The Glamour of Writing

Note: written on the evening of 28 Dec 2010, prepping to edit...

Random observation: Dave Grohl is a fucking god.

The above observation has been made because I am listening to the Foo Fighter’s Greatest Hits as I prep to write. I should say, as I work through my pre-writing anxiety attack. Because I get anxiety attacks many, many times before I start writing. Not a “GIMME A XANAX!” kind of anxiety attack (usually, although I had one of those last night because I REALLY jacked up Broom Closet a few notches; great stuff, but a bit taxing on the psyche). This is why I need music before and while I write—it works me through whatever is making me nuts, almost a bit like hypnosis. I have a few artists/CDs that I write to—the soundtrack to Queen of the Damned is really excellent for writing Rebecca. It sums her up in so many ways (although, seriously, that bit in the middle of “Down with the Sickness” is just EMBARRASSING; great song otherwise, but… *sigh*). The Foo Fighters are also good. My workout mix is pretty good because there’s a lot of angry, rhythmic stuff on there. I have a habit of getting stuck on a certain song and just playing it over and over again (the Foo’s “Long Road to Ruin”—Gods, I love that song).

I am currently huddled in my dining room, lappie set up at one end of the table under the Xmas tree (don’t ask), and freezing my arse off. According to the Weather Channel, there is approximately 19” of snow outside. Argh. SHOOT ME! After an incredibly healthy dinner (decision to eat healthier is happening: demolished a pile of Sorrento salad mix with just a touch of Raspberry Vinaigrette, half of a single tomato puff pastry pizza, a tangerine—why are they so more-ish? swear I could eat five of ‘em at a sitting if my stomach and common sense would let me—and a cup of chicken soup; I really can’t live anywhere I can’t get to a Trader Joe’s), I’m at the keyboard with a couple of pieces of homemade peppermint bark and a trenta (thank the Gods for Via—no fucking way I am venturing out today). Eddie Ifft sent out a twit today that is making me itch to get back in the gym (bought some toning bands and workout equipment last week, so once I clear out the big space in my room, I have some room to actually EXERCISE REGULARLY. Body is screaming for it—a GOOD thing. I will be really, really happy if I can get another 50 pounds off before April, and another 100 before my b-day).

My writing ensemble is very glamourous—navy blue sweats, thermal undershirt, navy blue fleece shirt, lime green fuzzy socks (thank you, Vicki!), fleece carpet slippers, forest green fleece bathrobe (dotted with cat fur clumps—Piddy likes to sleep on it when I’m at work) wrapped around my back and legs, lime green fleece throw over the gap in the chair back to block the draft, grey Red Sox hoodie zipped up to my chin, and black half gloves with Jack Skellington grinning at me. Oh, and hair shoved up in a pony tail (think the scrunchy is hot pink), glasses (can’t wear contacts if I’m going to be staring at the screen unrelenting for an eight hour stretch), and yellow rubber duckie earbuds stuck in my ears to block out the world and keep the music in.

Shit. Have to go and fetch my bottle of water from my room. Can’t work without hydration—the coffee doesn’t count. Meds & cell phone to the right of the lappie, USB cord for the Zune to the left (on top of the CD case for QOFTD), box of tissues just past that, emergency chocolate for the 1:00 a.m. slump under the tissues, and more tangerines, apples and cheese in the kitchen for the 4:00 a.m. refueling. Right. Now, just to fetch the water and the Carmex (nothing more distracting and annoying than chapped lips), and I can get writing.

After I finish typing this, have a bit of peppermint bark, drink some coffee, and play a couple rounds of Chuzzle.