the hand behind this pen relives a failure every day

What's getting to me about forgetting my headphones and MP3 player at my client's place more than having forgotten them is that my client sent me a text message about it. The forgetfulness is its own issue; that I didn't get a phone call about it has me absolutely baffled. She's a good few decades older than I am, and the messages she sent are iMessages that require internet access, not what I'd call "plain texts" that don't. So there's a good chance I wouldn't have seen it after I left the apartment's wifi range and got back to my place.

A direct phone call would've been much easier. I'll head over tomorrow and get it then, so it's less of a problem and more of an inconvenience, and it's still got me baffled she didn't simply call.

It's been well below freezing all day, and the only time I've spent outdoors was the pair of bike rides to and from the gig location, which itself is barely a 20 block ride. It was more than enough for my fingers and ears to get uncomfortably chilled, though I take it as a point of pride that continuing to mask up means my nose and mouth are just fine. I'm still thinking often on how safe I am for this cold snap - a safe place to sleep, hot water, layers to bundle up. Mostly, the tiredness comes from having rearranged a fairly sizable home library's substantial fiction section, up and down a stepladder, picking up armfuls of books over and over, and it's not digging a ditch, but between hours of that and the cold, I'm feeling pretty wiped.

I think next time I go, I'll bring a canned coffee with me. See about heading this off ahead of time.

Save for an incredibly brief break this afternoon, it's been snowing all day. Not hard, but steadily and gently. It's collecting on the trees and in the parks, and while there's not much total accumulation, the rate has me hopeful it'll stay around for a few days. I went out to the movies this evening, and standing and waiting for the bus, I watched the streetlight hit it as it came down - the speed of it, and how even with all the force behind it, none of it hit hard enough to make any noise.

It snowed through a lot of yesterday, too. I took a brief walk for a small errand and stood out in it for a while, enjoying the smell and the chill. I liked the idea my footprints would be gone soon, and with what came down today, I know the steps I took aren't there anymore. There's something compelling about that to me. Not that there's a resilience so much as anything done will be covered over and erased, no matter how heavy or light your footsteps.

Challenge #8

Talk about your creative process.

I can sum it up: "Fuck the muse." I don't write when inspiration strikes, I don't wait to get seized with a passion and fury to create and communicate, I don't try to alter my mental state by getting drunk, high, wasted, plastered, or otherwise out of it. I sit down, and I get the words out.

Assuming I'm at home and not traveling, assuming I've gotten my head clear enough, assuming I haven't devoted the evening to something that's going to get me some income, assuming I'm not out of it because of something like a cold or food poisoning - trust me, it was memorably bad tofu - then I'll get my ass in the chair and work. The AIC Method isn't elegant, and it's less about elegance and more about results. The results are 1,000 words when I'm composing. I may write a few more than that one night, meaning that the next night might see me writing a few less to get to the next thousand according to the raw wordcount. The raw wordcount is key at this stage. I don't write out of order as a matter of course; I can't tell myself the story that way. I write it from beginning to end as best I'm able so I can figure out what the story is, so when I go back and edit everything, I can work at getting it to what it needs to be.

I write quietly, without music or background noise. I write at varying speeds, sometimes getting 1,000 words an hour and sometimes averaging out closer to 250. I'll let inspiration arrive at its own pace, and I usually seek out inspiration and passion and ideas when I'm not writing, so I can save up the energy for the work. I write at night, sometimes in the dark and sometimes before sundown depending on the season. I find a lot of pleasure to turning off the overhead light, turning on the desk lap, and sitting in a little bubble of words - I stumbled over it some decades ago, and the only time I've shifted from that was because of one telecommuting job with a set of on-call hours that had me working in the afternoons, which I still look back on as a fairly bizarre time. But it worked for that time frame. Because it was when I got my ass in the chair and wrote the words.

Walks help. Bike rides help. Going to the movies helps. Going to art museums works, too. Reading nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and going to live performances all help feed the creative spirit. But not the muse. I don't want to think about it in those terms. Nights when I don't write always feel a little bereft. I could be at the movies, I could be out with friends, I could be visiting Paris, and as good a time as I'll be having - and trust me, while I haven't done all three at the same time, I've done each of them alone and in varying combinations, so I can say that even doing that, I'll be thinking about what scenes I want to work out and the story I want to tell. I'll sometimes take longhand notes to help get words together so I can figure out if they're the right way to approach an idea, and that helps a bit, but it's not the same as sitting down and writing 1,000 new words, or cleaning up a chapter, or filling in something I set aside to research later to avoid breaking the creative flow, or line-editing according to someone else's patient notes.

I've joked there's only one proper writing method, and that's whatever works for the individual author to get their words out. I've also joked there's only one kind of writer, and that's someone who gets the writing done. I can advocate for what works for me. I can't say it'll work for everyone, but I'm willing to go on record about its success rate at finishing what I start.

Ass In Chair. Learn it. Love it. Live it. Because it always happens one word at a time.

Challenge #7

LIST THREE (or more) THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF. They don’t have to be your favorite things, just things that you think are good. Feel free to expand as much or as little as you want.

1. My hair, which has occasionally gotten the attention of complete strangers, and anything that gets someone's attention in New York City is something to be proud of.

2. My blood, which I donated again yesterday, and being O-, is too useful for me to keep all to myself.

3. My eyebrows, which I have no intention of thinning or threading, and think are charming and cute the way they are.

Some months ago, in an attempt to clear some congestion, I started adding ghost pepper flakes to my morning eggs. A few weeks ago, in an attempt to punch up the spice, I started adding a crushed up chile de árbol or two. Now I'm finding the issue with a meal's heat isn't the spiciness, but the temperature when it's served right from the stove.

I've now realized I don't have much of a context for what constitutes spiciness anymore. I can tell when there's some heat, I can tell when there's a fair amount of heat, and I'm going to have to keep looking for ways to get the kinds of lovely warm, playful sensations from good restaurants into my own kitchen. But not until I work through more of this bottle of ghost pepper flakes, because I've only got so much room in my apartment - which I suppose is all the more reason to try the Calabrian chili oil I bought on impulse a little while ago.