30 november

Is it rude to write about other people? It is not.

Or I should say, it depends what you write.

Slander is rude. Libel is rude. These are both more or less the same thing, I think, and they are both more than rude. You don’t need an expose on Russian hackers to tell you that.

But really, lots of writers borrow generously from their real lives to create total fiction, not to mention memoir, essays, and other non-fiction bits of goodness. So, how do you feel about this as a reader? Imagine. What if someone in your family wrote a memoir. You’d very likely be at the very least mentioned. Whether or not the facts were presented fairly, whether or not you were presented as you imagine yourself to be… these are all up to the author to decide. We all have our own perspectives on events, on other people, and ourselves. It’s only natural that these perspectives color our writing, just as much as they color our speaking, our listening, and our interactions. Of course, since memoir is generally based on a person’s memories (no kidding), it’s rare that every single recorded detail happened exactly as the text presents it. Sometimes this is simply the author’s best estimation, and sometimes it’s done with the idea of rosying up the color of the glass through which the event is best viewed. Meaning, making it better. Making the people (usually the author’s own self or character in particular) smarter or funnier. We all do this all the time. There’s nothing necessarily malicious about it. Remember the last time you told someone a story that took place when they weren’t around? (If you’re telling people stories that took place when they were there, come on. Get it together. Either tell your audience to work on their memory, if they really don’t recall, or stop telling people what they already know!) When recounting things that happened, we have a tendency to polish up exactly what was said, especially. Nobody wants to tell a story like this:

“So, I was like, ‘Hey, what’s going on.’ and he was like ‘What? Are you talking to me? Oh. Not much.’ so then I was like ‘Maybe let’s go did you want to go to I mean if you want we could go to the s-s-s-store.’ and he was like ‘Whatever. I’ve got I have some homework and I need to, you know, like, do it. Before I go to, uh, basketball.’

Yep. That’s probably exactly what happened. But it’s a terrible story. And it’s poorly told. That is, it’s probably accurately told, but the language used is weak. This is what happens when we, as speakers, are left to our own devices. Am I suggesting that we read from scripts rather than interacting naturally with each other? I mean.

ME: I had something really interesting happen to me today.

YOU: Oh, yeah? Do tell.

ME: I’d be delighted to regale you with this anecdote.

YOU: Please proceed posthaste!

ME: First, I encountered a gentleman of an age…

YOU: Of what age was the gentleman, pray tell?

ME: Why, he was the gentleman’s age, of course!

YOU: Merry, and you are well met today!

ME: To wit, methinks I have partaken in much coffee of the morning!

YOU: Duh.

Yeah, that took a gradual but definite Shakespearean turn. You might have been saying the whole time “I sonnet coming!”

No? Well. Forsooth.

29 november

This goes out to everyone having a diet cherry coke along with their Ghirardelli chocolate brownie with apparent chocolate chips. Makes total sense to me.

You might think I’m mocking you, unusually specific and yet not necessarily hypothetical friend. You’ll note here, of course, that a hypothetical friend is not the same as an imaginary friend. This one, at least, comes with a lot more specifications. This one, I’d say, has a better chance of being real. No offense intended to all you imaginary friends out there, wherever you are, exactly.

I’ve also learned recently that people don’t know when to take me seriously. You’re right, yes -- this isn’t exactly news to me. But I generally think I’m pretty clear. I am hopeful, at least, that people know what I’m saying, if not always exactly what I have in mind. Who knows what I have in mind? Not me. Nope. I don’t blame you for not knowing when I can’t figure it out myself. Hopefully my words will speak for me. Ha! See what I did there? Didn’t even see it coming. Yikes.

But. Not mocking. Not knocking. In this case, I’m being totally serious. Real as steel, as someone might say. I might say that. I just did say that. Technically, I wrote it, yes, you’re right. But now I’ll say it out loud. Just a sec.

Yep. I said it. There you go. Honestly. Done.

Don’t believe me? That’s just on you.

But. Really. I’m unafraid to talk to myself aloud, but I’m concerned you might not believe me. Insecurity? Yep.

Annnnnnnnnd now I’m done.

28 november

The Kid was writing a really interesting story. It was really going somewhere. In reality, the idea was that it was going backward. So fancy! If she had a genre as a person, it might have been experimental or literary. She said she was cool, and she was! Here's the idea of the story: In every chapter, the story moves farther back towards the beginning. However, within every chapter, things move ahead forward. That is to say: So, in the first chapter, for example, it could have been a discussion of someone's dinner. [This is not accurate in terms of content, but it's simply used as an illustrating device, so bear with me.] In the first chapter -- actually let's start farther back. In the first chapter, someone is getting ready for bed -- let's call it a woman. The character, not the bed. Although, whatever you like. If that's what you're into. If you prefer one of those languages where everything is gendered. I'm just saying. There's nothing wrong with that. So, at the beginning of the chapter the characters getting ready for bed. She brushes her teeth she changes her clothes into pajamas. [Poof! They are pajamas!]. She gets into bed. She listens to part of her favorite podcast. She starts to fall asleep. She suddenly realizes that she was supposed to put her computer in her bag for work the next day and had better do so soon or she would likely forget. She jumps up and puts the laptop in the bag. She then gets back into bed. She switched out podcast in favor of some music. She falls asleep. She has a dream in which she forgot to put her laptop in the bag and went to work to run a meeting without a computer. It was more or less a nightmare. It's more or less a dream that she had more or less every night. This is more or less an exaggeration. She started to have the dream where she was on the way to school as a child, and kept missing the bus, and then had to run in between houses in the neighborhood to catch the bus at one of the later stops... And then she woke up... And then she fell back asleep. I'm not saying that this is an interesting chapter of an interesting book, but let's say that it's the first chapter in the kids book. In the second chapter, let's say, again just in this ridiculous example and not because it would be a good story, the character is eating dinner. She has set the table for one, meaning herself. She has baked a potato, or rather the microwave has done so. She's standing in the kitchen waiting for the microwave to do its business, Which sounds grosser than it really is, but she’s not thinking about that. She's thinking about what to put on her potato. Baked beans are always nice, but there just don't seem to be any in the cabinet. Do you say cupboard? Whatever. The cupboard is bare of beans. She imagines the dream of having sour cream. She does not, in fact, have sour cream, but it is a delicious dream. She does, however, have butter and also salt and pepper. Upon further examination, the cabinet offers up creamed corn. This is acceptable. Once the potato is out of the microwave, it having done its own non dirty business, she opens a can of creamed corn and pours part of it over the potato. She then proceeds to sit down at the table and reread her mail. While eating is delicious potato and corn combo, of course. When done, she wonders if she has another potato in the kitchen. She does not. She puts away her bowl in the dishwasher, and then drinks some chocolate milk while standing in front of the open refrigerator, having previously taken right out of the refrigerator. As if that was well explained at all. Anyway, enough for everyone! Maybe she then sits down to watch some TV. Whatever you already know what happens next because it's in the preceding chapter. So, what do you think happens in chapter 3? Well you might guess that she has lunch, don't be ridiculous. In fact, she has afternoon!

27 november

It's surprising how far you can get when you're feeling bad. Maybe this doesn't happen with everyone, but it happens with me. When I am set to do something, like teach, for example, I can usually make it through without collapsing... At least until the day is over. At that point, my body somehow recognizes that it has fulfilled its duty for the day, and promptly ceases to communicate effectively with either my brain or its own constituent parts. It's like someone pulled out my spinal cord, if that isn't a gross enough image. If you prefer something a little bit more whimsical, you might consider the idea that I am a puppet and somehow someone let go of my strings. You know, like a marionette, is what I meant. However, yes, I do find the idea of being a marionette entirely distasteful. Therefore, I chose the more gross of the two options to share with you for consideration as a metaphor. I could have just said “Sometimes I get sick and tired and then I collapse and feel sleepy and sick and go all achy. However, that's not who I am. I'm a writer. I have things to say. There is no situation that cannot be made into a metaphor. Or a simile, like, if that's what you like. You see what I did there? As I was saying, I'm a writer. It's my right. See what else I did there? Yes, I do think I am funny. I also think I am punny. Punishingly so. I hope you will. When people somehow decide not to play along with wordplay, it's very distressing for the rest of us who do enjoy that kind of banter. Is it important, or even helpful at all in communication? Truly for some of us, the successful use of or recognition of puns can serve as a sort of indicator or early warning sign if you like about whether you are going to get along with someone else.

26 november

Sometimes when I turn on the dishwasher I feel totally normal. I’ve loaded it, mostly carefully. I’ve added the little plastic bubble of detergent, retrieved from the soapstinky package on the top of the cabinet that has not gotten lost, despite being tucked carefully of the way and far enough removed to avoid having that smell infiltrate other kitchen items or experiences. I’ve turned the dial to NORMAL and heard the click. I’ve pulled the lever that closes the door satisfyingly into place. I’ve heard the water start running almost immediately, perfectly in response to my request. Nobody has rushed in at the last moment to say ‘WAIT! You don’t know what you’re doing!’ Nobody has discovered me as a pretender. A fake adult. I keep expecting it to happen. And yet. Not yet. Either I’m doing it right, or everybody else is too busy pretending through their own questions and insecurities that they simply have no time to worry about mine. Perhaps both are true. The girls walk by, dressed up for each other, and the boys do the boogie-woogie on the corner of the street. Come on out and dance, come on out and dance, come on out and make romance. Everyone is fooled, by themselves and each other. And on we go, and the dishwasher sings its soothing song, swooshing and gurgling each utensil, each item. Carefully swirling the solutions to soiled surfaces, warming the handles and hearts of every one, inside and out.

25 november

Mental health is one of those things that you just have to deal with. Most of the time, you can't look at someone and know what's going on in their head. Unless something gets really bad, and then it all comes out. This is unfortunate for everyone involved. However, you can't look at someone, even if this person is five foot seven and has brown hair and brown eyes, and know that this person is having perfectly normal thoughts. Anyway, what are perfectly normal thoughts? Does that mean this person is wondering about a grocery shopping list, a white picket fence, or something about the welfare of society? No. How many people spend their day thinking about white picket fences? Hopefully not very many, for the good of society. Unless your job is White Picket Fence Builder. Or painter. Or installer. In that case, Dream On. Do your thing. It's your thing. Do what you want to do. Hashtag hashtag hashtag.

24 november

She was vaguely aware of the issues caused by Anxiety with a capital A to demonstrate that it can be a serious thing and not just a simple synonym for concern or another such synonym. When recently watching The Peanuts Movie, she'd been struck hard by Charlie Brown's mental health struggles. Beyond the clear fact that he regularly consults a pop-up psychiatrist who is nickeling and diming (although mostly nickeling) him out of common sense and into bizarre behavior and a tunnel of self-doubt. Only a psychiatrist who regularly refers to you as a blockhead and pulls the chair out from under you -- or the football out from your kicking windup at the last minute (again that one is super hard to describe… but you've seen Peanuts, right?) -- can inspire more concern than healing. Watching Charlie Brown struggle through choosing from a closet of matching yellow shirts, seeing him fly one kite after another into the kite eating tree, and feeling everyone's response to the tiny and awkward jumble of sticks that he chose as the tree for the Christmas show -- all of these feel like every day experiences to those who suffer from anxiety. Plus, consider the little red haired girl… she's so amazing that simply to name her would be sacrilegious. Here's one of CB’s conversations with his five cent psychiatrist on this topic:

CB: she's something and I'm nothing. I just can't talk to her. If I was something and she was nothing, I could talk to her. If she was nothing and I was nothing, I could talk to her. But she's something. I mean, she's really something. I can't talk to pretty girls.

Lucy: what are you saying? I'm a pretty girl and you talk to me. WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?

CB: Auuuuuyuugghh

Lucy: Hey! You owe me five cents!

CB: Good grief!

Lucy: How I love the sound of nickels…

23 november

But by depriving you of the punchline you expect, I'm surprising you with an anti joke instead of a joke. Here's another: Why did the turkey cross the road? To get to the other side. That's actually a good one too, in general, like it's kind of funny. Why is this funny? Again, it plays upon something you expect, which is to say, the commonly known joke from any of our childhoods, which is: Question -- Why did the chicken cross the road? Answer -- To get to the other side. The inclusion of a turkey instead of a chicken in this format suggests to you, The Listener, that something unusual or unexpected will be happening. The joke is, there's not. Or, that is to say the anti-joke is, it's the same joke. This is a commonly used frame, really, and I will use this opportunity to insert my sister's favorite joke from her childhood, which is based upon the same idea. We didn't call it an anti-joke at the time, probably because we were little, and probably that wasn't trending yet. Question -- Why didn't the chicken cross the road? Answer -- Because it wasn't holding its mommy's hand. This is a perfect answer for a small child to give. It's a specially hilarious when a child says it, although it's okay when other people tell it, too. It's just not as cute. What additional points to make here -- although must I continue on and on about this? The answer is yes. This is not the primary focus of the joke itself, but still. Chickens don't have hands. Just saying. Meaning: that chicken without its mommy will never cross the road. Does this make you sad? Answer -- It should not. It's probably very dangerous for chickens to cross roads, whether or not they're holding their mommy's hands, whether or not their mommies have hands, or they have hands themselves. How's that for a hypothetical situation!

22 november

It was cold this morning, but not like crazy cold. Tonight though, it's pretty chilly. According to my source, it's actually 37°. Actually. Honestly. And of course my source is Google. Is there another source? Of course. Hold your horses. Hold your sources. What if all of the sources were held by Google, and the rest of us just went to Google all the time? What if the same thing happened with Wikipedia? Wikipedia is now gaining prominence and relevance just because it's been around for awhile and because it's on, well, you know, the internet. I will admit to being a big fan of the internet, however I've seen the people who make it up. It's not always pretty. We started doing Facebook Live at work not too long ago, which prompted me to do some research on other Facebook Live shows. Of course, I don't really see any of those shows as our competition, however, as if there's only so much internet to go around? (What?) It only makes sense to see what else is out there. There’s a lot, is the answer. Our show is what I'd like to think of as a combination of tech and news and talk and improv. But yeah, a lot of the stuff that's out there right now it’s just crazy. I understand how popular crazy is, but really, I'd like to draw the line somewhere. We’ve watched the CEO of T-Mobile on one show, well I guess it's just once a week, but that seems like enough... Anyway, he does something like Slow Cooker Sundays, so he walks around his house and presumably someone else films him because he's certainly not holding a phone and he is certainly not standing still enough and still and all he moves around alot, so he must have some kind of staff helping him out. Imagine having some kind of cell selfie self staff! That sounds pretty good actually. What would your self staff do? I’m thinking mine would probably bring me mashed potatoes pretty regularly. I'm not saying I have a limited imagination, but I really do like mashed potatoes. Like. A lot. Anyway, you can have your own self staff. This imaginary self staff is mine -- are mine? -- and I want my mashed potatoes. Anyway, the T-Mobile guy just walks around his house and talks to “us”. I suppose that I should not act like I'm not part of us, despite the confusion of the double negative embedded in that structure, but I wouldn't be there if there wasn't a good reason. People tell themselves this all the time as an excuse. Maybe every single one of the lots and lots of people watching this show is only doing research, too. Or maybe they just bought T-Mobile and they want to investigate the character of leadership they've just invested in. I don't know what people do. I can barely speak for myself. Let's just say, it's hard to imagine a lot of people tuning in regularly to watch a middle-aged man in an apron walk around his house shouting and waving his arms around, all while acting like he knows things, acting like he is engaged with customers other than just shouting, trying to pawn off swag and show off all the stuff he's got, and even slow cook. Or something like that. Honestly, in the parts where I saw, he didn't seem to be doing too much cooking. But he did seem to be slow, at least that regard, while he was certainly fast in the rest. It was hard to watch. But at least he had good energy. So, I was taking notes, and I wrote “good energy”. Okay, so maybe they were fictional notes, in that I didn't actually write them down, as such, meaning at all, but I still thought them. So, not necessarily what I want to be doing with our show, but he's really successful. Would I want to be successful because so many people are watching me to laugh at me? I really don't think so. However, the idea that a lot of people would be talking about -- please, not me, but the company, I guess - I suppose that's good. It might even be the point.

21 november

He’d explained the idea fairly eloquently, in his own opinion, but the problem was actually sitting down to do the work. Technically not so much the sitting down itself as the work part. Of course.

For example, he was really interested in doing something along the lines of “How the cat got your tongue” or, if you’re really into the non-sentence case capitalization (And what is that called again? Like awkward capitalization? Every word capitalization? Not as elegant. Clearly.) “How The Cat Got Your Tongue”. Great title, but the space after that was blank.

Admittedly, there was a blinking cursor. Sometimes he’d shout “BLINKING CURSOR!” as if he was cursing it for blinking. Isn’t that why it’s called that after all?

He remembered an English teacher at some point in his middle school career (a fair to middling success as careers go, but he moved on to a higher calling after a few  years (yes I mean high school (no I don’t think I’m so clever you can’t follow along (no that’s not my goal anyway)))  who had spent some time ranting about defeating the power of the white. His main recollection was that it had seemed somehow racist, or reverse racist if you’re someone who believes that’s a thing (it’s not (racism is racism)). A few years later, meaning now, meaning more than a few, he got it. BLINKING CURSOR.

20 november

Montana really loved to meditate. The calm, the quiet, the space... And yet, she had the sneaking suspicion, always, that she was doing it wrong. This, clearly, was one of the reasons that she needed to meditate in the first place. Think about what happened when she did yoga. She really really enjoyed yoga, even all that touchy-feely higher level thinking stuff, what with candles and smells and your inner and outer whatever... It's not like she believed all that stuff, but it was nice to have the time to spend with a group of like-minded people engaged in some kind of pursuit that was healthy. It's not like she was about to do Zumba or something like that, let's just be honest. But what started to happen is she noticed the other people, and they seemed to be so blissful, so flexible, and so farther along than she was that it started to get to her. She tried to do poses with her eyes closed, but this became a challenge for her balance. She even spoke to a teacher once about it, Cheryl, but Cheryl had very little to say on the subject of how not to be so self judgy. Really, she had a lot to say, but Montana wasn't buying any of it. Who's the best in the class? How can I be the best in the class? Why am I not more flexible? How can I be more flexible? Is everyone else in this class just naturally better than me? Do I have any hope at all of being halfway decent at this? Cheryl seem to be rather flummoxed, it might be said. Montana seemed disappointed. She kept going to yoga, sometimes, anyway, but she felt herself drawn more deeply to the classes that involved meditation. After all, if you're just sitting there with your eyes closed in the first place, how can you see if other people are doing better or worse than you? The answer, and she would later figure it out, is that you can just feel it. All of those other people, nestling nicely in the right sit bone posture all of their extra layers tux around in a way so they can have deep contact with the Earth, all of those people... They were so so good at this, right? It was impossible to disagree. She wasn't sure where to go with this. So, she kept going, be it slightly less often than before. Montana really loved to meditate. Mostly.

19 november

Let’s circle back.

What we’re seeing from here -- as if this is some commentary on what’s going on, from a booth or a sideline, which of course it is -- is a story struggling to unfold. There are characters, sure, although some of them are imaginary and not all of them have names. Is this important to you? There are plenty of people in your daily live who have no names. That is, they have names, but you don’t know what they are. Think about your day. Today, you got up, went to the coffee shop you normally go to on this day, and saw some people you normally see. There’s the barista who’s got short dark hair and an entertaining moustache. He wears an apron that looks like it was made for leatherworking, not latte art. (Are there aprons made for latte art? Unclear at this time.) There’s the customer who’s unusually specific about his orders, wears a football scarf of the variety not seen in the US, as this is not a sport even remotely referred to as football in the US, which many of us are slowly growing to realize, despite the absurdly literal and accurate name matching the sport to the primary body part involved. He hovers awkwardly, even from a seated position, making you feel like you are in the wrong seat and should get out of the way, even though you are sitting down and the only thing you could do to get out of the way is to leave. Really. He’s very polite, but discomforting. A word? Fair enough. There’s the owner’s daughter, short and efficient. She lifts giant -- what? coffee holders? How hard it is to know the right word for everything! -- containers effortlessly, as if she’s been doing this her whole life, been training for this forever. Has she? What’s her name? She doesn’t look like her father. Is she adopted? You’ve never seen her mother -- anything is possible. Why are you in their business anyway? This is their business. Literally, in the real sense. The literal sense. Returning to the point: You don’t know the name of any of these people, and they’re in your own life. Why should you have to know the names of the people in this book? Stay calm.

18 november

This annoyed her to no end. Every time someone in the group said I'm really not a writer -- or even someone who wasn't in the group, of course -- although who would really be talking to them about this if they weren't in the group? You'd be surprised. Random strangers all the time, start inserting themselves into groups of people who are already speaking or are clearly meeting with each other. People are so ridiculous. Says a person. Just saying. Just a person. We do what we can. Anyway, the response was always something like “Of course you're a writer, you write.” While this is a strongly felt and deeply held belief among many writers and teachers of writing, coming from him it just seemed fake. It seemed patronizing, even. As if he was saying, Well, at least you try. Or, something like Good effort, bud. How could you ever call a human being bud? A woman I know recently told me that her husband had referred to their son as The Dude. She had asked him, “Do you mean our son?” In fact yes, he had indeed meant their son. I thought it was hilarious, but he's not my son. He's just a dude.

17 november

It was when he remarked with uncertainty on the description of a day’s projected weather as ‘fair’ that I knew l loved him for sure. Like fo sho. There had been a number of other clues, yes, but this was a big one. Like when I had off-handedly mentioned tattoos and he wondered aloud if we should get some of our own -- that was me knowing how he felt, writ large, but not necessarily on the skin. Well beyond fair, indeed. Although fairness generally implies some kind of balance, I couldn’t think of what I’d done to deserve such treatment. Certainly it was not unfair. But. Anyone who could think in this sideways experimental way was okay with me. More than fair, I’d say.

16 november

There are too many things to be concerned about that truly and genuinely deserve it. Most of the rest is brewed out in hot water. I’d like to start bringing it together… but let’s not go crazy!

Just because… sometime else has…some other time… let’s not be brewed about it.

15 november

When you're in love, it seems like this is the only thing in the world. Sure, maybe you should be buying some groceries, too, but all of those little annoyances seem to be sanded down just a bit. It's as if you're in an envelope of honey... which doesn't sound all that good after all, actually, once I say it out loud. Imagine more like a warm cloud of fresh baked cookies smell... Is that it? Maybe the waft from a french vanilla candle, like with little black flecks in it, like that really good kind of natural type vanilla ice cream that Breyers used to have with all of the milk crystals like it was ice milk instead of ice cream…  and those days were good days, I'm just saying, but they are long gone... I guess it's not really like any of those things, but you do feel a warm sense of protection, like a sphere or around you... It protects you by pewpewpew-ing all that other stuff away, as if some sort of Hedgehog situation was going on with you these days... Like a love porcupine... As much sense as that makes, too, but you get my point... points.

14 november

In reality, of course, people make up their own stories. Sometimes they’re based on reality, and sometimes they’re out and out lies. The stories, I mean -- but I guess that’s true for the people, too, in some cases.

What’s the difference between a story and a lie? Good question.

A story may or may not have a purpose. A lie usually does have a purpose. Unless it’s the pathological variety. (Not so side note: So interesting! Imagine lying about things for no apparent reason!) Lies usually hide the truth, or paint it a more flattering color. We even have a cute name for those nicer variety of untruths -- white lies. Apparently all the other lies are rainbow colored. Watch out for those blue lies -- they’ll get you!

Lies are intended to deceive. To make you think something’s true when it actually isn’t. To trick you. To take advantage of your gullibility or weakness or lack of power. Am I going on too much here? Is there something on my mind? Indeed. Lying is dishonest. Obviously. But lying carries an intent that can be so much heavier we can hardly imagine the weight it inflicts. Gross.

Stories may sound like lies. They may even be patently untrue. In most cases, though, stories are told without the intent to deceive, and certainly not maliciously. Not every story is a fairy tale, sure, but we generally know what’s what, even without ‘once upon a time’ and ‘happily ever after’ markers. They might put us to sleep, lull us into a heady sense of a hopeful future, or simply entertain us by stretching our imaginations in new and more flexible ways.

Even if they’re both untrue, stories are better than lies. These are the facts.

13 november

She heard a slip of a song and knew he had written it -- or, if he hadn’t, which was much more likely to be the case, it was perhaps written ironically in his honor.

“And I’m writing a novel, cause it’s never been done before.”

Amazing. No surprise, perhaps, but the song is called “I’m writing a novel” and the artist is… she’d look it up later.

He was so vain, anyway, he probably thought every song was about him. Didn’t he? Didn’t he?

12 november

His latest project seemed to be exactly that: an indication that it’s hard to stop overthinking things. The first segment he’d shared was called ‘How the cat got your tongue’.

“Imagine it in like that old style of printing that you see in museums and colonial sort of historic sites, like where the f is actually an s and the letters are inconsistently printed because it was a real press and not like something digital,” he’d explained, perhaps unnecessarily and perhaps for his own entertainment. They’d all nodded like it made total sense and would have a huge impact on the piece that he was about to share. After all, they were of the same tribe, and they knew what other writers needed and wanted -- at least sometimes.

How the cat got your tongue, by Neil

The origin of this idiom is a bit more literal than you might expect. But don’t worry -- your precious feline isn’t about to tackle you and leave you forever speechless.

The true story from which this saying derived took place on September 23, 1834. On this day, a Tuesday, Maude Aikens had been to the butcher, as was her custom on Tuesdays...

12 november

11 november

In considering COOLNESS there are two parts: practice and perception. Of these, perception can be divided into self perception and other perception. Neil was very highly rated in the self perception scale. That is to say, he perceived himself as really cool, if he did say so himself. And no, he didn’t actually say so himself, like OUT LOUD, because what kind of lame fool does that, but he did offer not entirely subtle clues and hints regarding his coolness so that others could enhance or perhaps even correct their perception without too much effort.

Neil had worked at the coffee shop in a past life. Now he was some kind of writer in some kind of company. Everyone was a bit unclear about what kind of work he did and what kind of company it was, but he offered irregular and vague suggestions that the company was doing Important Work and that he was a Key Figure. Were they building houses for homeless puppies in Argentina? Serving hot baked potatoes to frosty fingered fishermen in northern Minnesota? Planting happiness across central Australia in the form of s’more instructional workshops with grateful sponsorship from a chocolate cooperative powered by goats in a small intentional community on the coast of Spain? The list of options went on and on. Still, many of the mental meanderings of the group’s members were unlikely to be accurate, unless he worked from home or some other remote work site kind of place, since he seemed to be managing to get to the coffee shop on a weekly basis, and that, too, before anyone else in the group arrived. In fact, they’d discussed it in occasional side conversations. How did he get here so early? Did he live here? They’d seen him leave, but perhaps it was all an elaborate hoax. Designed to --? Don’t worry about it. You know how writers get. Imagination can be a blessing and a curse, and it’s hard to turn off.

10 november

It was that time of year when a very particular dance was taking place. In fact, it was one of many such times of year over the course of, well, the year, of course this time. It was noticed most often by women, although men seemed to stumble through it as well. I'm referring, of course, to the changing of the seasons. While The Changing of the Guard is celebrated in any countries where it happens, mostly for ceremonial reasons, and sometimes for just a closer look at those hats, really for sure of course whose idea was that, the changing of the seasons was celebrated in much smaller and less ceremonial always. In schools, as well as offices, this dance was especially complicated. For people who worked at home or for young children or for the elderly, for that matter, this did not seemed to be such an issue. However, as many people are keenly aware, it is hardly uncommon to realize that you compare yourself to others, or they compare themselves to you, or maybe both. Rare are those who seem to float outside of this system. We are social people, after all, by which I mean social beings. Introvert, extrovert -- it just doesn't matter. As the song says, The girls walk by dressed up for each other, and the boys do the Boogie Woogie in the corner of the street. Come on out and dance, come on out and dance, come on out and make romance. The implications of this sophisticated scientific treatise indicate that if you are not dressed up, especially in comparison with those Other Girls, you will not be making much Romance. Even the Boogie Woogie matters in this intricate dance of biology. Although, you will notice, nothing is said about the boys’ clothing. Just saying. Is it sexist? Boys do wear clothes. But honestly, what would you rather have remarked upon about yourself, in the most complicated phrase ever? Your clothing in comparison to that of other women? Or your dancing prowess on the corner of the street? Come on out, as it were.

9 november

One of the things they had noticed about him early on was how often he spoke about running. They assumed, quite naturally, although none of them knew for sure how accurately, that he talked about running more often than he actually went running. Still, even if you go running for a few miles, that's probably longer than actually talking about running, right? Then, I invite you, if that's your belief, to listen to him on the many occasions in which he expounds upon the virtues of different types of socks, the relative weather conditions in each of the races he's ever participated in, and if you can believe him, and why not, but why so, there are a lot. There was a general belief that he might be a pretty good runner, if in fact, he ever did run. Or, maybe he never did run, but he would be good if he tried. They generally try to have positive feelings about each other, as a group, because collectively, their Collective Consciousness must be pushing them in some direction or the other, right? At some point they had decided this in an actual factual conversation. That is to say, they agreed to be supportive of each other, no matter the situation. Sure, if one of them had murdered someone, maybe they wouldn't be supportive of that. But luckily, that was still only a hypothetical concern, as far as anyone knew.

8 november

What is an interesting side effect about managing social media was it she had started paying closer attention to the world around her. Sure, funny holidays were good start, but there was certainly more to be had. By ‘more to be had’ she considered ‘fuel for the pot’, if that wasn't too mixed of a metaphor. Why would someone put fuel in a pot? Anyway. Nobody put fuel in that metaphor. It ended there. We stopped talking about it. For good. Fuel for the fire, however, though metaphorically appropriate, might not have been the best way to describe the situation. Was the social media for the coffee shop on fire? It was not. Nor was the roof. Just saying. The roof, the roof, the roof was not on fire. Anyway, for example, while walking down the street one could take note of every beautiful tree. Sure, she had noticed trees before, since it was hard not to, but now saw them in perfectly square frames in every direction. The radio, as well, was an excellent source of inspiration. NPR in particular, particularly because she did not listen to any other radio station, was an excellent excellent font of information. On the way home tonight, she heard a story about checklists on Hidden Brain, the new show by that really smart guy who always had interesting facts to share on the regular shows, and whom you can follow at HiddenBrain or something like that on Twitter and some other social media, No Doubt. As soon as she heard the topic, she thought, There's a Blog for that. She also thought I should tweet about this. Not necessarily tweeting about the story itself, but tweeting that There Should Be a Blog for it. There would be some sort of checklist joke involved, but she wasn't really sure what it would be yet. It would be something “I feel a Blog coming on!” or something better she’d think of by then, hopefully.

7 november

People who read romantic stories are in a variety of categories or genres, let's say.  There are those who read as if looking for instructions. These may be young readers who have never yet had a relationship but want to know exactly what it will be like when they find the perfect person who will be standing next to them on the first day of school, let's say college. Or the first day of the job. Whatever. This person reads the book from cover to cover as if searching for information on how to achieve Eternal Happiness and Bliss with the person that he or she will soon encounter. Another type of person reads these books as self-help-style aids. This person is already in a relationship, or more than one, for that matter, and needs help in either spicing things up keeping things going, or some other kind of action. For some reason, this person feels that the advice that works for people in books will somehow serve his or her purpose well. Again, no comment on any of these styles at this time. But. Just saying. These people are optimistic, much like the first set, and believe that good things will happen to them and their relationships if they only find the right things to say at the right time. After all, if something works out for a fictional character, it should certainly work out for me, too, right? Another category of readers of romantic stories are sad. They have or are having relationships while they read, and yet it's their comparison to the fictional stories that manages to convince them that they're doing something wrong in their current situations. They constantly compare what he's doing in the book to what a different he is doing in real life. Again, no comment on any of these people or their styles. Just saying.

6 november

A: “So it’s, like, a history book. But the history isn’t true.”

B: “Doesn’t it have to be true to be history?”

A: “Wow. Some writer.”

B: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A: “It’s like you have no idea how any of this works.”

B: “You make me feel like I’m in that Facebook commercial with the old ladies posting on their actual wall and unfriending each other.”

A: “I didn’t make you feel that. That’s all you.”

B: “So?”

A: “So what?”

B: “How is it untrue history? That’s not even a genre.”

A: “Narrow-minded today, are we? And what do you write -- lies?”

B: “Not lies. Fiction.”

A: “Oh-ho-ho, now it’s all coming together.”

5 november

“Julie? That’s just not her background. She came from accrual world. She’s in accruals.”

Really? Nobody calls this out? These are the same people not appreciating the puns right in front of them. Literally. A cruel world.

Maybe she should visit like a pound or something. Do we call them this now? she wondered. Oh, you mean the Humane Society? Or like a shelter? suggested IL, a little snidely. She shook her head. Pound Puppies. That’s where they come from. The Eighties. Like me.

Anyway, much easier to get a dog than a baby. Well. Debatable, actually. At least preferable at this point in her life. Especially without a significant other, maybe a little tricky. Or not? She didn’t want to think about it, really. Questionable arrangements all around.

A friend who’d recently posted to celebrate his family’s new baby had joked about the success of the post: “We just had him for the likes.” When pressed, he admitted (also jokingly, presumably), “He’s not even real. We just wanted the attention.” Offered as a suggestion, it was entertaining. If heard by his wife, it might not have been as funny.

4 november

Social media presented a puzzle. Be really clever and engaging in a super-condensed period of time, meaning space. Present visually appealing formats along with images, gifs, and videos, as appropriate. Inspire not only likes, shares, comments, follows, and clicks, but also relevant action -- in this case, going to the coffee shop. And buying something, probably. Although plenty of people seemed not to see this as an obligation, as if the CS was a local establishment founded by the public services scheme or whatever to allow community residents or other passers-through to hang out in a relatively comfortable and most certainly safe (right?) environment. But really. Somebody had to pay the electricity bill to power the HVAC system and inspire it to deliver the right climate-accommodating air. Somebody had to sweep the floor, and that person needed to be paid, too. She briefly imagined a student coming in and asking if they had any internships or volunteer positions available. She imagined suggesting to the kid that the floor needed to be swept (Why not sweeped?). She further imagined the kid suggesting she keep imagining.

3 november

There's a song for everything, I think, but it's unclear which comes first. Is the everything the inspiration? Or do we fit songs we already know to apply to new feelings? Either way, the balance works out pretty well. This is what I was thinking when I realized that OG with regard to an original blend of a juice cleanse mean old gangster or something like that and I immediately thought of the song Original Gangster Material. I then sang it in myself to my head or, you know, whatever. And when I did so, I realized that Original Gangster Material, you're listening to the streets turn down your Ariel... Might not be entirely accurate. Suddenly I realized that this material was originally Pirate, as it were. I still have no answer for Ariel. Beyond being a little mermaid? She was indeed someone who caused some confusion in my life not too many years ago, so I chose not to focus on her name or her person. If she was, in fact, a mermaid, however, that might have made a lot more sense. Just like Daryl Hannah in Splash could have gotten away with a lot more than just ending up naked on a beach, I'm just saying, Tom Hanks was like what? And that's a good movie if you haven't seen it. In conclusion sometimes knowing the wrong lyrics gets you in the right direction. Although I'm not sure that was the original gangster conclusion I had in mind. Please forgive the pirated material. You're not listening to the streets. I'll find out what the rest of that line was and tell you later.

2 november

It was something of an alchemy, he supposed. As if coffee and time could make magic of blank space. As if a caffeinated atmosphere carried a certain charge one could conduct by holding a pen at just the right angle -- although not a right angle, he reasoned. That wouldn't be right. He held the spoon in his writing stance -- or would you say 'grip'? Get a grip, he told himself. The spoon said nothing.

1 november

When writers sit down to earn their name, there's a swirl of alchemy bubbling and fizzing in their neural networks -- dendrites, synapses, firing, hocus pocus. Science, of course. Blinding. Many like to imagine this chain reaction is triggered by magic, by muse, by miracles impossible for mere mortals to either achieve or comprehend. Scrooge might suggest there's more of gravy than of grave. Elizabeth Gilbert might point out that the 'pray' portion of the show prompted all kinds of boy-meets-girl questioning from deep within for the guru with all -- not existential queries but 'does he like me?' and 'how can we we work it out when everything is so unworkable?'. Or, maybe it's just the coffee.