Croup
The FUN never stops around here. Demon Baby has croup. So, if you take his already wild child edge, and ADD to it the croup, think of how exponentially difficult he is now. Not to mention he didn't sleep at all last night. Meaning I did not sleep at all last night. However, I DID sleep in a vaporized room with him on my chest, so now I feel like a soggy blanket. My hair? Don't even ask. Plastered to my head.
Which brings me to writing. When I was 21 and best friends with a guy in my creative writing classes in college (and still one of my dearest loves), I think we thought we'd be the next Woodward and Bernstein. Now HE is actually in such lofty circles, and I decided I was just too damn polite to be a reporter. I have respect for the media (at times), and I still do the occasional magazine piece (have a cover story for one coming up). But the bottom line is I just didn't have it in me to call up people in the midst of tragedy and ask for a quote.
So then I moved on to writing fiction while toiling as an editor. I met an absolutely brilliant writer who was, quite literally, in the midst of a nervous breakdown. And in his brilliance, I found myself charmed by the idea (call me crazy) of the writer on the verge. Look at F. Scott Fitzgerald. Look at that guy who wrote The Old Man and the Sea! These were men's men who lived on the edge and wrote about it. I thought writers drank too much, smoked too much, bedded a lot of women, played a lot of cards, traveled to interesting locales and drank with the locals, and talked to their cats. Don't ask me why the cat thing but Hemingway had cats, and I had a cat at the time.
Now, cut to a number of years later, and I have decided that writing with four children trumps the guy who wrote The Old Man and the Sea. I'd like to see him TRY to write through croup. Just try. Or through tantrums, stomach flus, homework hour, and two of the four in adolescence. HA! This is not for the faint-hearted. And STILL the deadlines come.
I have also decided that it's near impossible to write decently on no sleep, too much alcohol, eating crappy food out of take-out boxes, and smoking (actually, I have never smoked in my life). This is one writer who writes best on some sleep, some rest, some serenity, a little music. I talk to my fish, Blossom, and occasionally the dogs (son allergic, so no cats). I talk to myself, and to my Grandma, who is deceased, so perhaps it's a bit like talking to myself, but I don't think so.
But my old "model" of the wild writer has been abandoned. Honest to God, I told my friend Janet last night that I would pay a THOUSAND DOLLARS for two decent night's sleep. I'll write the check. Just tell me who to make it out to. Right now The Croup Fairy is making that impossible.
So how about you? Has your image of how a writer lives changed as you do this strange career of ours?
Which brings me to writing. When I was 21 and best friends with a guy in my creative writing classes in college (and still one of my dearest loves), I think we thought we'd be the next Woodward and Bernstein. Now HE is actually in such lofty circles, and I decided I was just too damn polite to be a reporter. I have respect for the media (at times), and I still do the occasional magazine piece (have a cover story for one coming up). But the bottom line is I just didn't have it in me to call up people in the midst of tragedy and ask for a quote.
So then I moved on to writing fiction while toiling as an editor. I met an absolutely brilliant writer who was, quite literally, in the midst of a nervous breakdown. And in his brilliance, I found myself charmed by the idea (call me crazy) of the writer on the verge. Look at F. Scott Fitzgerald. Look at that guy who wrote The Old Man and the Sea! These were men's men who lived on the edge and wrote about it. I thought writers drank too much, smoked too much, bedded a lot of women, played a lot of cards, traveled to interesting locales and drank with the locals, and talked to their cats. Don't ask me why the cat thing but Hemingway had cats, and I had a cat at the time.
Now, cut to a number of years later, and I have decided that writing with four children trumps the guy who wrote The Old Man and the Sea. I'd like to see him TRY to write through croup. Just try. Or through tantrums, stomach flus, homework hour, and two of the four in adolescence. HA! This is not for the faint-hearted. And STILL the deadlines come.
I have also decided that it's near impossible to write decently on no sleep, too much alcohol, eating crappy food out of take-out boxes, and smoking (actually, I have never smoked in my life). This is one writer who writes best on some sleep, some rest, some serenity, a little music. I talk to my fish, Blossom, and occasionally the dogs (son allergic, so no cats). I talk to myself, and to my Grandma, who is deceased, so perhaps it's a bit like talking to myself, but I don't think so.
But my old "model" of the wild writer has been abandoned. Honest to God, I told my friend Janet last night that I would pay a THOUSAND DOLLARS for two decent night's sleep. I'll write the check. Just tell me who to make it out to. Right now The Croup Fairy is making that impossible.
So how about you? Has your image of how a writer lives changed as you do this strange career of ours?
Labels: writing life
posted by Erica Orloff at 6:49 AM
22 Comments:
I was influenced by Hemingway. I never cared for big game hunting or bull fighting, but I oh-so-badly wanted to do the expatriate thing. So here I am, thousands of miles away from home, homesick to distraction, and the agents say, "But how could you possibly make yourself available to do book signings?" as though people still cross the Atlantic on steam boats.
Hi Stephen:
When I was 12 or 13, I wanted to be Lady Brett. Until I realized that she was absolutely horrid.
And what do you mean? People don't use steam boats anymore?
E
stephen:
And another P.S. . . . . Truly, signings seem like such a small portion of promotion, especially now in the era of blog tours and so on.
E
Hemingway and Fitzgerald were never my idols. Mine were Jane Austin and Agatha Cristie. Later on, Anne McCaffrey and a few others. I'm just amazed that so many great books were written on typewriters.
I hope Demon Baby is better. I hurt my knee, and I haven't been able to sit at the computer long enough to do more than answer my emails or look at blogs. Maybe today I can get something done.
I've been sleeping well though, taking pain pills at night that were left over from a dental procedure two years ago. Dentists give out the best pain pills.
Hi Edie:
A pain pill might be nice about now. But then who to give it to? Me or Demon Baby? (Just kidding!).
I loved Jane Austen's writing, as well as some of the women you mention--but those "BIG" lives intriqued me when I was younger.
E
A glass of wine, perfect quiet, complete solitude, no distractions...Blah, ha, ha, ha.
Now that I've recovered from THAT delusion, I'm off to pick up the pens the cats knocked off the desk and batted about the room. (At least the tops were on the pens...I hope.)
BTW, one of cats, as to which one I'm not sure because they're not telling, has discovered that unrolling and then snow-flaking TP all over the bathroom is loads of fun.
Then I have an assignment from a client to complete while the washer chugs and the dryer clunks in the next room.
Odds are the client will call numerous times in the next few hours, with questions and comments, and just when I'm wrapping up, will request major changes.
Ah, heck, maybe I'll have that wine after all. ;-)
Kathy
Erica, hugs to you and your baby boy. I still hold that vision of a beach house, with my office facing the ocean as gauzy curtains catch the breeze. Of course, I'll be wearing white in a spotless room. Ah, reality is my desk is so full, I have no elbow room. Just got off a long run of edits. And my comfy wear is starting to wilt. I love imagining creative people, and their glorious existence. But being a writer, I realize that reality is much more colorful! And that makes me smile.
I wanted to be Emily Dickinson.
But I've found it difficult to maintain my hermit status with three kids. They always want to go DO something. What's up with that?
I hope you and your boy can get some rest.
Hi kathy and edie:
Ahh, how we delude ourselves with visions of serenity! LOL!
E
Heather:
Kids can be pesky when you're trying to lead a life of quiet contemplation!
:-)
E
Loved Jane Austin.
I thought, the kids are out of the house and I've finally got some peace and quiet so I can just sit down and type out the Great American Novel, right? It would come as easily as breathing (unless you have the croup) -- Hope all's well with that. My youngest was in the hospital for days when he had it.
Erica, thanks for your visit to my blog. I left you a message in yesterday's comments.
Hi Tena:
Thanks! And thanks for the reply on your blog, which I love, by the way--especially love your travel entries!
And I sometimes thing, "Oh, one day they will all be grown and gone and then I will have all this peace to write." But somehow, I think the way I live my life is noisy and chaotic anyway, so that's not going to solve everything.
:-)
E
Truly, signings seem like such a small portion of promotion, especially now in the era of blog tours and so on.
Can you expand on this in a blog post?
Hi Stephen:
Sure thing. Now I don't have to wrack my brain for a topic tomorrow, :-)
E
ok, that's kinda funny.. I never had an image in my mind of what a writer's life should look like :)
For me it has always been just me typing away furiously on my computer. I never really tried to visualize what it would be for anyone else.
I'm really sorry about your boy having the croup. My oldest never had to go through that, but the youngest did and WOW I really feel for you. I didn't get a whole lot of sleep during that time either. fortunately she liked to snuggle side-by-side so that I could doze a bit.
I can't wait for tomorrow's topic either :)
Thanks so much for the compliment about my blog! It means a lot coming from you.
So a friend with young kids asked what it was like to be an empty-nester. Did I miss having all the noise, clutter and confusion?
I answered that occasionally I do pause in my selfish adult activites to wipe a tear from my eyes.
Just kidding. I love my kids... Really, I do.
Hope the little guy feels better soon, and that you both can get some rest!
I used to think all novelists were scholars who lived somewhere in the intellectual stratosphere. They drank brandy and smoked imported cigarettes and talked about really important stuff all the time. A published book meant instant wealth.
Who knew a regular old dumb guy like me could ever actually finish one?
tena:
LOL! I cope with the mess by telling myself I will miss it when they stop writing on walls, spilling things on the carpet and couch and so on. But I don't know . . . .
E
Jude:
Every writer I knew was kind of nuts so . . .
That half-formulated my opinion.
E
You know, you talk about him so much, I have this picture in my head of your Demon Baby. I wish I could meet him! And I really hope he feels better, poor guy.
I kinda grew up in an artistic profession and feeling absolutely normal (although, to be honest, I'm not sure we were). Plus writing kinda pursued me, so I was writing long before I wondered what other writers were like. And then I figured they were something like me. (Hah! Not!)
I think it's the human condition to figure ourselves normal and things outside of our experience more exotic. Like journalism, wow, now that seems like a glamorous life to me!
Well, like Jimmy Buffet once said, "If we weren't crazy, we'd all go insane." :)
Hi Spy:
Hmm . . . You may be right. Though there are some days when I just KNOW my life isn't "normal"--whatever that is. But then again, it's not exotic. :-)
E
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