A test

It's lame. I know. But I'm rushing around and this was easier than another silly entry about paperwork.

Ingmar Bergman Your film will be 68% romantic, 30% comedy, 40% complex plot, and a $40 million budget.

Your life will be portrayed on film as an intense psychological drama, likely with some actresses screaming at the camera (Persona), or maybe a pleasant chess game between the Grim Reaper and a Crusader (The Seventh Seal). This Swedish director's films are intensely scrutinzed and studied in colleges all over the world to this day. This means that most Americans still don't understand his films! Still alive, he released in the U.S. in 2005 his first film in 23 years (Saraband), and he can still take on one more project to make your film biography. If curious, start with his films Wild Strawberries and Smiles of a Summer Night.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 99% on action-romance You scored higher than 7% on humor You scored higher than 57% on complexity You scored higher than 42% on budget

Link: The Director Who Films Your Life Test written by bingomosquito on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Paper work...done

Ah, I finally have the paperwork finished. I faxed a copy this afternoon. Tomorrow I'll send the originals back to them.

Just as I was dotting the last "i" and crossing the last "t", the phone rang. It sounded like the same voice that belonged to the person who called last night.

Let me go back to last night. The phone rings. I rush to answer it. "Hello," I said. "Who is this?" the voice on the other end asks. Well, excuse me, I didn't call you, you called me. Instead of pointing that out, I asked, "Who are you?" No response. Well, hell, I have things to do. If the person on the other end has enough free time to listen to dead air over the phone, fine. But I don't. So, I hung up the phone.

So, today, I've finally got the reams of paper answered. I'm seconds away from being ready to fax them back. The phone rings.

I reach for the phone, "Hello," I say as I double check to make sure I have everything initialed that's supposed to be initialed.

"Is this the residence of the man who allows you to wash his dirty dishes?" Okay, she didn't use that phrase, she used his name.

I listen, closing. Hey, it's little miss "I'm going to call you and make you tell me who you are and not tell you who I am" from last night.

Instead of answering the question, I ask my own question, "May I ask who's calling?"

Well, shit, talk about getting an answer I wasn't expecting. It's none other than the former Mrs. "The man who allows me to wash his dirty dishes."

What can she want? Does a grin, as in, oh boy I can't wait to see what this is all about grin, come across on a phone? It's been almost ten years to the day since they've had a conversation. It's been much longer since they had one that was pleasant.

What the hell does she want?

So, I hand the phone to the man who allows me to wash his dirty dishes. Honestly, I'm trying not to laugh.

What did she want? Basically, to see if I was working. Okay, that wasn't the first question out of her mouth. But the fact she even asked was mind blowing. Because it really isn't any of her damned business. The other thing she was concerned about was if the man who allows me to wash his dishes is right with God. Huh? WTF?

What did she really want? I'm not positive, but I have a few ideas. I think she believes I'm dumb as a box of rocks. I think she thinks the man who allows me to wash his dirty dishes is equally dumb. Hey, I suspect she even reads my blogs. I think there was nothing happenstance with her timing. I also suspect others are feeding her information.

Let them and let her read this.

I really don't have time to worry about what she knows or doesn't. Because I have scrubs ordered and I know one item won't be shipped until the end of November. Well, crap. I hope the other eleven arrive before my plane leaves.

I still haven't located new socks. I realized if I bought new socks, I need new shoes. Oh, and next week, me and the dentist are going to get friendly. As in thee appointments, plus one the next week.

I need to find the wind up alarm clock. Do I want to waste space on things like toothpaste, shampoo and soap? After all, I can buy new there. But will I cringe when I see the prices there? These are the things I have to worry about. Not why an ex is calling asking about my earning potential or about her ex's relationship with God. Give me a freaking break.

Okay, kids, more tomorrow. On my 'to do' list, post office, evening out with the man who allows me to wash his dirty dishes. Start a serious list of things to take and things to get finished before I leave. Create a list for the man who allows me to wash his dirty dishes to get accomplished before he and the dogs can come traveling with me.

It feels so official now

This afternoon I was emailed the confirmation number and flight numbers, so I guess it really is official and it really will happen.

I'm going on a three month working trip. To the Bush.

Since this is the net and anyone who stumbleshere can read the details, I'm not going to give a lot of specifics at this point. I really don't want strangers to know my travel dates.

This is what I'm willing to share. Since 1998, I've owned a business. I've worked at writing books. I've done a lot of things that have kept me tied to a business and/or computer. I haven't done a lot of actual living. I've done even less exploring Alaska.

Now I get to explore more of Alaska.

I've been asked by several people what is the Bush. It's not a political phrase. From "How to Speak Alaskan" a very small book published by Epicenter Press, here's the official definition of The Bush: Generally considered to be anyplace not connected to the rest of Alaska by road or state ferry, the Bush is an area of small towns and smaller villages surrounded by lots and lots of nothing.

There it is. The Bush. My stomping grounds for three months.

What will I do there? Professionally, I'll be part of their medical community. On a personal level, I plan to soak up the atmosphere, the various cultures and learn as much of their history and personalities as possible in three months.

How will I feel at the end of three months? I don't know. Will I be ready to board the plane and put the place behind me? Or will I be ready to board the plane so I can see my family again, yet hoping I'll get to come back?

When I arrive back to small town Alaska on the road system, will I find the pace too fast? Or will I like being able to get in my SUV and travel? Will I walk into Save-U-More and realize how much I missed it? Or will I walk in and think it's too big and there's too many options, much like I do now when I walk into Wal-Mart in Anchorage?

I don't know what I'll be like when I return. I have no idea how I'll look at the Bush after three months there. I don't know how I'll look at my small town that I call home now after spending three months in the Bush.

All I know is I'm looking forward to my time there. I hope I fall in love with the place. Because if I do, I'm pretty sure they'll let me come back. Either way, my home on the Kenai will always remain home to me.

As I prepare for my adventure, I'm thinking about clothes to take with me. When I leave, the weather outside will be one thing. When I return, it will be winter. Plus, I have to take plenty of work clothes with me, plus regular clothes. Two suitcases. Hum.

They will provide me with housing. I don't have to worry about bedding, towels, kitchen cookware things. Okay, but what about a radio? Will I have one? Will I need one? What type of radio stations are there? If any? How about an alarm clock? Wind up for sure. This is Alaska. The electricity goes out.

What about an internet connection? Yes, they have an ISP, but will I have access to a connection? Or will I have to get on a waiting list? Or a zillion other questions.

But before I can concentrate on all those things, I have a pile of paperwork to sort through. While it's official, there's still pages of papers that I have to fill out, fax back, then mail the original copy. Because I've worked for a hospital that falls under the same umbrella, I wasn't shocked by the extensive details they require. In fact, I was expecting it. Still, it's so hard to go back and remember all the details. Oye.

So, we are in the countdown stage. I'm busy getting ready. Tonight is finishing the paperwork. At least I hope I can get the paperwork finished tonight. I'm not so sure, but I'm going to try.

Tomorrow I'll fax them a copy, then ship it snail mail. Then I'll start with my list of things I know I'll have to take with me.

Please, please, please, let the uniforms arrive in time. I don't know what I'll do if they don't make it before the plane leaves. Cry. That reminds me. I need new socks. When in the hell can I find new socks locally?

Big News

There's big news coming down the pike.

No, it's not writing related.

Think of it as Jody's excellent adventure. Or not. But that's what I'm calling it.

In fact, "Ramblings from Alaska" fits the big news perfectly.

More details as the time approaches. But Septemeber will be an interesting month.

Self imposed deadlines

Yeah, I set a deadline for myself.

I've had my butt in the chair and fingers on the keyboard for most of this week. The new version of the book is coming alone very nicely. Of course, it's still in shitty first draft stage, but it's one that has energy. Yay!

I have spent several emails with a writer friend explaining why this is not a different story. She writes mysteries and thrillers. Because the events changed, she said it's a new story, new characters with the same names.

I said, no, it's the same story, same characters and same names.

She said, no. The story has changed. The emotions have changed, the values have changed. The only thing that's the same are the names.

I thought about those comments for several minutes. Then I wrote back, no, she wasn't getting it and this is why.

I started the story differently than I had in the past. Since the catalyst was the same, the story is the same. The journey is the same. She still has the same emotions, the same values, the same everything. She is exactly the same. What's different is how she's presented with the "life changing" information.

Hang in there for a minute or two. Do you remember how sticky and fluffy and heavenly cotton candy was when you were a kid? It melted in your mouth. Clouds of sugar. Wonderful creations.

Okay, fast forward two or so decades. In your mind, you remember cotton candy one way. It has all the flavor of the carnival. You walk into a store. They have the prepackaged version of cotton candy. You can't resist. You buy a package, because you want to capture everything that cotton candy represents to you.

You wait until you get to your car before breaking open the package. The anticipation is high. Almost like Christmas mornings used to be. You stick your hand into the package. Good Lord, did it used to be that sticky? Already you're a little bit disappointed. But you tear off a piece and plop it in your mouth. Then you gag. Christ, why didn't I just buy a five pound bag of sugar and pour that down my throat? Did I really used to eat this shit? And enjoy it?

Your adult experience with cotton candy is your proof that your parents must have drugged you. How else can you explain why you used to crave it yearly?

What does this have to do with the book? Everything. Our memories are funny things. We remember what we want to remember. If we haven't eaten cotton candy in years, we remember it as something that was very delicious.

In the earlier versions of the book, the protag wasn't allowed to confront the man who ran out on her. All she had to go on were were distorted memories. At best, our memories are cloudy. The truth is, one of the reasons political spin works so well is we like having our version of issues reinforced. So, if we willingly embrace one political parties spin on an issue and discard the other sides spin, it's because we want to believe the one side. And let's face it, we do the same thing with our memories. We tend to bury the memories that we don't like. The ones that don't hold up to our image of ourselves.

Characters in stories aren't any different. I think that's one thing nonwriters don't understand.

While Sadie didn't see Jack, she was able to shove away things she didn't want to think about. So, while I wrote the version that kept him off stage, she was truly as happy as a clam at high tide. She got to remain the victim. And most of us are more comfortable being a victim than having to actually admit guilt in relationships that turn sour.

All it took was for her to get a good look at him though and her cloudy cotton candy memory melted. When he says something, it triggers a memory. With him being present in the story, it's so much harder for her to revert to the gooey cotton candy version of reality.

I'm not sure if this makes sense to nonwriters or writers. But it's how I can have the same characters, same story, same everything, but completely different events. She's reacting to something specific now. Not to an idea. So, yes, it probably does feel like a different story to others, but to me, it's the real story.

I think I finally explained it to my mystery writer friend to where she understands it.

A breakthrough

The most amazing thing has happened.

For the last two years, I've been struggling with a story. I write it, get it cleaned up, send it off only to find agents are having too easy of a time rejecting it.

Normally, I mull the situation over, try to make a minor adjustment or two, so I can retain the flavor and tone of the story. It's a long drawn out process, revising and getting a story that's not working to work.

I've had to fast track things because of personal things going on. There's a good chance that toward the middle of September I'll have to make major adjustments in my schedule, among other things. So, being the writerly type person that I am, I wanted to take two of my many bad manuscripts and outline them. No, not the Roman numeral outline like in high school. A writerly outline. With lots of details.

Since one of the stories required a detailed timeline for the last thirty years, since events from thirty years ago are still impacting the characters, I put my butt in my chair and my fingers on the keyboard. I wrote a very detailed timeline of events for thirty years. I was so smug with myself. Isn't this great, I said to myself as I patted myself on the back. See, doing an outline doesn't hurt, does it?

So, everything was set up for "the story." All I had to do was a brief outline of current day events after the "life changing event" happens.

Okay, here's where I'm going to just state what the "life changing event" is. The protag's husband isn't dead. It's quite a shock to her. He disappeared from their boat. No body was found, but every one assumed he was dead. Trust me on this one, but normally when a person goes missing from a boat in Alaskan waters, they're dead. And it's not unusual to never find a body.

But I've always wanted this to be a story about the protag and how she deals with the news where she learns she's not a widow, but received the golden dumping of all time. In other words, the disappearing husband was an offscreen character. I finally relented and in the latest version I allowed him a half page phone call to the protag. But other than a flashback here and there, he was pretty invisible. It wasn't his story, it was hers.

So, let's go back to Saturday. I'm working on the story outline after I finish the backstory timeline. All a sudden, like when the proverbial light goes on, the proverbial light did light up. In a very spotlightish way.

There was this huge flaw in the story. I heaved a sigh that rattled the house. The man who allows me to wash his dirty dishes finally asked me what was wrong. I told him that I'd found a little road bump...that was the size of Denali. Then I aired my teeny tiny little problem. He agreed, that now that I'd mentioned it, he wasn't seeing the motivation either. He tossed around a few ideas. Unfortunately, they were as lame as the ones I'd already tossed about in my writerly brain.

Next, I emailed a writer friend who read the latest version. I told her that I was having a real problem with one little plot point...all writers know which one it is...the one that supports the premise and theme of the whole freaking story. So, we brainstormed ideas. Alas, I grasped a couple, but deep in my writer's gut, I felt their lameness.

I'd finally arrived at the special place writers try to avoid. I was smack dab in the middle of Contrived City.

I pulled up the timeline/outline. I wrote two words..."what if?". I really didn't want to bring the balding blondish, pudgy, crossdressing, aging very badly version of Chuck Norris, aka, her husband, onscreen. But my what if question was, "what if she learns he's alive because he returns to Homer?"

I sent an email to my writer friend to ask her what she thought of the idea. As she said, it could be interesting and would be a different type of kettle of fish to fry.

So, I paged down on the timeline/outline and decided to play with him and her in a present day scene. One where they are physically in the same place, seeing each other, up front and personal.

From the protags first reaction to seeing her non-dead husband I knew she'd been lying to me. Little things. I questioned why the first thing she noticed about him, besides he wasn't decomposing, was the dark stuble on his face. Dark as in black with a little gray mixed in. For some reason, I was having a problem with a balding blondish, pudgy, crossdressing, aging very badly version of Chuck Norris having that shade of stuble. But I went with the flow. What the hell? Maybe I'd learn something.

Well, yeah, I did. He's more like an aging very nicely and very manly man slightly younger version of Sam Elliot. Oh, and she decided to tell me that maybe her timeline was off by a little bit. Instead of walking out on her sixteen years ago, leaving her to raise their three kids by herself, he disappeared five years ago. The youngest was finishing up her junior year of high school.

I realize if you're reading this and aren't a writer, this next portion won't make any sense. In fact, it will sound a little to a lot insane. But I've kept the story in the protag's pov. She's telling the story, but now that Jack is physically in the same location, it's amazing how different it is from the versions she told when he was safely in the background.

I let her ask the questions she wants to ask, verbally and internally. It's very telling the one question she hasn't even thought to ask or mull over. It's the first one every one asks me when I tell them even this much about the story.

Who's brave and willing to post or email me what question she hasn't and won't ask him?

Oh, how is this new, completely changed version going? I've never written so fast in my life. I'm ready to start on page 63. Yes, I started this late Sunday afternoon and here it is, Wednesday and I'm ready to start page 63. Of course there's a lot of dreck in those pages. Give me a break. But the story is moving forward and finally the characters are acting as normal people would.

Good morning, John.

Starting over

For some reason, I can't post my blog to my website, so I'm starting over here.

Now that I can actually post again, I don't have anything to say. Yeah, that's pretty much a first for me.

When the muse or news strikes and I have words of wisdom, or a rant, I'll be back.