Phil Adams: Procrastinating Novelist & Writer

Okay, okay. My wife’s been at me, since I moved into my nifty little space, to start writing again. Not a simple task, as any writer knows. Unlike those blessed few, I’m not a writers who can just plop himself in a chair and begin to write.

I have to lean back, turn on my lava lamp ~ wait for it to heat up and start blobbing ~ before I even turn my computer on. Once I do press the power button, I bounce my bobble-body hula girl and watch her wiggle around, while the pc is booting.

Then I spend another 20-40 minutes checking my email, checking AlienSkin’s incoming Submissions email, responding to newbie writers who submit improperly, I printing out whatever new subs from AlienSkin Magazine does get, staple those and flip them into the in-bin on my desk, then I surf the new bizarro clips on You-Tube for a quick chuckle.

Then, once the pc is up and I’ve opened Word, I spend another 15 minutes re-reading the dripple I wrote the day or week before.

So it’s typically a hour or so after I sit place my butt in the chair that I can even contemplate what I might write in that sitting.

I do keep a basic outline of the novels and short stories I’m working on (2 novels and 4 short stories at the moment), so I peruse those. They, and my mood, help me decide what I’ll be working on that session.

Today, it happened to be ‘Short Story Day’. I just wasn’t focused enough to deal with completing or starting a new chapter in either of my books, and the kids and Jen were due home from visiting Granny’s in about 3 hours, so my writing time would be short--or split between now and later tonight, once the kids were in bed.

Unlike novel writing, I don’t need to rely on reference books, my inspirational photo folder, mood music, or hand notes for short story writing. All I generally require is a title and my Story Ideas Notebook.

My Story Ideas Notebook, is just that. A battered 3 subject notebook in which I tend to jot down basic story ideas as they pop into my head during the week or month, etc. Sometimes these notes are just a story title I thought was cool, and sometimes these notes could be 2 or more pages long depending on how much of the idea had come to me while I was driving, while I was showering, napping, etc.

All writers have them.

Ages ago, I use to scribble notes on whatever paper was handy at the time-- a napkin, the coaster beneath my beer, a blank deposit slip from my check book, etc. Back then, I never carried a notebook anywhere. Now I keep one in the bathroom, on the headboard shelf of our bed, on the coffee table in the family room, and in the car caddie of my Taurus.

All these ‘mini notebooks’ get copied monthly into my ‘Official Story Idea Notebook’. Not a big task, since most of the notebooks may not have a note or may only have a brief entry or two.

Fortunately for me, I’ve already done the ‘perusal of the Story Idea Notebook and have 4 short stories in progress. So all I have to do now is select which on of my tales I want to work on--basically, which story strikes my fancy today.

So what will it be today?

The Fingers of Wu ~ Fantasy/Horror

Blow Out, Blow Up ~ another Humorous Fantasy

Cave In ~ Supernatural Horror

A Sudden Chill in July ~ Horror

Of those, I feel I can settle into Blow Out, Blow Up quite easily.

Now, as I open the Blowout file, I have exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes to write in peace.

Then I realize I’m thirsty. I head for the fridge, craving a tall glass of orange soda on ice. Of course I hit the can first.

Now back in my chair. I have a good hour to kill. So I start re-reading the page I completed last.

Two minutes later, I start typing. I settle in.

In an hour I finished 2 pages. I nuked 2 slices of pizza. Gobbled those down between sips of orange soda, then resumed.

Another hour later, I head the garage door open signaling Jen and the kids are home.

With 1 more page completed, and with my creative juices flowing. I hang my ‘Do Not Disturb Daddy’ picture on the out doorknob of my broom closet office and continue typing.

Posted by Phil Adams at 10:24 AM | Permalink

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Well, three days after my wife provided me with my own little office in the broom closet, I made it officially mine. I moved it my stuff. My Must Have stuff.

I’ve toted down milk crate loads of my reference and resource books ~ only the ones I’ve deemed my Indispensable Tomes: the How-To Write a Novel books, the You Can books, the Writer’s Digest collection of Plot, Scene, Character, Setting, etc.

I spend a half day haunting our local Office Max, Walmart, and IKEA looking for a short 3-tier shelf that would fit a long the back wall of my limited cube space. I found one, put it together and crammed it full of my handy-dandy, well-worn tomes.

The one deep-set shelf, an inherent component of the utility closet’s design, was already filled with my Inspirational Stuff. The items that fuel my imagination and provide me with a creative atmosphere in which to work. My: Static Ball-Holding Bronze Buddha, fearsome impeccably-detailed hand-painted Ceramic Green Dragon, large-eyed Alien Skull, gruesome-looking rubber Shrunken Heads with realistic hair and stitched eyes & lips, small Bobble-Body Hawaiian Hula Girl Lamp, replica of Mutant Conjoined Twins statue, and ceramic Croc Creature with bloody teeth.

It took me several hours juts to pick out the right calendar and Science Fiction/Space prints to adorn my three remaining walls ~ I snuck a Maxim Swimsuit Calendar into my inner sanctum and pinned it up on the inside of my closet door.

Adding my own little touches got my creative juices flowing. The kids loved watching daddy flick on and off the little Hula girl lamp and make my pair of shrunken heads jiggle.

The only question Jen asked after watching all of this was: Did you getting any writing done?

Nah.

Posted by Phil Adams at 02:11 AM | Permalink

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Less than a month after I took up novel writing again, my wife relegated me to the downstairs utility closet.  The closet!  Who writes in a closet?

At first, I felt hurt, slighted.  After all, I supported her creative interests. I help her spool yarn, twirling skein after skein of colored cotton threads, nodding off at the monotony of the task, while she wrapped and swirled the line I fed her into a large ball.  I hide my head beneath my pillow some nights while she reads her lovey-dovey books by Nora Roberts, Danielle Steele, and a horde of pseudo-romance writers, allowing her that simple luxury.  I hold my tongue while she plucks her so-called ‘bargains’ from shopping bags when she returns from sating her urge to hunt through the sales racks at our local mall.

So why can’t I spend my nights writing at my computer while everyone else is asleep or when I come home from work and have some down time to expend?

Well, naturally, I had over-reacted.

I should’ve known, Jen, would never crush my aspirations to finish my SF novel ~ not so overtly anyway.  I should’ve trusted my intuitive and good-natured wife, even though she has systematically booted me and my pc out of the family room, the dining room, and from the desk in our bedroom where I had been doing my writing amongst the family.

But Jen’s’ nesting instinct had kicked in, and although she may have wanted me out of the bedroom so she could drift off to sleep easier without the constant glare of my pc monitor, she had found me the perfect sanctuary in which to write.

She had prepared my haven for me while I was at work, and revealed it to me after dinner.

I knew something was up.  During dinner the kids kept grinning at me, bobbing their heads up and down while they chewed their fish sticks.  Both of them and Jen kept hold of their secret though.

She scooted the kids off to the family room to watch TV while she lead me over to the utility closet at that back of the kitchen.  We called it the broom closet since it held our vacuum, rug scubber, floor mops, extra can goods, and stacked boxes of assorted junk that we hadn’t gotten around to tossing out or toting over to the Goodwill drop off center.

I figured she wanted me to fetch her something for her that was wedge at the back of the closet, or she had found some mess I had that she wanted me to vacuum up.  But I was wrong on both accounts, and shocked to see my computer desk and pc all set up inside the closet.

To some the closet would be a pantry.  It was wide and deep, heated by three interior walls, and shared one wall with our attached garage. And the lighting wasn’t bad.

Jen must’ve gotten her bother or our neighbor Hal to unhook my pc and lug my desk downstairs. Maybe she enlisted both of their help.  I don’t know, I was too stunned to ask her.

It took me a good ten minutes to recover from my initial internal reaction of childish disappointment.  Then I noticed the soft plush carpet, the nifty IKEA bought lamp shade she had gotten for the previously bare light bulb that had lighted the room, and the spongy cushion for my chair.  I smiled.

"You like it, hon?" she asked like an excited school girl.

The spot was perfect.  Quiet, secluded, close to the coffee-maker, fridge and downstairs bathroom. It was roomy enough for me to tilt my chair back and stretch.  She had even plugged in my CD player and cellphone charger.  I could envision it as my little slice of heaven.

"Of course."  I told her.  The smile on my face was genuine and wide.

What serious writer wouldn’t?

So here I sit, in the broom closet.  Typing away.

Posted by Phil Adams at 10:28 AM | Permalink

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