By Beth Terrell
Gene Fowler once said, "Writing is easy. Just stare at a blank piece of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." Or how about Ben Hecht's, "Writing is easy. Just open a vein." We've talked a lot about how much fun writing is (and it is!). None of us seems to have too much trouble with writer's block. I have a dear friend, a brilliant writer, who has been unable to write creatively for years. I've been fortunate that, when I do get stuck, I can usually find a way through it pretty easily. I write fiction, which is a joy to me; if I wrote two books a year and never had another new idea, I would still be writing for the next fifty years. I sometimes get busy; I sometimes have to find my way through a section that isn't working; but I don't get blocked.
But this week, I've had a very specific type of writer's block: Blogger's Block. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has it, since when I thought I'd coined the name and Googled it, I got 44,000 hits. That's a lot of blockage.
Take yesterday for example. I spent much of the day coming up with and discarding ideas. At 8:00, I sat down in front of my computer fully intending to write my blog post a day ahead of time. At 11:30, when I had to go to bed because I had to get up and travel, I still had a blank title box and "By Beth Terrell" in the composition box. Not an auspicious beginning. Not a single idea had been able to gasp past the finish line.
Today, I my mom, brother, and I drove from Nashville to a little town just north of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania (we'll finish the last leg of our trip tomorrow). We checked into a Country Hearth Inn & Suites and ate at a nearby Italian restaurant (crab manicotti!). Then I came back to the room and pulled up the composition box again. No title. "By Beth Terrell." Bleh.
Took a shower while mom checked her email. Checked my own email and responded to the ones that couldn't wait. Made a couple of false starts on the blog entry and couldn't for the life of me think of anything to write that anybody would particularly want to read about. Checked email again and found a link from my sister-in-law to a video of a group of people at Dragoncon (a fantasy and sf convention) trying to break the world's record for the number of people dancing to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" in one place. The previous record was a 242 by students at William and Mary. Dragoncon had 902. Now this, I could not resist.
If you're the least bit curious to see zombies, Klingons, a man dressed as a giant silver glove, sort of tentacled creature with eyestalks, and a host of other costumed and plainclothes folks dancing in semi-unison to Michael Jackson's "Thriller," you can see it here: http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid1345089824?bctid=37858935001.
I came back to the composition page refreshed and a great deal more amused. Made a couple more false starts. Chuckled about the Dragoncon dancers. Called my husband and complained that I couldn't think of anything to write that anybody would want to read. Apparently, I'm in a funk. He said it didn't matter. Write anything. Just write something.
This is the something, and the point of it is, my husband is a wise man. I often meet writers who say they would love to write if...They would write if only...They have this great idea, but...How do I start? What do I do? What if a publisher won't buy it? What if no one reads it?
The answer is always the same. Just write something.
Showing posts with label dog dancing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog dancing. Show all posts
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Dancing and Dreaming with Dogs
Ever since my husband and I got our papillon, Luca, my anxiety dreams have changed. I used to have normal anxiety dreams: the one where I've just learned I have an exam for a college class I've never been to and I don't even know where the exam is, or the one where we do a play and complete a fantastic first act, only to realize we've never rehearsed Act II. But now my anxiety dreams involve losing Luca in a crowd and knowing he's about to be stepped on and I can't reach him in time to stop it. Or we're out in the yard and a hawk swoops down to snatch him up, or we're in a walk-through aquarium/zoo, and giant frogs the size of Old English Sheepdogs are trying to eat him. My friends who have children laugh at me. They say they had the same kinds of dreams when their children were born.
Tuesday evening as I was leaving for work, my husband, Mike, called me on my cell phone to tell me Luca, "might be limping a little." To understand the anxiety this elicited, you need to understand several things:
1) Luca is exceptionally small for his breed. He weighs a grand old four pounds eleven ounces, half the size of his litter mates, with a delicate build and spindly little legs like a deer--or maybe a fairy. He wasn't bred intentionally to be so small; he just turned out that way.
2) In April, he broke his left front leg. I was lifting him over the baby gate so I could go to work, and about four inches from the ground, he squirmed out of my hands and landed in exactly the wrong way. The little leg bone just... snapped.
3) As a result of the above-mentioned accident, he had to have a metal plate surgically inserted, after which he had to be kept quiet for eight weeks. This means that he either had to be in his crate or being held. No small feat for a little guy of a year old.
4) The cost was...well, let's just say that after a day spent weeping in bank offices, I was saved from having to refinance my car by a substantial loan from my mother.
5) I am completely, absolutely, utterly in love with this dog.
So when Mike said Luca was limping, for just a moment, my heart stood still. Finally, I managed, "The one he broke?"
"No, the other one. His..." There was a pause while he looked. "His right front leg."
By the time I got home, "maybe limping a little" had become a no-doubt-about-it, walking-on-three-legs injury. Not an obvious break like the one in April, but still...
I took him to the vet the next morning, and fortunately, the injury turned out to be a sprained elbow. A few pain pills and a few days rest, and he should be fine. In fact, the limp is barely noticeable today. Even so, I'm struggling against the urge to make him a little suit of armor from bubble wrap.
Instead, when his sprain is healed, we'll go back to our canine freestyle classes. Canine freestyle is heelling and tricks to music. It's often referred to as dog dancing. We're still beginners, but it gives us something fun to do together, and it gives something to aspire to (see border collie Fly as "Gladiator Dog" and Carolyn Haines and her golden retriever Rookie dancing to "You're the One That I Want").
Luca also helps me write. Generally, that means snuggling next to me or in my lap while I type, but in my most recent book, I gave him what was meant to be a bit part. I did it so that, when I get my publishing deal and begin my book tour, he can go with me. Brilliant, right? His Lordship of Eternal Cuteness draws the crowd, which then stays to buy my books--or at least to have a conversation that will make me seem less desperate and more in demand. Then I realized I needed a reason for the good guys to know the bad guy is sneaking into their house, and suddenly, Luca's bit part is a major plot point.
This is the serendipity of writing. Everything is fodder. Things we think are completely unrelated end up on the page. The things we love (and hate and fear) find their way into our stories. This time, it was Luca. Next time, I have plans for Karma, our 15-year-old Tibetan Spaniel. After that, who knows? From dog dances to bigfoot festivals to public Laundromats, everything we experience makes us better writers.
Tuesday evening as I was leaving for work, my husband, Mike, called me on my cell phone to tell me Luca, "might be limping a little." To understand the anxiety this elicited, you need to understand several things:
1) Luca is exceptionally small for his breed. He weighs a grand old four pounds eleven ounces, half the size of his litter mates, with a delicate build and spindly little legs like a deer--or maybe a fairy. He wasn't bred intentionally to be so small; he just turned out that way.
2) In April, he broke his left front leg. I was lifting him over the baby gate so I could go to work, and about four inches from the ground, he squirmed out of my hands and landed in exactly the wrong way. The little leg bone just... snapped.
3) As a result of the above-mentioned accident, he had to have a metal plate surgically inserted, after which he had to be kept quiet for eight weeks. This means that he either had to be in his crate or being held. No small feat for a little guy of a year old.
4) The cost was...well, let's just say that after a day spent weeping in bank offices, I was saved from having to refinance my car by a substantial loan from my mother.
5) I am completely, absolutely, utterly in love with this dog.
So when Mike said Luca was limping, for just a moment, my heart stood still. Finally, I managed, "The one he broke?"
"No, the other one. His..." There was a pause while he looked. "His right front leg."
By the time I got home, "maybe limping a little" had become a no-doubt-about-it, walking-on-three-legs injury. Not an obvious break like the one in April, but still...
I took him to the vet the next morning, and fortunately, the injury turned out to be a sprained elbow. A few pain pills and a few days rest, and he should be fine. In fact, the limp is barely noticeable today. Even so, I'm struggling against the urge to make him a little suit of armor from bubble wrap.
Instead, when his sprain is healed, we'll go back to our canine freestyle classes. Canine freestyle is heelling and tricks to music. It's often referred to as dog dancing. We're still beginners, but it gives us something fun to do together, and it gives something to aspire to (see border collie Fly as "Gladiator Dog" and Carolyn Haines and her golden retriever Rookie dancing to "You're the One That I Want").
Luca also helps me write. Generally, that means snuggling next to me or in my lap while I type, but in my most recent book, I gave him what was meant to be a bit part. I did it so that, when I get my publishing deal and begin my book tour, he can go with me. Brilliant, right? His Lordship of Eternal Cuteness draws the crowd, which then stays to buy my books--or at least to have a conversation that will make me seem less desperate and more in demand. Then I realized I needed a reason for the good guys to know the bad guy is sneaking into their house, and suddenly, Luca's bit part is a major plot point.
This is the serendipity of writing. Everything is fodder. Things we think are completely unrelated end up on the page. The things we love (and hate and fear) find their way into our stories. This time, it was Luca. Next time, I have plans for Karma, our 15-year-old Tibetan Spaniel. After that, who knows? From dog dances to bigfoot festivals to public Laundromats, everything we experience makes us better writers.
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