"What does Beth Orton smell like."
That was the first question posed to me at my writers' group last night. I had just passed out my prose offering for the meeting, sat down, and only begun sifting the stack for something to read. Billy-an older guy, who kind of reminds me of my ex-stepfather--leans back in his chair, so that his good ear faces me, which points his mouth out to the middle of the table. Knowing this moves his voice away, Billy adjusts his volume for my benefit—and well, anybody within 30 book lengths in any direction. Thank God we don't meet in a library. As is, everybody is staring at me waiting for an answer to the last question.
"Huh?" maybe the part of little old deaf man is played by yours truly.
"What does Beth Orton smell like." He asks again.
Now I think the whole Barnes & Nobel wants to know, because they're all staring. I've only just realized what Billy's talking about. He's looking at the blog title from the Monday before last. It's hard to read Billy. I'm not sure if he's being funny or really doesn't know how to translate song quotes. Normally I'd veer towards the funny, but I don't want to insult him. I go for the stupid.
"Well that's a great question Billy I wish I had the answer, but the last girl I walked up and sniffed dowsed me with pepper spray, and I'm not too eager to try it again."
It was MyWife, but that's a different story...
This seems to work for everybody around and they go back to their milling and mulling. Me, it doesn't help. I try reading the short essay before me (Belonging to Billy, by the way), it's about some kid dying, but it's been almost 8 months since I've been close to a woman, let alone intimate. Billy's question keeps running through my head.
What does Beth Orton smell like?
I put down Billy's piece and pick up another work. It's a love poem written by a 14 year old girl. A very well written love poem with amazingly vivid imagery, especially for a 14 year old girl. I put it back into the stack. I feel dirty.
There's a new girl in our group. She's brought an action piece and an entourage. I try to read the new people's stuff, so there I go. I'll let her entourage fend for themselves. It's pretty good, and takes my mind from the Scent of Beth, at least until we get to the part of the lead characters harboring a secret "desire" for each other.
What the hell? Can't a guy go through involuntary abstinence and a divorce in peace?
They used to call me AOC: Agent of chaos, because I always led the group far from where it was supposed to go. Now as the leader, whatever madness moves my mind is where the I move the group. Chaos becomes order in my world. Right now that isn't comforting.
What does Beth Orton smell like?
"That's a good smell."
"Excuse me?" It's Pete. He's a married cop, so I'm not sure what he's saying.
Pete says "Curve! Women love that smell. Are you wearing it now?"
Oh, he just read the blog! I like his vote of confidence, but Pete's also working on a book called "Why Your Husband Hates You.' I'm not convinced he's the go to guy on what women like. He also submits single spaced work in 6pt font. I'm more than a little suspicious.
"Yeah, you like?" Suspicious or not, I waft some of my scent across the table. It's the only neighborly thing to do.
"Careful." Says the new girl. I'm not sure if she's flirting, being funny, or both. I stop wafting and return to the safety of my world.
What does Beth Orton smell like?
The reading ends, and I've read like three pieces. Looks like I'm gonna have to make stuff up about everyone else's work again. "Oh, I loved it!" Just kidding, I don't do that. No, you can ask them. I tend to be fairly critical. Not in a hurtful way, but I always believe my job is to help them make their work the best it can be. The better the work, the more critical I can be. I really want to see these guys succeed at whatever their writing goals are. That's my job as the leader: Make them shine. I'm the wind beneath their wings, The essence of Orton driving them on. So who died and made me boss? The last guy, but thanks for bringing that up.
Ok, he really didn't die, he still comes to the group once and a while—just not regularly. We call him Snowball. Not as in Orwell's pig, or that scene from Clerks, but as in "builds up like a snowball." As the AOC I could set things in motion, and Snowball would run with them. In the early days, writers' group was rarely about writing, but now they put the pig in charge:
"The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but it was impossible to say which was which."-George Orwell
Chaos is the norm.
One of the hardest parts of our writers' group is the critique. Oh, don't get me wrong, everybody in the group loves to give their opinion. It's just that nobody in the group can take criticism silently. They're all defending their work with hoof and claw: their offspring. I understand, but it takes up a lot of time, and doesn't help my planned chaos.
What does Beth Orton smell like?
The biggest issue is stuff that doesn't appear in the provided text.
"I don't see why the sheep was important."
"Oh because in chapter 4 Frank has a love affair with a ewe…"
"But I have chapter 7."
Right, but the affair happens in chapter 5. You should know that by now."
People need to learn to critique what's provided. That goes for readers and writers: "If it's not there, it doesn't exist." That's what I try to tell them. If the reader needs to know it, provide it. If the writer has already provided it, accept it as a given and move on. Simple rules.
Tonight we get through the critique with little distraction. I save the critiques on my work for last. I'm the leader, if somebody gets bumped, it should be me. Besides, they're just blog posts. That's not a knock on you dear reader, it's just that what they're reading is already published. I submit blog stuff because I feel guilty. I should be bringing new stuff, but I don't have any. The muse has left. Like I said yesterday, I'm having a hard time getting back into the game; I'm waiting for the voices in my head to come back. Right now they're all talking about divorce, and I'm so tired of hearing about that.
This was the first group since MyWife left. It's kind of relaxing. I used to try to wrap things up so I could get home before she went to bed. I don't have to do that any more, not for her. I feel kind of weird about mentioning that. It's like by telling you, I'm invalidating the act of doing something for her. There were a lot of things I did for her that I never told anybody about; they were for her, and I didn't want to give her stuff away to strangers.
Then again, I suppose if you ask her, she'll tell you I never did anything for her. I guess it's true:
"If it's not there, it doesn't exist."
4 comments:
You just reminded me...I need to write something, anything for my writers' group Saturday. Damned divorce-depression induced writer's block...
See? That's why I save my ideas in a computer file. I use Micosoft's Onenote to file ideas away to go to when I need. Patches of dialogue without homes, stuff like that.
Here, you can have this, I don't see it fleshing out for me (so to speak):
"Would you sleep with me?"
"Huh?"
"I need to have an affair."
Dave took another drink, this was his lucky bar, but that was an unusual request. "I'm sorry?" He stared at the young woman in disbelief.
"You look like a decent guy. I need to sleep with somebody not my husband."
It wasn't the most flattering approach but it didn't take much to get Dave aroused. "Ok."
So Dave finished his drink trying to work through small talk. Girls seemed to like that. Pulling his jacket from his stool he led the girl back to his car.
From there they drove to his place. She told him her name was Danae. He shrugged. Dave guessed her husbands name was Steve, because that's what she called out in the middle of sex.
Some guys might consider it a turn-off, but Dave just considered it part of the job. She had some demons she needed exorcised, he needed to get laid.
Go ahead and use it, with no obligation to buy. If you like it, keep it and we'll send you a new idea once a month for just $999.00 . Cancel at any time, with our special hidden form. It must be printed in blood and received within thirty seconds of your signature to be valid. ;)
I have another one that's a conversation with the Devil in a bar, but I think I have a story attached to that.
I fully expected her to turn out as a con artist, or thief, or something....haha....
Oh, I have ideas. I have starts of stuff saved on file. I have outlines in notebooks and laying around on post-its and notecards. But then, when I sit down to actually start something--my mind goes blank. (Unless, of course, it's to whine about my current personal issues.)
Ugh. Last time I wrote about the writer's block. :p
But I've never had this problem before. I know it's in my head. I'm just not sure why. At least, I'm getting ideas again...didn't even have those for several months. So that's a start.
Yeah, sometimes it's just getting the ideas moving. You need a catalyst. Something to inspire you.
I say that with all the "you"s but really I'm just transferring my problem onto you. I hope you don't mind; it should wash off pretty easily.
I found an old short I stared with some dialogue. I'm going to wring it out of me over the next few weeks. My goal is to have it ready for my next writers' group. The problem is I'm a perfectionist. I'll use that as my catalyst. A personal challenge.
Rawr!
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