes to imagine better dialogue she could write for so-called “reality” shows

World:  Sees “deadline” as a helpful suggestion, not an absolute
QV:  Sees the word “dead” in deadline (take it for what you will)

World:  Shrugs and walks out of a room if it is too messy 
QV:  Starts shaking, breaking out in cold sweat if a room is too messy; then spends next three hours fixing it (later wonders why she is not invited back to her friends’ houses for dinner)    

World: Wonders how Virgos can stand themselves
QV:   Wonders how anyone can stand to NOT be Virgo  

As you can see, being a Virgo (a.k.a. “Perfectionista”) is hard work.  Queen Virgo is going to take the rest of the day off.  If you need her, you can find her alphabetizing her wine collection.  Again. 

MOV
("Me--Original Virgo")