Offended by Rank Objectification of Writers

Disclaimer: This is not mine. I found it by following a link from a friend and it made me laugh, then wince, then look for the hidden camera in my office. 

There is this thing currently going around tumblr about why dating a writer is good. I think it’s nice that this thing is going around, because I like writers, and lots of us could use more dates. As a writer who has dated people, though — including other writers — I would like to offer some correctives to this list.

The items in bold are the alleged reasons to date a writer. I have replaced the original commentary with my bleak corrective, in lightface.

1. Writers will romance you with words. We probably won’t. We write for ourselves or for money and by the time we’re done we’re sick of it. If we have to write you something there’s a good chance it’ll take us two days and we’ll be really snippy and grumpy about the process.
2. Writers will write about you. You don’t want this. Trust me.
3. Writers will take you to interesting events. No. We will not. We are busy writing. Leave us alone about these “interesting events.” I know one person who dates a terrific writer. He goes out alone. She is busy writing.
4. Writers will remind you that money doesn’t matter so much. Yes. We will do this by borrowing money from you. Constantly.
5. Writers will acknowledge you and dedicate things to you. A better way to ensure this would be to become an agent. That way you’d actually make money off of talking people through their neuroses.
6. Writers will offer you an interesting perspective on things. Yes. Constantly. While you’re trying to watch TV or take a shower. You will have to listen to observations all day long, in addition to being asked to read the observations we wrote about when you were at work and unavailable for bothering. It will be almost as annoying as dating a stand-up comedian, except if you don’t find these observations scintillating we will think you’re dumb, instead of uptight.
7. Writers are smart. The moment you realize this is not true, your relationship with a writer will develop a significant problem.
8. Writers are really passionate. About writing. Not necessarily about you. Are you writing?
9. Writers can think through their feelings. So don’t start an argument unless you’re ready for a very, very lengthy explication of our position, our feelings about your position, and what scenes from our recent fiction the whole thing is reminding us of.
10. Writers enjoy their solitude. So get lost, will you?
11. Writers are creative. This is why we have such good reasons why you should lend us $300 and/or leave us alone, we’re writing.
12. Writers wear their hearts on their sleeves. Serious advice: if you meet a writer who’s actually demonstrative, be careful.
13. Writers will teach you cool new words. This is possibly true! We may also expect you to remember them, correct your grammar, and look pained after reading mundane notes you’ve left for us.
14. Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for you. Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for writing. Are you writing? Get in line, then.
15. Writers can find 1000 ways to tell you why they like you. By the 108th you’ll be pretty sure we’re just making them up for fun.
16. Writers communicate in a bunch of different ways. But mostly writing. Hope you don’t like talking on the phone — that shit is rough.
17. Writers can work from anywhere. So you might want to pass on that tandem bike rental when you’re on vacation.
18. Writers are surrounded by interesting people. Every last one of whom is imaginary.
19. Writers are easy to buy gifts for. This is true. Keep it in mind when your birthday rolls around, okay?
20. Writers are sexy. No argument. Some people think this about heroin addicts, too.

(Source: 52hearts)

 reblogged from douglasmartini

A messy desk is a sign of genius, right?

Have you ever put something right there and then had it move on you?

That happened to me this morning--or sometime in the last month. I spent the morning sifting through the wreckage that is my office looking for something. And while I've found a coin purse that I've been seeking, a purple pen that I thought my nephew lost and a now-expired coupon that I needed two weeks ago, I still didn't find the receipt for my allergy medicine so I can get it refilled.

It moved on me.

I don't know where it went, but I suspect Florida.

Of course, I've always heard that a messy desk is a sign of genius. If so, I'm a rocket scientist by the look of my office.

Typically, I'm a fairly neat housekeeper. I dust and vacuum regularly, don't like clean or dirty clothes piled in the bedroom, and I never use my treadmill as a coat rack. But this cleanliness (obsession, some have called it) doesn't extend to my office. Never has. Probably never will, if I'm honest.

My filing system is a series of piles--this one for receipts, that one for unread magazines, and this really sloppy one for notes and ideas for books. Books spill off the shelves and pile up on the floor. Pens litter the available surfaces like ants at a picnic and new/half-used notebooks are everywhere else.

In fact, the recipe for cold fusion could be in this room and corporate spies would never be able to find it. I suppose that is the upside of this mess. I'd know immediately if anyone rifled through my stuff because not even James Bond could go through my desk and put everything back where it goes.

That's a good thing, isn't it?

A bit of bragging...everyone join in.

For the past couple of weeks, my writing life has felt like I'm slogging uphill, weights tied to my ankles while a hurricane rages and mud splatters up to my knees. I don't feel like I'm writing enough, what I do write feels like dreck and my characters are beginning to sound like two-year-olds: whine, whine, whine.

But while working on edits yesterday, I tripped over a couple of sentences that reminded me that, yes, I an do this. So I thought I'd share. The set-up: My hero is trying to find his runaway sister, Charlotte, who refuses to come live with him after their parents are killed in a car accident.

Tipping his head to one side, Nick rolled it slightly, feeling the slight pop of cartilage and bone in his neck. He rolled his head to the other side, then froze, trapped in a memory of his father doing the same. Grief rolled through him, a wave of want and anger that he had no idea how to manage. Bereavement was like Charlotte. He couldn't reason with it, anticipate it, or walk away from it.

All he could do was not let it rule him. 

I don't remember writing it, but I'll keep it.

Because these up and downs are simply part of a writer's life, I'm throwing this blog open to you. Please share a snippet that reminds you that you're a writer. I think we all need to brag a bit every now and then.