Writing up “that ravell’d sleeve”

The Scottish Play.

Yikes. I’ve quoted from the Scottish Play.

I’m not sure, but I think I’m okay, since I didn’t say it out loud. I’m going to take the chance, anyway. Especially since the headline and quote are such a stretch to get me to what I want to talk about: why writing makes me sleepy?

That’s what I’m wondering this Wednesday. Writing makes me sleepy, and I don’t understand it. You could be charitable and say it’s because it’s really hard work, but I don’t think that’s it. Because, the thing is, it’s the same kind of sleepy that I get doing a crossword puzzle–and that’s just recreation.

Does this happen to any of you? I write for a while, and regardless of how well it’s going, I start to feel like I want a nap. My eyelids get heavy. My brain gets fuzzy. I want to lie down. ( guess it doesn’t happen when it’s going really well. When it’s going really well, you feel like God on maybe the fifth day. You just want to keep going–whether you ought to do so or not. (I think this explains giraffes.) Under ordinary circumstances, however, writing makes me very sleepy.

I have no scientific proof of this, but I’m wondering if the sleep centers in the brain aren’t near the portions that govern language. Does stimulating the one stimulate the other? Or is it the other way around? Are they so far apart that sending all the electrical activity to one area deprives the other of some much needed stimuli? I guess that would only work if we were talking about the language center and the keep-awake center. Is there such a thing?

You see what a successful “wondering” this is? That’s because I have absolutely no basis for forming an opinion. I can theorize in a complete absence of all data. This is otherwise known as guessing. Or “blowing smoke.”

What do you think causes this phenomenon?

Well, you think about it for a while.

I’m going to go take a nap.

Bad to the bone

Try to be, anyway.

This is a tip about getting past that streak of perfectionism that is keeping you from achieving your goals.

Somewhere along the line, most of us got the idea that doing something badly was–well–a bad thing. Maybe we missed a fly ball on the softball field in second grade, and the next time teams were chosen, we were one of the last players picked. Maybe it started earlier–like when we got yelled at for spilling our milk.

Mistake = bad. Dangerous, even.

In the interests of survival, we started to be careful. We started to try really hard to do things “right.” Over time, that can be paralyzing.

But, there is an easy way around it. Just decide to do it–whatever “it” is–wrong. Announce that intention, if necessary. After all, how can someone blame you for not getting it “right” if you’ve already told them you are intentionally doing it wrong?

If that sounds crazy, let me tell you a story about the first play I ever wrote.

The first draft was promising enough that Abingdon Theatre Company was willing to give it a public reading. Jan Buttram, the artistic director, being an experienced playwright and a wise woman, suggested we should have a private reading first. “If you hear it for the first time in front of an audience, you’re not going to be able to hear it,” she said.

So, we had the private reading, and I got some very valuable feedback. I went off, with great enthusiasm, to do a re-write. And promptly froze. Oh, no! What if I ruin it? I wasn’t sure how I’d come to write it in the first place. It seemed to me there was a good chance that, in re-writing it, I would lose whatever had made that first draft halfway good.

I was so stuck that I went back to Jan some weeks later and announced that we would have to cancel the reading. In a further demonstration of wisdom, she said, “No, we’re not going to cancel. We can always read the version you have now. Meanwhile, why don’t you go back and try again? If you don’t get anywhere, don’t worry.”

I sighed and groaned and gnashed my teeth–and I went home to try again. When I got there, I remembered “We an always read the version you have now,” and I promptly saved the file under a new name. Then, I said to myself, “Okay. You’ve got the original saved. Now, you’re going into this version, and you’re going to ruin it.”

The re-write began to flow. We read the new version, and that is the version that launched my great playwriting adventure. Once I gave myself permission to do it badly, I did just fine.

Try it.

The Fountain of Youth

It is here in Florida.

They say that you keep yourself young by continuing to learn new things.

I say there’s probably a lot of truth to that.

I also say does it have to be boring things? Scary things? As we get older, suddenly we need to learn about a host of medical issues–bone loss, prostate troubles, hearing aids and more stuff to do with our teeth than the actual number of teeth we probably still have!

Fortunately, I’m still young enough that the worst is yet to come. On the other hand, my husband is a good bit older than I, and I’ve moved a lot closer to my mom.

What actually started me thinking about this post wasn’t the delights of aging. It was thinking about all the new things I’ve had to learn since we bought Casa Lagarto, and the one new thing on the horizon.

I have a well, now. An aerator. Security lights and alarm systems. A septic tank and a drain field. A gas fireplace. One enormous exhaust fan in the garage. A hot water heater, a central vacuum and an air handler.

I didn’t have all of that when I lived in an apartment. And the one thing I did have that made whatever else I had incidental was a super. Yay, Santos! I miss him.

My latest area of investigation–having done the whole air conditioner, fireplace, boat lift thing–is drainage. Because it rained so much in August (30 out of 31 days) and it came down so fast sometimes that the ground could not absorb it. I watched small boggy places grow into puddles and then grow into pools where goldfish could have swum. And then I watched them come up over the concrete slab of the front porch and head for the front door.

My neighbor said, “Did they tell you? If we have a hurricane, you will have water coming in your front door.”

Great.

To be honest, I am doubtful that it will come in the front door. We’ve just had more rain than we’ve had in a hundred years, I’m told. I’m not sure, however, how that is any insurance that we won’t have more at some point. Like the investing prospectuses all say: “Past performance is no guarantee of future results.”

So, I’m looking for solutions to–I don’t know–re-contour the ground? Re-route the water? Gutters, maybe, would be a good first step. There’s a thing that looks like a horizontal set of Venetian blinds that might work. (If I could remember what it’s called long enough to Google it.) I’ve already bought a thing called a Hydrabarrier which looks like it might be quite effective.

Meanwhile, anybody know anything about French drains?

Yes, but–

Red Flag / White Flag

One of the keys to getting what you want is knowing what you want.

Here’s an inconvenient truth.

To some extent, what you want is what you have.

Human beings have incredible strength and determination. Through the ages, many of us, most of us, have picked ourselves up from less than ideal circumstances and improved our lot. All of us can do that.

And now, I hear the collective response coming.

Yes, but. . .

Yes, but I don’t have the money to start my own business, buy a house, go to college.

Yes, but my parents won’t let me, my teachers don’t think I can, my boyfriend will leave.

Yes, but I’m just not good enough, I don’t know how, I’m too old, too young, too white, too black.

The most polite response to all that is “Hogwash!”

There are, very rarely, a set of circumstances that truly prevent you from doing some things. There are what they call “Acts of God” that visit death and destruction randomly and unfairly on people.

In almost every other case, people are capable of the most extraordinary things.

“Whenever you think something can’t be done, look at Helen Keller.” *

So many people achieve so much by hard work and persistence.

If you’ve hit a roadblock and you’re talking to friends, relatives, colleagues–your support system–about it, chances are those people will begin to offer suggestions on how to overcome the obstacle. If you hear yourself saying,” Yes, but…” to those suggestions, maybe you need to ask yourself, “Do I really want to do this? Or would I rather watch that TV show, take that nap, eat these cookies.”

It all really comes down to this: What do you want most? The “Yes, but–” can be a legitimate way to think through the issue, explore the possibilities in any suggestion. It can also be an indicator that you aren’t yet ready to do what it takes to get what you want.

Unless what comes after the “Yes, but–” is the phrase “it’s illegal” or “somebody could get seriously injured,” the “Yes, but–” is a red flag of danger.

Don’t let it be a white flag of surrender.

* Mr. Self Development

90 days!

90 days, 90 days, 90 days!

It has been exactly 90 days since I started this blog. And this is the 90th blog entry. (Actually, it’s the 91st, since there was one day where I posted a quote from Jordan Roth as a second entry.) The point, however, is that there has been at least one blog entry every day for the last 90 days. If you think that’s easy, you have never tried daily blogging.

So, pardon me, while I take this opportunity to celebrate!

Do you think I should have cake? I think I should have cake.

The only problem with that is that it would require me to bake a cake. And then, because my husband doesn’t really like cake (can you imagine?!), it would require me to eat the cake. The whole cake.

I’m thinking that would not be a good idea, since in addition to setting myself the goal of daily blogging, I have set myself a goal of losing a little weight. But, oh! Cake!

Never mind. Virtue is its own reward. (If you believe that, we should discuss the purchase price of that bridge in Brooklyn.)

So…no cake.

There is, however, one reward: a built-in topic for today’s post. Yee-ha!

90 days, 90 days, 90 days!

If I can manage another 90, I will have 180 days. Nearly half a year.

I think it can be done, but it’s surely not the sinecure I thought it would be when I walked blithely and blindly into this. If I had looked up the word “sinecure” in advance, I would definitely not have thought it was the proper term. “Sinecure” means a job both easy and providing a salary. However easy I thought blogging might be, I was well aware there was no salary involved.

That’s not to say there haven’t been compensations. I’ve enjoyed hearing from my subscribers. I’ve enjoyed knowing I have subscribers. And now I get to enjoy a sense of achievement. Because…

90 days, 90 days, 90 days!

(Maybe I will have cake.)

No mercy?

“Computers are like Old Testament gods; lots of rules and no mercy.”

That is a quote from the ever-brilliant Joseph Campbell. It is both funny and true, as the best quotes are.

However, it’s Thankful Thursday, and while I realize most of you will think we’ve gone past this point by this time, I am going to talk about how thankful I am for computers.

I love computers. I know, I know. Two of the most dreaded words in the English language are “computer error.” Almost as bad: when the phone rep says, “the computer is down.” We hate the computerized phone menus that seem to be malevolently blocking us from talking to a human being. We are annoyed when the people we are with keep checking their smartphones instead of giving their undivided attention to our scintillating conversation. We can’t understand how we come to waste so much time on Facebook.

But, oh! The hours of entertainment. The increase in productivity. In my case, the leap from temporary secretary at $15-$20 per hour to computer programmer and over a hundred. Even more important, I sometimes think, was the antidote to powerlessness.

There is no one who has less power than a would-be actor. Almost all other artists can practice their craft in the absence of recognition. If you are a writer, all you need is a pencil and a scrap of paper. If you are a visual artist, you can draw anywhere. A singer may sing in the shower. If you play an instrument, you can play it any time (taking into account consideration for neighbors, of course).

The actor, whose instrument is herself, cannot do much without other actors.

It is the only craft I know where you need permission to practice it. And another hundred people just got off of the train.* The competition for that permission is fierce. Opportunities can be few and frustratingly long in coming. It’s easy to feel discouraged and incompetent and without power.

But. . .you can sit down at a computer, and if you know the right keys to press, you can make it do anything.

I love computers.

* Stephen Sondheim, Company, “Another Hundred People”

Where have all the whip-poor-wills gone?

Long time passing.

Can’t you just hear that sung to a Pete Seeger tune by Peter, Paul & Mary?

All kidding aside, though, where have the whip-poor-wills gone? When I was a kid, they were one of the few birds I could recognize by their call. The other being a bob-white.

For me to recognize them, they must have been pretty prevalent. Now, I never hear a whip-poor-will or a bob-white.

A little research shows that they are indeed in decline, and no one is quite sure why. Destruction of habitat due to building, pesticides that kill their food source, and global warming are the most common reasons cited for the dwindling numbers.

My uncle has another theory, although I’m not sure it holds good for areas farther afield than Florida. He thinks the egrets eat the whip-poor-wills’ eggs. Whip-poor-wills, and for that matter, bob-whites nest on the ground. And egrets have been known to prey on the eggs of sea birds–so I guess it’s possible. I suspect it is also true that the egrets are a more efficient competition for the same food.

They do seem to be efficient. They have very few predators, and as long as humans raise cattle, their habitat will survive. They do okay. First bred in Florida in 1953, they had spread to Canada by 1962 and California by the mid-sixties. A successful species.

So, I don’t know. A bunch of egrets following a herd of cattle is a pretty sight, but I do miss the whip-poor-will’s song.

One of Each

It gets harder.

Had a casting director suggest once that every actor should have an audition monologue from each of the major playwrights. Prior to that, the accepted wisdom was that you should have a classical monologue and a contemporary.

At that point, classical meant Shakespeare or one of the Greeks. If you wanted to increase the odds that the actor in front of you hadn’t just done your piece, you went slightly further afield. Some other Elizabethan playwright–Marlowe and Jonson, for example–or a Restoration writer–Congreve, Wycherly, Sheridan, among them–were possibilities. There were also the French–Moliere and Racine.

Some people thought Ibsen, Strindberg and Shaw counted as classical while others considered them the first of the modern playwrights. For some of us, that meant we just didn’t do them unless they were specifically requested. Why set yourself up with a 50/50 chance the auditor would decide you didn’t know what “classical” meant?

But you see my point, right?

I’ve just listed 11 major playwrights and haven’t even gotten fully into the modern era. And the modern era keeps growing! It’s not enough to have Arthur Miller, William Saroyan, Clifford Odets, Philip Barry. You’ve got to be looking at Lanford Wilson, Wendy Wasserstein, Marsha Norman, Neil Simon, David Henry Hwang, Tony Kushner, David Rabe, David Mamet and a host of others if you really want a comprehensive set.*

So, this is one of those “rules” that is ‘more honour’d in the breach than the observance.’**

It’s not a bad goal to attempt, however. If you go searching, you will have read a lot of plays. If you find monologues you like, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy between auditions. Plus, one of the easiest ways to shoot yourself in the foot as an actor*** is to blow off auditions, and one of the easiest excuses is to not have any suitable material to perform.

So, do yourself a big favor.

Have a monologue from each of the major playwrights.

* I know I’ve left out hundreds of you. It doesn’t mean you’re not major playwrights. It just means my brain doesn’t always work all that well.

** Hamlet, Act I, Sc 4 (Flapdoodle!)

*** For other ways actors get in their own way, see my book How to Be a Failed Actor: 27 Things Actors Do to Shoot Themselves in the Foot – available soon in the bookstore.

The rain no longer raineth every day

Flapdoodle?*

When we first moved to Florida, we were in a drought. I had to buy sprinklers and remember my watering days to have any hope of getting the grass in my lawn to recover.

And then we got Tropical Storm Debbie.

Tons of rain!

The grass–it was so happy! It grew and grew. (So did the weeds, but that’s another story.)

And then it kept raining. And raining. And raining. Almost every day. It’s a good thing the grass started to grow to help keep the dirt from washing into the creek. (A lot of it did, anyway.)

It has rained so much that the split-leaf philodendron is turning yellow. The tomato plant has shriveled up. And one of the vincas has given up the ghost. (That’s a shame, because it was a pretty pink one.) The hydrangea, on the other hand, is thriving.

I know the Midwest is having a terrible time with a drought right now. The cost of everything is going up because of it.

So, I feel guilty saying this, but it seems like a miracle that we’ve had a couple of days without rain. It’s hard to do yard work when everything is soggy. Thunder and lightning interfere with my ability to use my computers. They interfere with my ability to use my treadmill! They just interfere.

It is fascinating to watch the rain over the creek. So, there’s that. It has a habit of raining over the water for a good 5 to 10 minutes before it comes on land–which is weird. Part of that weird Florida phenomenon where it can rain on one side of the street and not the other. (I once drove into rain at a red light and out of it when the light changed. That’s how localized a storm can be here.)

But I’m tired of watching walls of water move. I’m really glad it’s stopped raining–even if only temporarily.

* Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, or What You Will Act VI, Sc 1. Also, King Lear, Act II, Sc 3. (If you got both of them, you get two Flapdoodle points!)

Collections

Do you have any?

I’m of two minds about collections. On the one hand, I think if you don’t have one going, you should be assigned one. Possibly, you should be assigned one at birth for the better buying of presents. It is so much easier, when those birthdays, Christmases, Hanukkahs, etc. roll around for your relatives to be able to pick up something to add to your collection.

On the other hand, collections can be a bit of a problem. Maybe other people don’t have this issue, but there may be a borderline hoarder in me. Because, you know, one Reader’s Digest is a magazine you haven’t read yet. Three are the beginning of a collection. And then what?

Actually, I do all right disposing of magazines after one brief struggle in my teens when I had somehow amassed an inordinate number of TV Guides. I understand, though, that National Geographic has caused some people severe pangs.

Some of my collections may eventually become digital. Books and music are–with varying degrees of time and expense–convertible to a more space-saving format. Some, however, must remain physical presences in my house. And therein lies the problem.

Space!

Fortunately, my new house could have been tailor-made to house my glass menagerie. I have so many windows with wide sills and sunshine. We never thought about it when we were thinking of buying, but it has turned out to be perfect for the glass.

The music boxes…that’s a bit of a problem. I don’t have any rare or expensive music boxes, but I have enough of them that I can’t just give them away. Besides, I like music boxes. There are not a lot of moments, however, when it occurs to me to wind one up and let it play. Mostly, it occurs to me when I’m dusting them. Music box dusting, around here, creates quite a cacophony.

I was fine with the books, the records, the glass animals and the music boxes. But now, I seem to have a clown collection, and I don’t even like clowns. (As figurines, I mean. I have several friends who actually are clowns. Graduates of Ringling Bros. Clown College, no less. I like them fine.)

I now have four clowns:

One is made of glass. You can see how that happened.

One is a music box. You can see how that happened.

Two of them are recent acquisitions–mementos of a beloved aunt whose children and grandchildren have a clown phobia. (Coulrophobia, it’s called. I bet you didn’t know that.)

Anyway, I am happy to have these keepsakes to remind me of my aunt, but you can see my problem, right?

A couple of clowns are just things you have. Four are a collection, and you’re stuck with them forever. So, I hereby issue an addendum to the Collection Rule. I only have a collection when I declare I have a collection. If anybody gives me any more clowns, I’m giving them away.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

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