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Hello, and welcome to the twenty-sixth installment of NotWriting.com, an
open journal on how one writer spends his time when he really should be
writing.
Three months ago, I finished the first draft of a new novel, and since
then I’ve been doing everything I can think of to avoid rewriting it. The
strange thing is, unlike most writers, I enjoy the revision process a lot
more than giving birth to the book. Maybe this is because when a book
first comes out of you, it closely resembles a newborn baby—covered
with blood and fluid, and thoroughly implacable.
Not being crazy
about young babies or first drafts, I look forward to working with them
once they’ve matured a bit. This is all my way of saying that I should
be excited to sit down and revise the novel, but instead I keep concocting
new ways of avoiding the task. I’d like to share a few of these with you
in the hopes that if you find yourself doing something similar, you’ll
recognize your behavior for what it is—shirking
your duty—and
not rationalize it by saying you’re doing research.
NotWriting by Writing Articles About NotWriting
Here’s a new one. A couple months ago, I queried Writer’s Digest
with an idea for an article. My revolutionary idea?—how
notwriting can actually help your writing. Just in case you don’t believe
me, here’s the original query letter:
Dear Editors:
Let’s face it, if all writers actually wrote, instead of talking
about it, reading about it, or outright avoiding it, magazines like
Writer's Digest would soon be out of business. For that matter, so
would my website, NotWriting.com: Stuff one writer does when he
should be writing.
NotWriting.com was chosen by Yahoo! as an Editor’s Best Pick
for 2002. On the site, I have elevated procrastination to an art
form with essays like, "The Hershey’s® Wrapper Scandal," "Ode to
Dentists," and "Boomerang Marketing: A How-To Guide."
Through this forum I have developed an approach to avoiding writing
that will help all writers capitalize on their innate tendency to
seek the lowest energy level. With this in mind, I would like to
write "The Art of NotWriting," a 1,000-word essay for one of your
special creativity issues. The piece would detail five strategies
for making procrastination productive:
1. The Zen of Avoidance: Awareness of what you’re doing when
you aren’t at the computer often reveals topics that are important
to you. These topics can lead to heartfelt writing.
2. Get an "avoidance hobby": This should be an activity you
enjoy but for which you have zero professional aspirations. Go to
batting cages to work on your swing. Bake pies. Work on your train
set. The more un-writerly the activity, the better.
3. Businesslike procrastination: Write query letters, track
submissions, answer emails, read Writer's Digest. You might not be
doing your "real" writing, but you’re at least doing something to
advance your career.
4. Creative Defibrillators: Sometimes you need a jolt to your
creative heart. Call up your craziest friend and go wherever she
wants. Or, do something you’ve always daydreamed about—bet
on the ponies, take a flying lesson, test-drive a car you could
never afford. Or, go mug somebody. The idea is to force
yourself into unfamiliar situations and observe what happens.
5. NotWriting: It's important to play hooky from your
"serious" writing now and then; otherwise what should be gratifying
will quickly become toilsome. By writing about what you do or think
when you aren’t working on your "serious" writing, you open up new
pathways and discover subjects you never knew you cared about.
As a long-time reader of Writer's Digest, I am confident the
article I am proposing is one your readers will respond to, probably
by beating me with baseball bats. In addition to founding
NotWriting.com, I have been a newspaper reporter for a New York
State daily and a weekly, and have been published in regional
magazines and literary journals. In 1992, I received a New York
Press Association award, and I took 2nd place in this year's MOTA
Emerging Writers Contest.
Is this an article that would interest you? I look
forward to your reply.
Sincerely,
Chris Orcutt
Usually
the best approach with these things is to send it off without expecting a
response. So I did. A month later, a very nice editor got in touch
with me, saying that she loved “the irreverent tone” of the thing.
To which I
wanted to say, “Believe me, honey, there’s a lot more irreverence where
that came from.”
Here’s the
irony: when I originally queried them, you’ll notice that I proposed a
1,000-word article on this inane subject. The resulting piece was
about a quarter of that. Fact is, I’m thankful they didn’t want the
longer version. Can you imagine 1,000 words of this crap? A thousand
words on how to benefit from being a lazy prick?
You can read the
piece in the special Creativity issue of Writer’s Digest,
coming out in June. Pick up a copy and know that it’s your
procrastination that made it possible.
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NotWatching TV
One of the
reasons I haven’t notwritten in a while is that, back in December, Alexas
and I were evicted and had to move to a new apartment in a snowstorm. (We
also had to bribe a co-op board member and a building superintendent, but
that’s another story.)
Among the many
wonders of our new apartment is this one: we can’t get cable TV—ever.
Why, you ask? Well, it turns out that our genius neighbors on the third
floor built a closet in an old dumb waiter, thus preventing any wiring
from being run through there.
The upshot of
all this is that we’ve had to resort to other means of entertainment to
make it through the long, cold, Northeast nights. Scrabble, making Rice
Krispies squares, and cards. For about a month, we played like nine hands
of gin rummy a night. That is, until I got the perfect hand (All
spades: Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. After that, we mutually
decided to quit.
Anyway, back to
the TV. Just because we don’t have TV reception doesn’t mean the
box is broken. On the contrary, we still watch TV, but only DVDs. As of
today, Alexas has watched Pirates of the Caribbean 177 times.
Being new to
this whole DVD thing, we quickly discovered that it doesn’t make sense to
buy all of the DVDs. I mean, do we really need to own
The Muppet Movie? That’s why we joined
Netflix.
Folks, let me
tell you, if you like to watch a lot of movies but loathe the lines at
your local video store, the lack of selection, the screaming kids, and the
less-than-helpful staff (in some cases less-than-sentient), then you need
this service.
For $19.95 per
month (plus tax), you can rent all the movies you want. Let me say
that again: ALL THE MOVIES YOU WANT—and
with no late fees. When they send you a DVD, it comes packaged inside a
prepaid mailer so when you’re finished you can just drop it in the mail.
In case you can’t tell, I love this service.
The Simple Life:
Two Rich, Spoiled, Dirty Ho's
Livin' in the Country
This past
Saturday, a Netflix
envelope arrived and inside was a show that we’d begun to watch when we
had cable, but which we’d missed since the move: The Simple Life,
starring Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie (Lionel Richie’s adopted
daughter). In case you’re not familiar with the show’s premise, it’s like
a reverse Beverly Hillbillies. Instead of the hicks going to
Beverly Hills as newly wealthy people, two snotty rich bitches from
Beverly Hills get sent to a farm in Arkansas to fend for themselves (sort
of).
Now before I
discuss Paris Hilton’s performance on the show, allow me to make this
brief, erudite observation about Nicole Richie:
She is the
filthiest, bitchiest, laziest, skankiest,
most spoiled slut I’ve ever seen. Which is exactly
why I couldn't take my eyes off her.
One example of
this can be seen in the following exchange between Richie and a bearded,
heavyset guy in a pickup truck. To earn money, Nicole and Paris have to
work at the local Sonic Drive-In, and at the moment when Nicole meets the
man, she’s at his truck window, handing him his order.
RICHIE: Lot of food
here. This all for you?
MAN: No, me and the guys I work with.
RICHIE: Oh. You
know, you’ve got nice eyes.
MAN: Thanks, you
too.
RICHIE: So, you a
hard worker?
MAN: Yeah, me and
the boys work hard.
RICHIE: Sweat a lot
when you work?
MAN:
(emphatically, without missing a beat) I sweat a lot.
RICHIE: Ever take
baths together?
MAN: Who?
RICHIE: You and the
boys, who else?
In other scenes,
Nicole makes out with strangers in the local bar, posts obscene messages
on the Sonic Drive-In sign, and proposes a “three-way” between
herself, Paris, and the son of their hosts. Every five minutes, Alexas
and I looked at each other in genuine shock over something Nicole did or
said. This is just the kind of gal you want to take home to mom.
Paris Hilton, on
the other hand, was surprisingly contrite throughout the seven-episode
series. As Alexas and I watched, I kept hitting the pause button on the
DVD player and pointing at the screen. (And, no, I wasn’t checking
her out; I find women that thin to be repulsive.) I was trying to point
out that, as far as I could tell, Paris was making an honest attempt at
the humble life.
For example, in
one scene, she and Nicole are inside Sonic preparing for the lunchtime
rush. While a grinning Nicole jerks off the shake blender by bobbing her
hand up and down until she punches a hole through the bottom of the cup,
Paris demurely takes instruction on the drive-in computer. Maybe I’m
imagining it, but when I paused the DVD player, there seemed to be a look
of concentration on Paris’s face that had never been there before.
Certain facial muscles—the
ones that generate such expressions as intensity, confusion, and
self-awareness—were
clearly being used for the first time. Frankly, I felt a little sorry for
her; all that money has robbed her of any pride she might have developed
by taking care of herself. At the moment she took a drink order from
a drive-in customer, it looked like she had an epiphany:
Hmm, I might be
inheriting $350-whatever million,
but when you really come down to it, I’ve wasted
my life. I’m a worthless human being, and no
amount of money is ever going to change that.
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THIS IS NOT AN AD: I needed
something tall to fill the space.
YEE-HAW!: It's another day on the farm
for the nastiest little ho's you ever met.
NICE, PLAYFUL GIRLS: Yeah, right.
While Paris demurely takes instruction on the drive-in computer, a
grinning Nicole jerks off the shake blender by bobbing her hand up and
down until she punches a hole through the bottom of the cup.
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NO CLUE: Here we see Paris and Nicole
ready for a day of
work on the farm. Nicole, however, is under the mistaken
impression that the pitchfork she's holding is some kind of
sex toy. Doesn't she look a bit too comfortable with
her fingers wrapped around the handle like that?
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To her credit, at each of the jobs, Paris makes a respectable
attempt at being productive. (Over the course of a month,
she and Nicole have about 17—jobs,
not sex partners.) The phrase “to her credit” is apt here
because it was the 20th Century philosopher
Ludwig Wittgenstein who remarked that we should only say
something is “to one’s credit” when the doing of the thing goes
against a person’s natural inclinations. In other words, Paris’s
“respectable attempt at being productive” is “to her credit”
because it goes against her natural inclinations—to
be a spoiled, lazy tart who not only has never worked, but who
also thinks that Wal-Mart is a store that sells walls. I’m pretty
sure the Wal-Mart bit was scripted, but not that scripted.
Interestingly, despite the 100-point disparity in their IQs, Paris
Hilton and Wittgenstein have something important in
common: Wittgenstein, too, was the heir to a large fortune. The
only difference is, as soon as the great philosopher got his
money, he gave it all away. Somehow, I doubt Ms. Hilton
will follow Wittgenstein’s lead on this.
And so, we come to the end of another profound NotWriting segment,
with some questions answered and the difficult ones simply
ignored. As Wittgenstein writes at the end of his Tractaus,
“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”
- 30 -
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WITTGENSTEIN'S ONE-LINER: "A guy
walks into a bar, looking for a
verifiable proposition..."
Above: The author, still not writing. He's
at church, praying for forgiveness,
after watching The Simple Life and
hearing Nicole Richie's filthy mouth.
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©2004 Chris Orcutt and notwriting.com. All rights
reserved. |
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