Terrible Things I'm Willing to Do in Order to be in Bed Right this Second

I don’t stay up late. Even in college I went to bed around 11 PM most nights. The summer that I met my husband I stayed up until 2 AM pretty often. Then we got married and he gave me mono and I’ve never stayed up that late since. I get eight hours of sleep; now that I’m pregnant I get nine or more. I make time for it, I turn down invitations for it, I will fight you for it.

Sometimes circumstance outside my control dictate that I can only have six or seven hours of sleep. This is unacceptable. As it grows later and later my desperation to get into bed grows fiercer. So with that in mind I’ve created the Terrible Things I'm Willing to Do in Order to be in Bed Right This Second chart. Note that doing these terrible things generally won’t get me into bed any faster, this is only to measure my desperation.

I should’ve put in an extra data point for ‘sell state secrets,’ but I couldn’t figure out whether to put that before or after the cage fight.

Sweet dreams friends.

Impostor Syndrome

I’m pregnant. I’ve made it all the way to my second trimester and I have the ultrasound to prove it. Yet I have this nagging sensation that I’m making the whole thing up for attention. Allow me to explain.

Remember when you were a kid and you had to act incredibly sick just to get to stay home from school? It wasn’t enough to simply be sick. You had to put a real show on for your parents so they’d feel sorry for you. For me that meant groaning, forcing an entire glass of pee-colored powdered gatorade down my throat, and lying around the house pathetically until Mom realized that I really wasn’t going to put on pants this morning.

This is a hateful substance.

Fast forward fifteen years and I still put on a show even when no one is watching. If catch myself acting healthy on a sick say then I immediately sit down and cough a bit. Let me repeat that no one is watching; I do this when I’m completely alone in the house. This playacting is entirely for my own benefit. I have two selves: the ten year year old trying to get a lazy day and the suspicious mother searching for signs of faking it.

So imagine how I felt during the first trimester of my pregnancy. I was constantly ill. I’d get back from work and collapse on the couch from sheer exhaustion. The tricky thing about exhaustion is that as soon as my kind husband would volunteer to make dinner I’d feel immediately better. Suspicious? I think so.

Then there’s the fact that sometimes I manage to get off of the recliner all by myself and sometimes I sit listlessly waiting for help because I’m to lazy to even open my mouth and ask for a hand. Sometimes I cook dinner. Sometimes I walk into the kitchen and immediately sit down on the floor because I’m dizzy. When I’m out with friends I can stay awake and coherent until 10 PM. When I’m at home I lose my logic and self-control sometime around 8:30.

I just want to be consistent. If someone pointed a gun at me and said “go pick up your library books” I could certainly manage it. So really the problem isn’t one of ability so much as motivation. Maybe that should be my new motto “Live every day as if someone will shoot you unless you fulfill your responsibilities.” It’s a little wordy, and not terribly inspirational, but it’s perfect for fakers like me.

Wipe the Teardrops Off Your Stupid Guitar

I have nothing against Taylor Swift, I want that clear from the outset. I’m not a country music person myself, but I respect the genre. My grudge is against Teardrops on my Guitar. It’s storytime now.

It was the summer of my sophomore year. Since I was the first girl to arrive at the apartment I had my pick of empty bedrooms. I’d just finished unpacked my three boxes and two trash bags full of stuff when another girl arrived. Her name was something like Br/i/ee/-ann/ona/ony. She brought twelve boxes.

I stopped to chat and since she seemed normal enough I invited her to share the room with me. We didn’t seem to have much in common but  I’ll always take the adequate option over the blind risk. I left for several and returned to an apartment with five total strangers all setting into their new space.

I don’t remember much about the other girls, what I do remember was the state of my bedroom when I returned. Bri’s side of the room overflowed with cutesy decorations, inspirational quotes, and more cardigans than a single closet could hold. This girl was barely eighteen and already she carried the complete trappings of a soccer mom.*

I think this is what she was going for, only cluttered.

My decorating philosophy at the time was aggressively spartan, but I told myself that it was her side of the room and she was entitled to do whatever she liked with it.  Then I saw the shrine.

“Do you like them?” She asked. “I saved all the flowers Brent** ever gave me.”

The brittle flowers hung upside down along the top of her wall like a banner of white, pink, lilac, and yellow.  Clustered over her desk hung a bouquet of desiccated red blooms and a broad picture display of a young man with square jaw.

Imagine more flowers. Also, Brent looks nothing like the charismatic Bollywood actor Shahrukh Khan.

“That’s a lot of flowers,” I kept my voice neutral.

She quickly explained, “Of course, Brent and I aren’t dating anymore, I tested out of high school a year early and we both agreed that it was best to make a clean break.”

“Mmm,” I nodded my head noncommittally.

I’d never seen Fatal Attraction, but I knew that displaying pictures of an ex was the first  step on a slippery slope of obsession, stalking, and ultimately murder. I was already preparing my statement for the police. “Yes officer, I knew her. No, we weren’t close. Well yes, she was a little odd, but I never suspected her of anything like this.”

Bri interrupted my mental interrogation scene with, “Hey, do you like Taylor Swift?”

I shrugged, Bri must’ve taken as encouragement because she turned the volume up on her speakers and more of the country-pop streamed into the room.  Forever I will associate Taylor Swift with dead roses.

It was like that every day. Taylor Swift, Brent, and precious little else to talk about. The creep factor went down when I realized that Bri and Brent weren’t really broken up. She still went with him to his Senior prom. They still made out on the couch. They still texted at 1 AM.

(ring)

Me:Ugggh

Bri: It’s ok Laura, go to sleep.

(she texts Brent back. Seconds later her phone rings again.)

Bri: I can’t believe he’s still texting me, it’s not like we’re a couple anymore.

Me: Turn it on vibrate.

Bri: Shhh, Laura, don’t wake up.

(The cycle of ringing and texting continues for another half hour before she takes her conversation out of the bedroom)

My favorite bit was the part where she’d complain to me the next morning about Brent’s behavior. Some days she would rage about the way he just couldn’t get over their “break up.” Other days she got teary because he hadn’t contacted her for days. Both events produced the same results: Bri lying on her bed listening to Taylor Swift sing Teardrops on My Guitar over and over. This lasted all summer.

Lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling never looks this good in real life.

During her marathon break up I too dumped my boyfriend. For the last year and a half of our two year relationship I’d toyed with the idea of ending things. Every time I discussed a separation he got queasy and occasionally threw up. So I stayed with him because it was comfortable, because he was a nice guy, and because I couldn’t stand the sight of him crying and vomiting. But things had reached a breaking point, soon he would go on a two year religious mission and if I didn’t dump him now I’d be stuck writing him letters that whole time.

So when he dropped me off after a romantic dinner of $1 microwave pizzas I decided that it was time.  I stood inside the door, he stood outside. He leaned forward for a goodnight kiss and I stepped back.

You think you're getting a good deal. Instead you get indigestion.

“I’m breaking up with you. I don’t want to talk about it. Please don’t contact me for a month.” I said it all in one breath and closed the door.

This sounds cold, and it was. My only excuse is that he and I had already been over all the reasons why I thought we should end it and why he thought we should stay together. There was nothing left to say. Mostly I wanted to close that door before the gastrointestinal upheaval began.

I took the next day off from work because I thought I might get upset or emotional. Around 10AM I discovered that I was really fine so I read a book. I missed having someone to kiss, but I was excited at all the new possibilities suddenly available. I called him that evening to make sure that he was ok and I made an effort not to talk about him afterwards. In other words I wiped the teardrops off my stupid guitar and moved on with my dang life.

Colonel Huffington

It started on a lovely autumn walk last year. Shane and I were holding hands, marveling at the changing leaves, gazing lovingly into one another’s eyes--you get the picture. Such moments usually last about 2.8 seconds before one of us (mostly me) gets bored and kills the romance.

This time it was Shane. He poked me in the belly, I threatened his life, he challenged “What are you gonna do about it, huh?” Typical stuff.

Then it happened. A lifetime of classic BBC dramas bubbled to the surface, mixed with my recent Moby Dick audiobook, and coalesced into the voice of Colonel Huffington.

“I’ll have you court martialed,” I roared in the voice of a middle-aged British naval officer. You can replicate his accent by filling your mouth with marshmallows and then aggressively disapproving of young people and their slipshod work aboard this vessel.

A visual approximation of Colonel Huffington. I want you to imagine a feathered three cornered hat in this picture.

Shane found it funny the first time, less so when the evening wore on and I was still an officer in her majesty’s navy.

“Hey Laura, are you going to bed soon?”

“Preposterous! Did Nelson rest at the battle of Trafalgar? I think not young man.” Colonel Huffington is a veteran of the Napoleonic wars.

“Hey Laura, did you remember to pack a lunch for tomorrow?”

“My manservant Reginald will attend to it. I have far more important affairs to concern myself with.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it in the morning?”

*pause* “Yeah, I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

It was a sickness, I couldn’t stop. Colonel Huffington appeared about three times a week and constantly threatened my husband with a court martial. Whenever I didn’t know what to say to Shane I turned to this blustering old man for help. He could bully himself out of any situation by refusing to listen to reason and citing his personal experience in the war. No one can disagree with a decorated old veteran who wears his rank like a poncho during a food fight--nothing sticks to him.

When Shane wanted me to buy strawberry instead of cookies and cream ice cream, Colonel Huffington declared strawberry treasonous to the crown. When Shane discovered that I didn’t know the difference between a route and a highway, Colonel Huffington accused Shane of questioning the navigational abilities of a superior officer. When Shane caught me screwing up his birthdate on my passport application, Colonel Huffington informed him that there are no birthdays in her majesty’s navy--we simply do not have time for that sort of personal indulgence.

Court martialed. Court martialed. Court martialed.

Only now that Colonel Huffington has faded from my life do I understand why I loved being him so much. Colonel Huffington cares not for your opinion. I care. I constantly care about every little opinion.

My biggest pet peeve is when someone dismisses an idea without considering it. If I call them on it they’ll say “Well, I know I’m right.”

How? How do you know? Did an angel descend from heaven, give you the lowdown on the current political situation, tell you that you’re a swell guy, and then fly back up? Even if one did come down and fill you in on proper facebook etiquette you should still have some questions. Was that really an angel? Should I get my medication adjusted? Why was I chosen to lead the world into this new age of absolute truth?

Because this annoys me so much I try to be on the opposite end of the spectrum. I constantly question my own opinions. I get lost trying to follow the twists and turns of other people’s points of view. I find myself entertaining absurd thoughts such as Maybe women don’t need to be paid the same wage for the same work.  Or Shame is a totally legitimate motivational tool, so it’s ok to ridicule the obese. Sometimes even Perhaps we should close down shelters so that the homeless will try harder to get jobs.

Like I said, I try to give other people’s opinions a fair shake; even the opinions I read on the internet. It’s mentally exhausting.

Colonel Huffington has the ability to make snap judgements and defend them against the onslaught of logic, consideration, and common sense. I adore the sense of power that come from being him. I can transform and completely ignore my urge to understand other people. I’m right even when I’m wrong and I love it.

But it’s just for fun, and nothing bigger than ice cream is at stake. Some people live like Colonel Huffington every day. They breeze through life with the sure sense that they’re always right. They wear thick armor of smug correctness while sparring with us unarmed let’s-consider-your-point-of-view  opponents. We don’t stand a chance against them, we can’t land a blow, we can only get skewered by their certainty.

It’s ungentlemanly behavior. We would never tolerate this sort of bad form in her majesty's navy. I say we have them all court martialed.

Most Writing Advice is Garbage

I am not a published author. I’m not an expert on “the market,” and I still make embarrassing mistakes with my own novels. However, I’ve read roughly one jillion books full of writing advice, so I can safely call myself an expert on reading books about writing.

When I was a teenager I read any advice I could get. It turns out that most how-to-write books are written by college professors or authors who’ve published only one book. It took my adolescent self years to figure out that while they had a few helpful tips, there were much better guides out there. So after years of reading I’ve concluded that there are only three kinds of writing books that are actually worth your time.

1. How-to books written by an author you already know and like.

2. Reference Books.

3. The books that focus on the big picture.

How-to books written by an author you already know and like.

This bit is pretty obvious. If you have a favorite author and that author wrote a book on writing then by all means, read that book. Don’t worry that it’ll make your style too similar to theirs; everyone unconsciously imitates everyone and yet everyone comes up with something utterly unique. What really matters is improving your craft, and books written by the best will do that for you. Some books written by popular writers include:

One of the first good how-to guides I ever picked up. It has your basic genre conventions and it gives you a good map of Sci Fi/Fantasy. I was a big Orson Scott Card fan when I was younger so I took his advice seriously.

This one is a podcast, not a book. Each podcast covers a different topic and you benefit from the advice of three (now four) successful artists.  Not only do I learn a great deal about writing, but I find that listening weekly keeps me focused on my goals.

This one is still on my "to-read" list. Ray Bradbury is my writing hero. He wrote every dang day and he left behind a staggering body of excellent work. He's a big believer in working hard but working smart. His writing advice is always clear and useful.

The books you use as a reference.

I rely more on google than I do on actual books. But articles won't give you the same depth that books can. If I were writing about an unfamiliar time or setting, then you’d better believe that I’d be devouring books on the subject. If my main character were a heart surgeon, computer hacker, or a Mexican immigrant crossing the border, then that would require a book or two so I could give the character depth without embarrassing myself.

But I don’t keep a copy of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style on my desk. In fact, I just keep one reference book regularly on my desk.

Sometimes I notice that all of my character clench their fists when they get angry and bit the inside of their cheeks when they hold back a comment. When this happens I go to the emotion thesaurus and they give me some useful alternates to fist clenching and cheek biting.

Reference websites I frequently use:

• Every writer needs a list of names. For Americans I recommend searching baby names by year. But for characters from elsewhere you need a broader database where you can search by country of origin.

• Need to describe the facial features of an Ecuadorian woman? A Chinese man? It helps to have a picture. The Face of Tomorrow gives you several composite pictures of faces from around the world.

• Keeping Your Fantasy Armies a Little Less Fantastic is a useful tool if you're constructing a pre-industrial revolution army.

• Google Translate I need it for fantasy spells, because not every ritual sacrifice is written in English.

A word of caution. There is such a thing as too much research--namely when you start to use it as a procrastination technique to avoid the real work of writing. Ask yourself if you really need to know the mating patterns of the slender-spined porcupine fish in order to write a steamy love scene between those two marine biologists.

The books that focus on the big picture.

These are the books you come back to again and again. These are the books that you recommend to beginners and experts alike. For me, I use STORY by Robert McKee. It was written specifically for playwrights, but the principles are universal.

My personal favorite.

A truly excellent how-to guide focuses on the plot as a whole. Does it make sense? Does every scene move forward? Do your characters grow every time we see them? Does it build to a satisfying conclusion?

Books with a big-picture view of writing often seem like a waste of time because they tell you things that you already know. This is a good thing because writing isn’t a secret, we all know how, it’s a matter of execution. Just having all of the “obvious truths” laid out in a sensible roadmap makes a huge difference.

On the other hand, some authors attempt to dazzle you with writing secrets. They resort to listing their highly specific pet peeves. They want you to sneer at anyone who uses the word “fewer” when they should say “less.” While these tips are accurate and useful, they don’t tell you anything that a quick google search couldn’t.  More importantly, it’s the sort of thing you don’t need to worry about until the final draft. Nitpicky little grammar tips never created an outstanding novel.

A Final Word

Writing isn’t a mystery. It’s just hard work. Natural ability has less to do with it than being a lifelong reader. People who don’t read for fun can’t write books that other people will enjoy. I’ve seen it attempted. It’s not pretty. How-to-write books are nice but reading for pleasure is essential.

Costa Rica

Well, this post practically writes itself. I slap a few pictures up here, give you a brief itinerary, and bada-bing-bada-boom* we're done. It'll be easier than coming up with an original metaphor to describe how easy this blog post is.

As you may recall from previous posts, my husband Shane and I went to Costa Rica. At his urging I only packed four books. After finishing one and a half books on the flight I got that panicky feeling you get when you remember that you left your toothbrush at home and what if they don't have toothbrushes there? What if the plane crashes? What if you're stranded on one of those islands made of plastic garbage floating in the ocean without a toothbrush? What if your teeth rot away? How will they identify your body without your teeth?

Then I remembered that Shane packed a few books of his own and I calmed down.

We checked into our hotel, opened the windows and...

Behold the majesty of Arenal Volcano

The picture doesn't do it justice because Shane and I are both lousy photographers. But trust me, it was a big deal.

We spent our first evening swimming and generally marveling at the fact that it wasn't cold. The sensation of not-coldness was stunning enough that it dominated our conversation for the evening.

And then there was the wildlife. It wasn't even that wild, it was just chilling by the hotel, no big deal. But to us we're all like "What is it? It's a wingless bird? Is it a kiwi? Why is there a kiwi in Costa Rica? Does New Zealand know that Costa Rica stole its bird?"

Pretty sure it's not a kiwi...but still suspicious.

And then there's whatever this is. Just a family of cute badger-like creatures with monkey tails. Wikipedia tells me that they are called Coati. 

Kind of like a red panda with an upturned snout.

So the next day we adventured out to a cocoa plantation to see how chocolate is made.

How do I get to the delicious chocolate bit?

Shane busted the cocoa pod open and revealed cocoa beans. After a fermentation process, grinding, mashing, and mixing, they will be dark and delicious. Shane drank some straight chocolate mixed with black pepper, chili pepper, and cornstarch. I had just a sip and it was a kick in the head. Apparently the royal family drank eight goblets a day of the stuff.

Cocoa pod full of cocoa beans

Then we went down to a nearby town for some lunch. It was beautiful and very tourist friendly. However, the nice men with guns won't let you into a bank unless you have your passport with you so we weren't able to withdraw the local currency. Everywhere we went they took dollars but using colones would've been cheaper.

I ordered bottled water and something prepackaged. Shane ordered a meat sandwich. Shane lived to regret that decision.

The lovely little town where Shane ate a demon sandwich.

I've never had food poisoning in a big way. I once drank milk that expired a day ago and I had to lie down for the afternoon. That's about it.

So you can imagine my alarm when my husband violently retched into the toilet at 1 AM. The vomiting I understood. The shakes and chills I did not. I looked up the symptoms on WebMD and concluded that he had a rare strain of malaria--something that's still a danger in CR--and I was ready to take him to the hospital. He told me to give him some more time to recover. I bit my lip and imagined what my life would be like if those were the last words he ever said to me.

Two hours later the demon sandwich was done with him, leaving him sleep deprived and weak. The force of the projectile vomiting screwed up his back in a way that took weeks to recover from; but that didn't stop him from hopping in the saddle the next day for some horseback riding.

His horse had the crazy eyes

And then there was the zip-lining over the jungle...

Superman.

And then down the waterslide...

Seriously man, this is vacation. Take a break.

And then that same evening we hiked up the volcano.

This volcano is serious business. It's been quiet since 2010, but it once killed 87 people.

The next day we spent five hours on a shuttle to the beach.  By the time we got there we were exhausted. But at least we made new friends...

Lizard friends.

Our new hotel was right by the beach, but we had to walk up and down a killer hill to get there. Between that and all the travel we were pretty beat. So after playing in the ocean for a while we sat on a bench in the shade. We sat and watched the waves. And sat. And sat. 

Around noon we went back to the hotel for a siesta. I slept for hours while Shane watched the fifth and sixth Harry Potter movies in Spanish.

At last it was time to leave, but not without one last look outside our balcony.

For the record, I read all the books I packed and then most of the books Shane packed as well. Good day reader.