Redsaid

It's aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!

The "it" in question being me.

Yes, the snake didn't get me after all! I'm actually back in my own little hovel, which, although far tinier than my sister and brother-in-law's gorgeous, sprawling farmhouse, is at least, mercifully, devoid of reptiles and rodents.

*Knocks on wooden forehead.*

Work has been very busy, but I'm not complaining at all (well, a little bit... but that's just because I'm TIRED), because I'm just too grateful to still HAVE work as a writer. (ME!?!? Working as a WRITER!! Sorry. After all this time I still have moments of utter disbelief that there are people willing to pay the likes of me to do this. I'm extremely grateful, every single day.)

And speaking of writing... I have, quite accidentally, stumbled upon a new mini-hobby of sorts.

Remember my initial aversion to join Twitter? I didn't actually ever see the point of it, to be honest. To me, it seemed too much like glorified texting - which I hate, because I'm way too verbose to keep myself within such stingy word constraints. Anyway, as you may or may not recall, she finally convinced me to do it.

After a few hesitant and yet mind-numbingly boring and uninspired tweets, my twitter page became yet another web spot for me to neglect and ignore. But then I read about this Canadian author called Arjun Basu.

Allow me to nick the rest of this story from my other (equally neglected) blog:

Sometimes true creative genius sprouts forth and flourishes in the most unlikely places.

When Canadian writer and editor Arjun Basu signed up for his own Twitter account at the micro-blogging Web site, his initial tweets were, he admits, just as banal and boring as that of the next guy.

Sure, Twitter was already graced by a few poetic souls dreaming up haikus (or 'twaikus', as it was quickly dubbed) within the 140 character posting constraints imposed by the site, but most users were merely tweeting about the inane minutiae about their lives. There were a lot of uninspired "Standing in line" and "Starving" postings in the site's early days.

One day, as Arjun was staring at his blank Twitter box, wondering what to type, an image of a child trying to reach a cookie on a table entered his mind, and he decided to post it to Twitter as a short (VERY short) story.

After that, he wrote another. And another. And soon, the published author and former magazine editor had a following of more than 7 000 eagerly devouring his every Twister - for that's what he calls his 140-character short story creations.

A literary agent soon came calling. There has even been talk that some of his byte-sized pieces of micro-fiction could eventually be used as sources for really short films!

These days, as Twitter continues to expand as a global source of news and entertainment, Arjun has also become a bit of a celebrity. He and his creations receive media attention almost daily. It was through one such online news story, in fact, that I came to learn about him and his Twisters. I immediately found his Twitter page, signed up to follow him and was soon enraptured by his brilliant stories.

Here, just to give you a tiny taste, are some of my favourites by him:
"When he stroked her shoulder softly she felt it all the way in her toes. And she knew she would end up marrying him. Because she had no legs"

And this: "He fell in love with the girl at the post office. But because her job was so tragic he never asked her out. His stamp collection is enormous"

This past weekend, I read another newspaper story featuring Arjun and his Twisters. Suddenly inspired, I wrote the following tweet on my own Twitter page: "Inspired by the brilliant @arjunbasu, I've decided to try my own clumsy hand at writing #twisters and #twitterature. Stay tuned for 1st try."

A few minutes later, I posted my first ever Twitter short story: "She looked too wired, so when she nervously asked for coffee, he gave her decaf. After the explosion, he saw her face on TV: suicide bomber."

A few hours later, much to my absolute astonishment and delight, I received a private message on Twitter from Arjun Basu himself! He was very gracious and kind and told me to "keep going"!!!

Needless to say, I was absolutely floored. I never in a MILLION years thought that he would ever even notice my tweets, let alone acknowledge it!

And so, with Arjun's permission and blessing, I have been keeping at it. I've just posted my fourth attempt and I have to tell you, it's amazingly difficult to try and create a coherent story in just 140 characters. (Remember also that every punctuation mark and space also count as different characters! Also, I've decided to at times resort to American spelling, since it's a bit more economic than ours!) Writing such short shorts is brilliant exercise for firing up and jolting the old creative writing brain, though, but also terribly intimidating.

I can only hope to one day be even HALF as good as the extraordinarily talented Mr. Arjun Basu!

Hello.

Thissssss isssss the ssssssnake. I'm here to inform you that I have eaten Red. She'ssssssssssss large, ssssssso it took me sssssssseveral hoursssssss to devour her. For my trouble, her hair hassssssss given me a bad casssssse of indigessssssstion and *cough* hairballssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Oh, shut up Cobra.

It's me, loveys. And no, the slimy bastard hasn't gotten me... yet.

However, last night I encountered something which proved to be far more dangerous to my health than any venomous, fork-tongued reptile: two friends and a bottle (or three) of red wine. The one bottle's top collided with my lips... and after that everything became a bit muddled and befuddled. And today the Hangover From Hell has me by the head, pounding the living daylights out of my skull.

The upside about the hangover is that I feel so ill, I don't even CARE about the possible presence of the snake in the house anymore. In fact, right around now, I'd consider a fatal snake bite to my person to be a bit of a merciful favour.

When will I learn that I am, despite my size (SUV), surprisingly light on fuel? 

Ever since returning to South Africa from the States three and a half years(!!!!) ago, the only wildlife I have encountered thus far include: my family (okay, kidding!), dogs, mice (sadly, I'm not referring to this one... but to the scurrying, vile kind whom I fear and loathe and despise), spiders, zebras (but they're in a camp, so they probably don't really count), and ostriches. Oh, and the resident African Grey who used to hang out in the high branches of the oak trees in my neighbourhood. He used to wolf-whistle at me with such conviction, I almost thought he was a deranged and/or blind man.

Anyway, the closest I've come to a lion has been the one whose likeness appears on the Simba chips packets.

A few weeks ago, while on another visit to my sister's and brother-in-law's house, my mom came in and told me to keep my bags closed. I still joked about her being scared that something might jump out of it, instead of the other way around, until I saw her face...

"I don't think I want to know why you just said that, do I?" I asked her.

She then, cryptically, told me how they had found something earlier.

"I don't want to know." I said, and not only packed up all my stuff, but zipped it up and put it on the bed and then proceeded to climb right on top of that too. Clearly I was thinking more along the line of rodents. Or amphibians. (They've all known to terrorise me in this old farm house. And as luck would have it, *I* am usually the only one who ever sees them scurrying across the floor, since they always make sure to only catch MY eye. When I scream and jump on various pieces of furniture, my family thinks that I am crazy. I have tried to assure them that my particular strain of insanity doesn't include phantom rodents or amphibians entering my field of peripheral vision. To no avail. They want me certified.)

If only I had known how very wrong I was. I can't believe I thought of - and I can't believe I'm about to type this - something as entirely harmless as little old field mice...

You see, what they had discovered (in the linen closet of all places. Which is situated right next to my nephew's bedroom, which is where I usually crash) is so shudder inducing, I almost ran from the house, screaming. This is what they found, buried snug among the towels: 

I told my sister.

I still hadn't made up my mind as to whether I should or not by the time I arrived there, but my crocodile eyes were uncooperative. Hours after the few (okay, many) tears I had shed, they were still virtually swollen shut. And I know from experience that trying to convince my sister that IamdoingjustsplendidlythanksandwhatredeyeswhatareyouTALKINGabout while trying to peer at her through telltale slits would be as futile as trying to look like a movie star whenever I cry. You know what I'm talking about. You see it in any drama and even in a few romantic comedies. When they zoom in on the actress's flawless makeup, the tears clinging to her impossibly long (and still perfectly mascara'd), quivering lashes like glittering jewels, making the leading man's heart melt and causing him to lean in, gently brushing her tear-streaked cheeks with his lips or fingers.

Why oh why do I look so horrid not only during crying jags, but for almost DAYS afterwards? Even waterproof mascara can't survive the destruction of all make-up during my melodramatic sobbing spells. You know how television news always capture women in war torn countries? Women who have just lost their entire families in senseless violence and who are wailing loudly, making otherwordly, primal sounds while desperately tearing their hair out and clawing at their clothes?

They have nothing on me when I weep. When I get going, I surpass even that which Oprah Winfrey refers to as "the ugly cry".

So before she could even ASK me what was wrong, I simply blurted out the whole story. And started crying again in the retelling. (Hey, I laugh at my own jokes, so I'm almost compelled to cry during the telling of my own sob stories in order to keep things fair and balanced.)

Her immediate reaction was laughter. Not at me, bless her. (She doesn't laugh at my jokes, so laughing at my sob stories is probably also just part of keeping the equilibrium.) But because the entire situation was so preposterous.

Then she asked: "Why didn't you tell me last night, when she was still here?" (Aww, I think this is the grown-up version of her wanting to beat up my playground bullies!)

THEN she told me that the girl was 1.) Drunk anyway.

"Which only makes people say what they really think!" I wailed.

And then she told me that the girl was 2.) Not... Well, let's just say that she wasn't quite as forthcoming to me about her own life and about what she is doing.

(Okay, here it is. I can TOTALLY not keep it to myself. That girl? The one who has told me that I should really become a bit more independent!? SHE IS TOTALLY NOT EVEN STUDYING RIGHT NOW! Hasn't done ANYTHING, in fact, for YEARS! Which is why she is putting pressure on my brother-in-law's friend to propose to her, because apparently her extremely rich daddy is now finally getting impatient with his 30-year old daughter's lack of drive and would really like her to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY! And hey, what better way to do that than to get a husband, right?)

So yes, I'm over it. Okay, my over-it-ness didn't, admittedly, happen immediately. When I finally stopped crying, I got angry at her audacity. Then I thought of all the things I SHOULD have said to her:

"Okay, so how about I remove all my vital internal organs. After performing the DIY (of COURSE!) surgery on myself, I would simply continue living. WOULD THAT BE INDEPENDENT ENOUGH FOR YOU?"

(And that is really all I came up with to say. My sister said I should have said: "Wow! Thank you for such stellar life advice! Especially since you are such a fine example of independence yourself! So I really value your unasked for counsel!")

Then my dear sis reminded me how I didn't even ask for the car.

And then we had coffee and cake and lived happily ever after...

Seriously though, I do know why her words stung me so much and so deeply. During my last years in the States, as I slowly sunk into the depths of a bleak, all-consuming depression, one of the first and most important things I lost a grasp on was my independence. And I've had to work HARD to get it back. (Still working on it, in fact, every single day.) And I will be the FIRST to admit that I would never, ever, ever have been able to do it without my family's help.

I love them.   

Just returned from a dinner party at my sister's and brother-in-law's and I'm so upset that I'm in tears.

No, not at the family. The dinner was lovely as always, the company was stellar and apart from this one girl whom I had never met before, I am acquainted with everyone else who was there.

I actually like(d?) her. Spent a long time chatting to her because she and her boyfriend were the first guests to arrive and since my sister was still getting ready, I kept her company.

She spent the whole evening talking about herself. I didn't mind, because I thought she was interesting. I'm only mentioning that she was talking about herself because of what happened so entirely out of the blue later on.

Before I get to that, here's something else that has happened to me over these past two weeks (it's related to this story). My little old car almost died last week. The mechanic managed to resurrect it for an incredible amount of money (which, luckily, I was able to afford at the time), but my brother-in-law worried that it was on its last wheels and that I would get stranded somewhere. So he went out and bought me a slightly new(er) car!!! Same make but considerably less vintage than the other one. Got it at a great price, but I've already worked out a plan to pay him back every single cent. AND I'm giving him all the money from the sale of the old car, since he had initially bought that one too and I had never been in a position to pay him back for it.

Anyway, so over the course of the evening, people came up to me and remarked about my "hot new wheels" (it really is, to me! I drove it for the first time on Thursday) and so at some point - and since it's no secret that my brother-in-law paid for it - I said: "Yes, don't I have the BEST brother-in-law?"

So this girl, whom I had been listening to all evening, and who knows nothing about me apart from the fact that I freelance and that I'm 34 years old  - turns back to me when we are alone again and says: "You know, you really ought to be more independent. I mean, at some point they are going to get sick of helping you."

I was so gobsmacked, because: She had just spent the entire evening telling me how she, at 30, was living with her parents again. Who is paying for her to study. Again. (She had attempted the university/studying thing plenty of times before but had never figured out what she wanted to do, so she never bothered to finish anything. And I had just spent the whole evening telling her how interesting that makes her!)

I was honestly so taken aback that I didn't even say anything back to her. So I just... didn't. (Luckily the party moved to the kitchen for coffee right around then, so I started speaking to someone else.) But the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. So much so that later, when I was driving home, I totally burst into tears.

I'm still crying a bit (writing is helping though), but now I'm getting a bit more angry. Now I'm asking myself where she gets off for making such a judgement about me. How DARE she? She had never even laid eyes on me before tonight, and most of our conversation had revolved around her and her life (which I seriously didn't mind! As I've said, I found her fascinating, and hey, since I'm not exactly a poster child for success in life, career or love, I am the last person to judge anyone else), so where exactly did her remarks come from?

Now of course... and I hate this about myself... the self-doubt starts to niggle at me again. That horrid voice starts to whisper. It asks: "Well, if there are no truth to her words, why are you so bothered and hurt by it?"

Well, we all know the answer to that, don't we? We all know that I HAVE relied on my family a lot since returning, tail-between-the-legs, humiliated and with absolutely NOTHING to my name from the States three years ago. But, in my own feeble defence, I've come a long way since those early days. I'm working. I live alone (yes, still in my humble little room, but at least I pay my own rent and I buy my own food and coffee). Yes, measured against other people my age, I know I fall WAY short in terms of possessions, savings, etc. But then again, what DOES constitute success exactly? Who determines it? Isn't the fact that I'm doing a job that I absolutely love and adore enough? That I'm living my passion? That I'm truly content to be by myself? That I've made strides to cultivate this independence?

Yes, bastard voice in my head. A few years ago I definitely was NOT independent. But dammit, now I am. Yes, my family still helps me an unspeakable amount, but it's considerably less than it was when I first returned home.

But still, I'm so, so, so hurt by her stupid remarks. And now the doubt is creeping in that I'm still not enough of anything and that I will never, ever be. 

She totally got to me.

As with every new Internet fad, I immediately staked my little claim by registering.

And then I left it dormant for ages. Like a neglected grave. Tombstone engraved, yes, but unvisited and shamefully neglected to be overgrown, trampled upon, and ignored.

But now it has sputtered to life. (Okay, I don't know what's up with the life/death metaphors either. I'll try to stop. Soon.)

So now, here I am. Still mostly unvisited, overgrown and ignored, and barely clinging to life, but here. (Shhh. I said 'soon'. Which means "not likely to happen any time in the foreseeable future.")

You can, essentially though, blame her and hers.

Not sure yet whether I want my Tweets to nest here on the blog (truth is, I wouldn't know HOW to begin to get it here). But I think I'll keep them separate(d) for now. 'Cause, you know, a bird on the side is better than one in the blog. Or something like that. (Yes, I am equally as lame over there too. Only in fewer words. Now if THAT isn't enough to lure you into following me...)

P.S. Jack who? Yes, yes, yes. I KNOW. It's now being officially renamed The Jack Squat Project.

Jack Heffron, I've finally figured out the reasoning behind your first prompt in your "The Writer's Idea Book"! (Well, yes, I DID warn you that I was somewhat slow on the uptake, so don't give me that look!)

You want people to shower me with praise and compliments about my attempts at writing, right? RIGHT? And then you want me to acknowledge those times by saving the comments (if written) or to write it down myself so that it can carry me through those frequent (daily, really) times when I'm plagued with utter despair and self-doubt, right? So that I can, when times are tough, revisit the praise and compliments and not quit writing, even if I want to do nothing BUT lay down the pen and give up forever. Right?

Say yes, please, because it would serve as a very nice and convenient segue into this:

Well, Jack, nothing would stroke my fragile little ego more than being nominated for a South African Blog Award (or two...).

Yes, it's apparently that time of year again. I was going to let it slide this year, because come on, I don't have a snowball's chance in hell anymore. (The fact that I have even managed to get nominations before is utterly astonishing. But let's also remember that there were far fewer blogs around in South Africa when I began blogging. Now, though, the web is positively TEEMING with stiff South African competition.)

But as I've mentioned in my previous post, I'm not a quitter. So I'll be like the frog on that famous "Never give up" cartoon. Even though he is already mostly in the pelican's beak, he still has the ingenuity to get his frog arms (front legs? I'm not familiar with the anatomically correct terms for amphibian limbs) out and to use it to strangle the damn bird.

So this is me, strangling the pelican in a last second attempt to stay in the game.

And yes, of course it is last second, as usual. Because nominations close at midnight tonight South African time.

So all you do is go over here (please?) and nominate me and at least two other bloggers in at least three categories. (At least, that's my interpretation of the rules, but I might be way off, as usual.)

I even have some other fine bloggers in mind, in case you don't read any other South African blogs. Of course, I realise that I'm revealing this and running the tremendous risk that you would only nominate them and not me. But you know what? That would be perfectly okay, because they are all incredible and deserving of acknowledgment.

There is the lovely Po, the charming Village Pig, fiery Hells Kitchen,* Nafisa, Charmed, DBS, MyDigitalLife as a whole, (oh, and while we're mentioning them... kindly remember the other blog I write over there), Books4Cooks,* Silver and his buds, and... the list goes on and on and on.

See? Told you. Teeming!

Ta!

* Update: Even though the foodblogs.24.com links (Hell's Kitchen and Books4Cooks) appear to not be working, it's because they are just experiencing temporary site issues/maintenance. The links are correct, so nominate away!

Yes, yes... I know.

We're not yet two weeks in, and I'm already NINE DAYS behind schedule.

Luckily my three imaginary readers have been way too gracious to point this out in the comments. (Or to simply point at me and laugh, for that matter.) Even though I suspect that they haven't harboured a lot of hope for Jack and I and my grandiose ambitions for us ever since I first made the announcement about undertaking this hare-brained project. And really, who can blame them? I certainly can't...

But one thing I hope that my imaginary readers have gleaned about me by now is that, of all the names I can possibly be called, "quitter" isn't one of them. Proof? I once managed to not leave a country where I didn't exactly belong for almost an entire decade... (That's longer than many South Africans were exiled during Apartheid!)

Okay, so maybe that's not the best example... Perhaps the only thing it tells people about me is that I may have a tendency to "slightly" overstay my welcome? Or that this project I was so adamant to complete within a year is going to miraculously turn into TEN years of torture for everyone involved?

But no... not even I can face the prospect of that! (No offense, Jack... but dude, I am so commitment phobic, I can hardly stand to live with myself on a daily basis! Never mind sticking to you for more than a year... or... at the rate I'm going... two years.)

So I'm afraid if you were hoping that these days of deafening silence meant that it was the end of Jack and I, then you are in for a nasty surprise. You see, I really want to give Jack a fair crack. (Oh, look! A rhyme. Does this mean I can tick off the poetry section, should there be one? Yes, I don't know whether there is or not, see, because I'm not reading ahead. What you're seeing is my immediate reaction to Jack's prompts. So brace yer imaginary selves for something as potentially damaging to your senses as so-called 'reality' television shows! With the same level of 'intellectual stimulation' as well!)

Right, so... let me revert my deficient attention back to Jack and his "The Writer's Idea Book".

Oh, and... even more bad news. Since I ditched the last exercise halfway through, I am actually even further behind than I initially thought I was. So here goes. Répétéz. (Know idea which e the accent should be on, so when in doubt, just slap it on to every single one, non?) 

Last time we chatted, Jack was attempting to prompt me into listing "the positive messages you have received about writing or about any creative undertaking."

I thought he meant handwriting and it caused me to revisit a nasty childhood trauma.

Okay, also? I had completely overlooked the part where he had said POSITIVE messages. But luckily for me, I don't have to wrack my brain to try and find any positive feedback about writing, because then darling Jack saved me from certain embarrassment by proceeding to say: "... or about ANY creative undertaking."

Well, there was that time in the States when I, in a fit of homesickness, decided to teach myself the art of African beading. Now, before I continue to tell you this story, you have to know that, up until that very moment, I had never even HELD a needle in my hands. (Luckily I had transferred to art school - where there was no such barbaric practice/subject as Home Ec - long before I was able to do any damage to myself or anyone else. Trust me, wielding such a sharp object sewing/knitting needle in my clumsy hands would've spelled certain disaster... )

And oddly enough, just as with this entire Jack Project, I immediately plunged in way over my head with the beading. Decided to skip all the beginning projects (such as the daisy chains) and I went straight to...

The Zulu Love Letter.

In case you are a foreign imaginary reader, this warrants a bit of a description.

A Zulu Love Letter is an intricate beaded necklace painstakingly crafted from tiny, coloured seed beads by Zulu maidens to give to their lovers. The boys wear it around their necks to show the world that they are spoken for. Each different colour used in the necklace has a meaning. Red, for example, signifies fiery passion and means "I love you".

I sat for weeks... nay... MONTHS. Day and night. Cursing, squinting, piercing my fingers raw (so in this case the red in my necklace could very well mean bloody hell. Or something similar...), fraying or accidentally knotting kilometres worth of yarn, forcing me to start all over again... But so help me, I didn't quit until I had painstakingly, miraculously, crafted this:



 

 

Look Jack! I showed up!

Of course, since the first exercise merely states that I need to show up at a certain time daily for a week and that I don't have to write but I can't do anything else either, I could have just as easily not blogged for a week.

In fact, I could've bummed around every night for a week, doing LOTS of other things instead of writing... like... errrm... playing Spider Solitaire, and scarfing down snacks, and twiddling my thumbs, and - oooh, how rebellious - reading a BOOK... and TOLD you next week that I was here staring at the screen every night at the same time not necessarily writing but definitely not doing anything else either... and you would have had absolutely no choice but to take my (unwritten) word for it!

But look at me! Here I am! I don't know what's overcome me... Maybe I HAVE been abducted by former illegal aliens to be taken back to the Land of the Undocumented? Because normally I'm so commitment phobic, I can hardly stand to live with myself, but for some obscure reason, I'm taking this commitment to you very seriously.

So yes, I've decided to be all honourable about it and prove to you that I'm going to show up at 11ish every evening.

Also? I've just had a good look at this "The Writer's Idea Book" of yours, which, as you'll recall, is the entire reason for me being here right now. And look, I'll be the first to admit that maths has never been my strong suit. In fact, it's not my suit at all. I'm so terrible at numbers? I don't even possess the capacity to memorise my own phone number.

But despite all of my - what's the amount when you have no knowledge about something again? Oh, right, zero. See? Told you. So yes, despite my being severely numerically challenged? Even I have realised with more than a bit of alarm that your book contains 400 exercises. And the year only has 365 days.

Which has the potential to mean several things: I'm doomed and will never get done on time, so I might as well quit this entire hare-brained project right now.
Or?
I will have to do more than one exercise... per day...

(I can't believe I just wrote that... Jackie... WHAT have you done to me?)

So yes, I suppose I have no choice but to proceed. Right. Now.

Red opens "The Writer's Idea Book" with a certain amount of dread. This is the next exercise (or prompt, as Jack prefers to call it, probably because he knew how averse some of his students would be to the word 'exercise'): "List the positive messages you have received about writing or about any creative undertaking. What did people say?"

Oh, Jack... do we REALLY need to go there? This will be traumatic, man.

"She is the only student I have EVER encountered in my entire 100-years of teaching who tried to take a short cut with this assignment." - Mrs. Van Emmenis, Grade 1 teacher. It's a direct quote from the comment she had scribbled in red ink in my writing 101 book next to the line where I was supposed to have painstakingly copied out the letter 'm'. I must've grown tired after making the first two m's, and the line in that exercise book suddenly seemed way too long and daunting to fill up with even MORE m's. So I simply wrote one EXTREMELY fat m, which I stretched out across the rest of the line. 

Like thusly:

Oops. Wait... messed up the picture.

Let's try this again.



So yes, that was among my very first bits of writing, and I took that first critique of it very very hard.

Okay, the prompt isn't done yet. Here's what Jack wants to know now: "How did they say it?"

Jackie, I already TOLD you. She used the angry red ink.

What's that? OHHHH, you meant WRITING and not HANDwriting!

Well, shucks man, you should've said so! Don't make your prompts so long! I've always despised multiple-question commands, because halfway through, I invariably figure out that I had misunderstood it all along.

And, wait... you mean I have just revisited this deeply buried, life-long damaging childhood trauma for NOTHING!?!?

Okay, that's it. I'm done here.

(But I'll probably be back tomorrow. And we both know it, don't we, Jack? For now though, I'm pretending to stomp off in a huff and you are going to pretend to BELIEVE that I'm quitting you and this stoopid project right now and look all deflated-like about it.)

Wow. Perhaps I should have publicly stated that I don't have a life a long time ago.

(Okay, yes, ha ha... I said 'publicly' while implying this blog. Who am I kidding, right? Anyway, kindly pretend to humour me as usual for the 'sake of this argument.)

I swear I was going to start with the Jack Project today*. But then... BUT THEN!

I suddenly - and this - as a number of any of the characters Reese Witherspoon has ever portrayed on film would say with a Southern draaaawl - well, whaddayaknow, it's just the DAAAARRRRNDEST thang... I suddenly seemed to GET A LIFE!

I just got back from a fabulous, wine-soaked dinner at Ma'noush - a fine Lebanese establishment here in Stellenbosch. So wine-soaked, in fact, that its status has been elevated from fabulous to downright fabuloush. My head is fuzzy and pleasantly spinning as I'm typing this, so please be kind and overlook all spellling errors. (Go figure, I get a red squiggly line every time I type Stellenbosch, but not on the three l's of spellling. So much for trying to be ironic!)

And! As if me actually being out and about on ANY night (never mind a WEDNESDAY night) isn't remarkable enough, the promise of INTER PROVINCIAL travel has ALSO come up today!

(Trust me, for a girl who hasn't actually left the Western Cape Province of South Africa since February 2006? This is indeed a noteworthy event.)

Luckily, Mr. Heffron, I see that our first exercise is merely that you require me to... and I quote... show up. "Writer Thomas McGuane goes to his study at a certain time every day and stays there for a scheduled length of time," you write in your "The Writer's Idea Book". "He sits at his desk. "I don't have to write," he explains, "but I can't do anything else." Try this approach for a week, scheduling a specific period of time, during which you must sit at your desk or wherever you write. You don't have to write, but you can't do anything else."

Really, Mr. Heffron? Not even play Spider Solitaire or sip coffee?

Okay, kidding. I will take this seriously, I swear. And this bodes well if the first exercise in a How-To write book doesn't involve actual writing. Why, it actually appeals to my lazy nature! Because wouldn't you know, but as it is, I do spend hours and hours daily just staring at a blank screen, frozen with fear and inadequacy! And here I was worried that this was going to be like... difficult or something!

I was going to protest when you said "sit at your desk", but then you redeemed yourself immediately afterwards when you said "or wherever you write." So my bed will do then, right? That's about the only on-the-job perk that I currently enjoy (and the only one I have in common with hookers, but never mind): staying in bed.

The one thing that I DO have a problem with though, is the 'scheduling a specific period of time to do all this sitting around and not writing but not doing anything else either' in. Because you see, for a girl who has no life (and I SWEAR I usually don't. Today was just a complete fluke!) I may already have some scheduling conflicts. You see, I want to say 10 at night. But what if I get invited out again!? And the threat of that actually happening has become VERY REAL, I'll have you know! Then I might not be home by 10 to sit around and do nothing. And at 10 in the morning? Well, we all know that I'm extremely incoherent (or more so, then) before noon. At 11pm, really, is when I finally get my momentum for the day.

Oof. My hair is starting to hurt a bit now. Going to bed. (Did I mention that the momentum I gain at 11pm wears off at about 11:05ish pm?

*Huh... guess I have accidentally started with the project on time after all, then! I look forward to the next no-writing writing exercise!