Tag: Kelsey feeling sorry for herself

More Important Lists

~ Kelsey Sorge ~ Leave a comment

Reasons I’m not writing:

  1. My dog is chewing on my laptop.
  2. My baby is chewing on my laptop.
  3. The skin on my knuckles is so dry that it cracks when I try to type.
  4. My yard is covered in leaves, and while I haven’t actually raked them, I’ve dedicated a significant amount of time to thinking about how I ought to be raking them.
  5. MAKING LISTS IS MORE FUN.

Reasons I am writing:

  1. The world is dumb and stupid and scary, and sometimes writing is the only thing that makes sense.
  2. I’m a kickass writer. (I am also, as you can see, quite modest.)
  3. I have a lot going on in my head, and if I don’t write about it, my husband has to bear the brunt of my neuroses.
  4. If I don’t meet the 50,000 word goal for NaNoWriMo, my students won’t respect me. (They may also jeer and/or throw things.)
  5. I’m sick and tired of how insipid most children’s books are.

I want to read stories about stolen shopping carts, pillows covered in glitter, dogs wearing tutus, shampoo with magical properties, dilapidated boarding houses, and shifty glances between people who don’t like each other but share an uneasy respect.

So that’s what I’m writing.

Wish me luck.

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How to Not Write a Novel in Thirty-Seven Easy Steps

~ Kelsey Sorge ~ Leave a comment

1. Attempt to remember your password for the NaNoWriMo website.
2. Press the “forgot my password” button.
3. Attempt to remember your email password so that you can retrieve your NaNo password.
4. Finally log in to the NaNoWriMo site.
5. Ignore all 77 of your unread messages.
6. Spend five minutes trying to come up with a title for your novel.
7. Decide that your novel’s title is Working Title.
8. Eat a piece of candy as a reward for coming up with a title.
9. Open Scrivener to a new project page.
10. Carefully place your hands on the home row of your keyboard and attempt to type a sentence.
11. Fail miserably because you’ve never been able to type with your fingers on the home row.
12. Reassure yourself that hunting and pecking is a legitimate means of typing.
13. Eat more candy.
14. Drink a glass of milk.
15. Put on socks.
16. Change your novel’s title to Fable.
17. Remember that Fable is the name of a video game.
18. Change novel’s title to Working Title (again).
19. Throw away all of the candy wrappers that you have accumulated.
21. Attempt to type a synopsis for your novel.
22. Remember that you have not planned out your novel.
23. At all.
24. You have no idea what to type. Your heart is racing.
25. Is your novel about fables?
26. Probably not. The title just sounded cool.
27. Maybe your novel should be a retelling of a fable.
28. Decide that your novel is definitely not a retelling of a fable.
29. Fables are lame because they have morals.
30. You have no morals.
31. You also have no ideas for NaNoWriMo.
32. Open a new project page (despite your old one being blank) and write down the first thing that comes to mind.
33. “My secret sadness is that I’m half a person.”
34. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN.
35. Maybe you should try to write a fable instead.
36. Open a third project page.
37. Write a blog entry about how not to write a novel in thirty-seven easy steps.

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The Healing Power of Corn and Poetry

~ Kelsey Sorge ~ Leave a comment

It’s been a rough month. Like, really rough. Not only have I been plagued with a runny nose, sore throat, violent cough, and conjunctivitis (twice!), but I was cursed with a package of Skittles that only had one red. ONE. Honestly, what’s the point of even eating Skittles if you’re only going to get one red?!

(Hint: there isn’t one. Don’t bother. Life is meaningless.)

Thanks to my son’s underdeveloped infant immune system, I’ve been playing host to a veritable menagerie of viruses and infections instead of writing epic narrative poetry and planning for NaNoWriMo. Since Typhoid Mary couldn’t attend daycare with a fever of 103 and a nose full of shockingly chartreuse snot, the blocks of time that I typically dedicate to writing were unceremoniously snatched away so that I keep him home and cough on him. (Though, to be fair, he coughed on me, too.)

The upshot of everything was that, by the time I convinced the baby to go to bed at the end of each day, I was far too tired to stay up and write. Then, to add insult to injury, I was so busy coughing up my phlegm-filled lungs that I didn’t go to the Virginia Children’s Book Festival, which I’d planned on attending with a writer friend.

I pouted, guys. Like full-on petulant lower-lip pouting. I may have laid on the floor and cursed at the ceiling. I waved things around in a dramatic fashion and coughed some more. I was tired, I was cranky, and I felt like I was never going to write again. It seemed that every time I blew my nose, I was leaking inspiration.

I’ve never been one of those brave souls who don’t want pity. Quite the opposite, actually. I want pity. I demand it. PITY ME.  My family is pretty good about pitying me when asked, but they’re also really good at helping me forget to feel sorry for myself. (Also, they don’t mind if I cough on them.) That’s how I found myself lost in the corn with them this past weekend.

By then, the cough was mostly gone and I felt well enough to walk through the endless maze and make several corn related puns. This alone was enough to perk me up, but it was when I drove home, my husband and son both sleeping peacefully in the backseat, that the first line of a poem winged its way into my head.

That night I sat down and wrote, and my other pack of Skittles had six reds.
If that’s not the meaning of life, I don’t know what is.

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