…really, it’s me!

To me,
I know I’m a piece of work, but am I really a work of fiction? Books should relate to the reader, but I might be too weird. The truth of it is that my life is not fiction, at least not until after I finish writing about it. It turns out that most times my truth is stranger than fiction!

THE QUIZ

As research for the book, I took a quiz to see what kind of a person I am. Quizzes are informative. That’s why we buy the absurd magazines, right—for the quiz?

1. Locked out of the house? …batting 1.000 so far!
2. Locked the keys in the car? …weekly? …in with the child?
3. Left a family member at the store? …and noticed?
4. Put something unusual into the refrigerator? ha!
5. Used the wrong name for a family member? Always!
6. Left the iron on. …for weeks?
7. Dialed a number and forgot who you called? … again.
8. Turned white clothes pink in the wash? … today?
9. Put your heel through your hem—fixed it with tape?
10. Had a zipper break—and fixed it with staples?
11. Wore two different shoes—color and style?
12. Shopped for groceries without a purse—and money?
13. Left without the children in the car—and the groceries?
14. Forgot where you were going—and how to get there?
15. Discovered food in the oven left there from last night—and ate it for breakfast!

I have a perfect score! 100%, and that means I’m absolutely normal, the epitome of perfection! This quiz proves it, therefore everyone should be able to relate to me.[1] So the book should be a success!

Can you tell me you’ve never been on hold so long, you forgot who you called? The clerk comes back on the line and asks politely for whom I am holding and the only word I can think of is hamburger.

“I misplaced my hamburger,” I respond. She perkily responds, “Okay,” and she puts me back on hold … almost. She comes back on, “Did you say hamburger?” Laughter wells in her voice.
Employees at stores are not allowed to show shock, surprise or emotion of any kind, but she must have reached her saturation level.

Reality Bite: I provide entertainment on some level anyway.

[1] Or at least consider me an expert.

...starving

To me
I’ve finished writing three times. At some point in my writing, I must admit the truth—that the font is not at fault. It’s not going to get any better when it’s printed in a different format—with the spelling and grammar checked—that no matter how much I try to improve it, there may not be much anyone can do. This is it! Let it go! Terina

January, I immerse myself in my new venture. I sink into the writing, surfacing for nothing and no one. I float it by a friend who loves it and a contest… that hates it.

February, I live on the theory that chocolate slows down the aging process … it may not be true, but who dares risk it?

March: The guilt sets in and I write less insanely, but still manage to accomplish the better part of nothing.

April: My parents read and then pan the book. They know me, and they’re right. Dad thinks it’s bombastic, boring, and bilious. “Learn from other humorists, or go back to writing instruction manuals.” Mom gently agrees that college may be an option.

To me,
This book is about uniqueness, being an oddball just like everybody else. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. Parents know best. How many times have I, myself, echoed that mantra? T

It’s May and I’m seeking the voice—the melodious tone that keeps the reader enrapt—the mellifluous essence of the soul. When I find mine, it’s a raucous din that makes no sense whatsoever. This too may never end, not in June, or even July. This jaunt may be a ten-year odyssey into the future.[1]

June passes, then July and while on vacation, I find a glut of fresh butchers to carve away the gristle! As they read the essays, they express an initial enthusiasm to go at it with a meat cleaver, but they are easily overwhelmed by the task at hand and they either nod off or drift away.

[1] The teenager’s homework assignment is Homer. Can you tell?

...fiction, friction

“Make it fiction,” I’m advised. “The average person can’t identify with your character because no one believes this person is real.” So in August the book becomes an unauthorized biography,[1] but writing in third person is like weird channeling, and I lapse back into the creativity of reading other people’s writing.

To me,
Abstaining from writing is not so bad, only a little depressing, which means I’m not dressing, cooking, cleaning or doing anything around the house…still. But everyone has done my job so well. T.

September canters by with a second rewrite, but the ideas come like a recalcitrant mule! I’m told agents hate books written in first person. It’s October and still the ideas balk. I’m not writing in November either. Well… unless an idea ambles past then I, with all bets, am off![2]

November, I can no longer truss up the family, so I quit cold turkey. I pluck myself away from the drudge and vow to spend more time waddling with toddlers, just for the pure joy of it.

It’s December and I can’t squeeze any more into the overflowing package of life, so I’m going to wrap it up in January, and resolve never to write again.

There go the resolutions, and I’m repeating the whole process again. Will it ever be finished? And does it matter? Truthfully, who cares, except the people who are covering for me, doing the chores and keeping house.

Reality Bite: It’s their turn. That’s Life.

[1] What could be more fictitious than that?
[2] This sentences rankles the grammar puss like no other.