Sleepless in Maryland

I haven't had a good night's sleep in almost twenty years. My husband Victor snores loudly -- very loudly. I've often thought of forming a support group called S.O.S. for spouses of snorers. We'd all meet at a lovely hotel but we wouldn't have an affair, we'd just sleep through the night. Except for several business trips of Victor's and my traveling on my own to Italy and Ireland (terribly expensive to fly to another country in order to sleep through the night), I'm the most sleep-deprived person I know. It's a wonder that from sheer lack of "beauty rest" I don't look like that annoying little gecko always hawking car insurance on TV. Am I the only one who would like to stick the Geico gecko in a shoebox? I'd poke holes in it (the shoebox) the way we did for the fireflies in the mayonnaise jar and leave him somewhere in the attic. Every night, once what I call "the great snore" begins, I tiptoe from our bedroom to the guest room, carefully closing both doors. The guest room doubles as my study and this is a good thing in case my muses amuse themselves during the night.

There are two kinds of interrupted sleep -- the horrid, and the the heavenly. Most of us are too familiar with the former, lying there worrying about bills, health, past mistakes, future endeavors. As Yul Brynner says in The King and I, "Etc.etc.etc." I rarely take advice so I rarely give any but if I were to suggest one thing to fellow and sister insomniacs it would be, "Do not, under any circumstances, review your life at three in the morning!" The exception to this guideline would be those of you who are perfect and have led perfect lives filled with perfect choices -- all two of you. For me, the heavenly fractured sleep is when lines for a poem or story gently nudge me awake and insist on being written or at the very least, remembered. This seems the best writing as it isn't competing with nonsensical but necessary thoughts like should I vacuum today? In the middle of the night, creativity has center stage in my soul. 

Sunrise finds me staring at the ceiling fan -- round base, five paddles, three light bulb fixtures, two chains, some dust -- and listening to whiny owls, whistley birds, and neighborhood dogs with a rooster complex. It's odd, but I grew up in Manhattan and I sometimes wonder if I'd sleep better to the city sounds of sirens and taxi cabs. Often, I haven't even gotten out of bed yet and I'm looking forward to an afternoon nap. Napping is one of the great benefits of being retired but one gets so little writing done when asleep.

A while ago, I put together a short comedy (three minutes, like a boiled egg) about writing and insomnia. In it, I cleverly disguise some of myself as a playwright named Jack. A friend who is a nurse informed me I have the same muscle condition (it's called pain) that JFK had. I'm honored, but have no intention of running for political office.  I hope you enjoy the video -- and a good night's sleep.

Letting Go of Perfect

I realize to stay enthusiastic about this blog, I need to let go of what can I call it, chronic editing?  I've already rewritten the first sentence of this post -- twice.  It's slow going for perfectionists and life doesn't wait on the precise placement of a semi-colon.  Flaubert sometimes took a week to write one page. I'm not favoring careless writing.  One of my favorite quotes will always be Mark Twain's "The difference between the almost right word & the right word is really a large matter -- it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning."  I am talking about things like the fact that when I learned how to type I was taught to put two spaces between sentences.  Now, one space is the acceptable format. For a while I actually "corrected" the spacing in some of my documents.  The time this took tacked on to my compulsive edit-as-you-write syndrome was preventing me from -- yes, actually finishing a writing project.  What I wrote was shiny and almost perfect but almost never complete. I've got some killer first paragraphs just sort of hanging there on the page, looking lovely but rather lonely.

I debated for a long while about even beginning a blog.  Would it interfere with my writing or would it nudge me into writing?  The jury is still out on this one. Google makes blogging so user-friendly and easy I decided not to resist. The best piece of advice I read was to make my blog what I wanted it to be not be ruled by what I thought it "ought" to be.  In spite of quite a few years of affirmation as a writer and warm support from members of Scribd, the social network for writers, I still get what seems like an odd form of author stage fright when I write and publish something new.  I am fairly confident when it comes to my writing but still there is that edge of doubt with new writing that translates something like "Is this really good or am  I kidding myself?"  A poem I wrote yesterday is a good example of my page fright as I only edited two of the original lines and posted it almost immediately after I'd written it.  This is sort of like an alcoholic drinking only lemonade for a year or a food addict eating just carrots for two years.  I'll always be caring and meticulous about what I write but if I can stop editing a sentence before I've finished writing it I'll get more work completed.

THAT DAY

I could not know would be

the last time tight in the saddle

my legs hugging the horse

my heart jumping with joy

the guide tapping his cowboy hat

(that ought to have been

a safety helmet but wasn’t)

I was nowhere near

an accomplished enough rider

for a full gallop and I am glad

because that’s me chanting

over and over and over “Oh

my God Oh my God oh my…”

in the shade of the mountains

and divine amusement.