I’m always getting inspiration on what to write in the bathtub, but then I forget it until the next morning, and here I sit, all creaky in the attic, trying to remember those ideas that sprouted between lather and rinse. Maybe I should just go huddle in the empty tub with a notebook and let destiny take over.
Little leery of the conclusion to be drawn from the fact that my ideas spring universal from that area where the shitter is located, but hey… we all have our process, right?
My idea yesterday was: Very good reasons not to date a writer.
This is a really good reason right here. Do you really want to wake to some freak sitting in front of the computer, staring at the ceiling, muttering to herself and typing ‘famibialtilaithdl;akdfh’ to try and get their reeking slug of a mind into drive?
No. I mean, I don’t. Eccentrics are fun, but if you actually speak during this process, your writer love is going to look at you like you just threw a baby in the toilet. Their irritation at themselves for being a big dumb hickey-monkey will be projected onto you, and unreasonable questions will be raised like, “Do you hafta breathe so loud?”
The process. Most writers are in love with their work, but they look like they hate it. They are irritable and antisocial and distracted while it’s happening. The brow furrows, the nose wrinkles, there is a ‘tap, tap, tap’ of pen on desk, or thumb on keys that seems ominous in between a rabble-rousing clatter of inspired type work. This would signal to a normal person that things are going well, but in 11 minutes when they read this passage over they are going to hate it, hate themselves, hate the fucking cat, hate the word ‘delirious’ and hate you, if you make some squeak or motion that requires them to acknowledge your presence.
Writers are a real picnic.
I remember kneeling against our ottoman in college, composing a very poignant, profound love sentiment to my then boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. He came into the room and started talking to me, and I grew angry, “I”m TRYING to write you a fucking LOVE-LETTER, but if you’d rather, you know, have a conversation… Great. Let’s do that. Let’s talk about freakin’ dinner, that’s *way* more important than whatever I’m doing here.”
I balled the paper up and threw it in the garbage. He looked stunned. He looked how I imagine Steve Irwin looked when that ray bobbed him in the heart. For one second there had to be that you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me-look… “I’ve wrestled with crocs, man-handled cobras, double-dared rhinos, and THIS is how it’s gonna end?”
I did eventually fish my beautiful sentiment out of the garbage again. He insisted that I give him the original version, all crinkled up and scribbled in the middle from the temper tantrum. I guess that’s romantic…
No. It’s just weird.