Tag Archives: writing

Oh, Hey Holidaytime. It’s You–Again.

photo copyAnother year down? Seriously? I used to make fun of my grandmother when she said time passes more quickly the older you get. With all of the supreme confidence of a fourteen-year-old I’d roll my eyes at her and say, “No, it doesn’t.” I didn’t even have the scientific chops to back up my argument with points about time and space. All I had was arrogance. And now I don’t even have that. Because I swear it was just January, that I was just trying to wrangle my mistakenly penned “one” into the lines of a two on the end of the date, that I was taking down the Christmas decorations I have just put up. And every single one of them looks more familiar to me, more recent. So, even though I hear the seconds on the clock by my desk ticking away at their usual steady pace, I have to conclude my grandmother was right. Time is accelerating.

The fun part is, there’s nothing to do about it. Not in a Dr. Who, let’s-build-a-time-machine-and-slow-this-shit-down, sort of sense. At least not for me. Because if you were paying attention to the above paragraph then you already know I had no scientific tendencies early on, and an absence of continuing education for the past twenty years has done nothing to enhance my situation. If time were about to cease and the world’s population turned in unison and cried, “Avery, you are our only hope,” well, that would be the last thing they ever said. Barring me growing a big girl brain and changing the space-time continuum, we move on to the notion of  shoving as much crap as possible into my remaining time. Shockingly, I have issues with this, as well.

The internet is rife with memes, we all know this. Some have cute cats doing silly things (yeah, I kinda like them, what of it?), while many others offer advice for dealing with the very conundrum of which we now speak. Grand, sprawling images of nature, soaring eagles, runners bursting through the yellow tape, all highlight the brilliant white text urging me in some pithy way to live the day like it is my final. And I look at these magical, inspiring images and think, “Are you fucking serious?”

How is telling me to think of now as my last moments on the planet good motivation for getting me to take time in hand and sit down and work? Pretending to cling to the last thread of existence in order to get my life in order seems highly counterproductive. Yes, I love writing. I’m doing it now and waves of love are pouring out of me like solar flares. But I can guarangoddamntee that if today were my last day I would not be doing this. I would be doing other things. Far more dangerous, stupid things. Because why not? I’m about to die. I go off every day pretending today’s the day I check out and you know what I have? Not 15,000 words at the end of the week, but drunken heroin addict with crabs enrolled in acrobat school.

The question remains, then, what does one do when time continues to spiral out of control? I suppose my grandmother had that answer, but I never asked her. And now she’s gone–far faster than she’d have thought when she was twenty, I’d wager. But, knowing my practical grandmother, I think she’d say, “Not a goddamn thing” (she loved that particular expletive and it seems to have rubbed off on me at some point). The earth will keep spinning, and, like a playground bully with the merry-go-round, time is going to run faster and faster trying to shake me off. But I can be good with that. I like my trees and ornaments, and am happy to see them again, even if it all feels a little sooner than expected.

What to Say, What to Say?

Every writer who blogs suggests that if one is to blog one must develop a platform. “Have something to say,” they say. “Have something to tell people and make them come back.”

All I have to say to that advice is, “Well, crap.”

I don’t have any real platform to climb upon. You want writing advice? There are a thousand other writers out there who have more experience and better means of imparting information than I. You want derby advice? Who doesn’t? Go stare at a picture of Suzy Hotrod for a while, watch some bout footage, and then go put on your skates and try out the stuff you liked. You want renovation advice? Don’t start gutting your 1920’s house. It’s a can of worms you will never again close. Seriously. Leave It Alone. 

See? None too helpful, am I? That’s why I simply rant. I grew my blogger page for years and then decided Google was evil and moved over here. Now I must start again. But I really don’t feel like it. It’s not that I don’t like you guys. I totally do. It’s just that there comes a point between writing words that will make me money and writing words that will waste the time and eyeball strength of three people who are nice enough to keep reading the crap I spew out the few times a year I manage to do so. Right now, I’m choosing to write the words that make me money (or have the potential for doing so).

There are some hopeful prospects on the writing front that I can’t quite divulge to you, yet. But, things are looking up. Until I get a handle on those things, though, I don’t feel I have enough to tell you to make it anywhere near interesting. So, I won’t even try.

In place of a platform, then, I’m just going to give you a rundown of what’s been going on with Avery these past few months: I still play roller derby for our league’s All-Star team. We’ve had five bouts, lost one. Two more to go before the season ends. We expect to win both. I’ve played at DuBurn’s Arena against Charm City’s Female Trouble. That bout was broadcast on the Derby News Network (a big deal) and we won (a HUGE deal). We have an away bout on Saturday in Pennsylvania and then a home game for our b-team on Sunday, which might make my head explode as I am the chairlady of the bout production committee (that means if some key item or detail is forgotten for the bout it is my fault).

The Architect and I have been working on our house. For three weeks we had our bed on the living room floor AND the entire contents of our kitchen pantry surrounding it as we gutted the upstairs bedroom, removed the floor (kitchen ceiling) and tore out the plaster and upper cabinets in the kitchen. We ate off of plastic plates until two days ago when the kitchen was returned to a sort of stasis while we continue with the bedroom. That’s how we work, renovation-wise–get it “good enough” and then move on to the next thing. We’re reverse locusts.

Oh, and I watched part of that Grizzly Man documentary this morning. I was disturbed.

I think I might now be as scared of bears as I am of whales. 

Yeah, right.  

But I don’t ever want to see a bear in the wild. I suck at climbing trees. I would just dangle from the first limb and be a piñata for the bear. A big, blood-spewing piñata.

And that is my completely platform-free post.