15 comments

January 6, 2010

My Resolution This Year Is 1440 X 1024 Pixels. And Also, To Write! Write! Write! (Which Kind Of Sounds Like The Start To A Word Nerd Anthem)


(Photo credit: jppi@morguefile)

“Why did you start blogging again?” she asks.

I am tempted to answer that I’m obviously a masochist. “I enjoy the time suck,” I imagine saying, all cavalier-like. “Really, it’s fun to spend my free hours agonizing over word choice, stressing over subjects and predicates.” Imaginary me continues to explain that, You know the dream where you’re in a public place and everyone is gawking cause all you’re wearing—save for the birthday suit Mom gave you when you were born—is a pair of hideous, holey, girdle-style underpants? Well, I intone, arms thrown up on either side of my head in a flesh-colored, ligamental field goal, blogging makes that dream a reality!

“Just press PUBLISH,” I say, “and your life’s stories—the shameful stuff about your adulterous ex, the bloodlust for babies, the troublesome bout with writer’s block that’s flavored with a homoerotic tinge—it’s all laid bare, metaphorical stretch marks and all, for the Internet to judge. And the Internet,” I say, lips pulled back to expose an oily reptilian smile, “will judge … either by clapping with comments when the content is deemed funny or touching, or by reacting—a stifling winter blast blowing through the strawberry fields of assumed literary awesomeness—with cold, ego-crushing indifference.”

I want to say these things, but instead I answer my inquisitive friend in the way I do with all impossible questions. And that is: by tilting my head, shrugging my shoulders, raising an eyebrow, and crinkling my nose; so many small movements just to say one simple thing, which is, honestly, I have no earthly idea.

I’m not sure why 2009 marked my return blogging, except one Wednesday last September I woke up—my organic cotton pintuck comforter stretched tight around my shoulders—with a story inside me. That morning, sitting bolt upright in bed, I exclaimed (of the creative monster stirring in my bones), It’s alive! This outburst startled the slumbering cat curled up in a fluffy gray pouf on my pillow. And when the felicitous story willed itself from my rapidly firing brain onto a page in my pristine white macbook, I too was startled!

And then I did a funny thing. I continued to write.

And suddenly it’s like I have flowers popping up in my footsteps. I am ablaze, abloom. I am positively effervescent!

But I am also: afraid, aghast, ripe for a tizzy.

Confession time. This blog is not my literary endgame. It is my dream to write a novel, but I’ve never pursued it because I am a cowardly lion. The fear of rejection, the opportunity for failure, these things—because so much of my self worth is tied up in what I, as a creative person, produce—petrify me, like I’m a piece of ancient wood.

And so, in 2010 I’m going to actively work on my craft.

*Gulp*

I am resolved to read great writing. I was gifted a subscription to, and am going to study cover-to-cover, The Atlantic Monthly, whose contributors have included American writer royalty; storytellers like Mark Twain, Henry James, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Walt Whitman, Martin Luther King Jr., Helen Keller, and Garrison Keillor.

I was also given Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft. The cover says it’s “part memoir, part master class by one of the best selling authors of all time … a revealing and practical view of the writer’s craft, comprising the basic tools of the trade every writer must have.” Sounds tasty.

I am resolved to seek critique in a classroom setting. Though I have studied grant writing, business writing, science writing, and essay composition, I have never taken a creative writing course. That changes this year. Starting January 27, I will participate in a 10-week personal essay workshop at Inprint!, Houston’s leading literary arts organization. Registration is limited to 12 people, and rumor is that each student will have a dedicated hour where their work is picked apart by classmates—like the tender flesh of a succulent roast chicken stripped clean from its carcass—to be critiqued for what was done well and what needs revision. I won’t lie. I don’t “do” rejection. This constructive criticism thing terrifies me.

I am resolved to persevere. A few weeks back I read a post that resonated with my struggle as an artist. The message was that for some, art comes easy. There are people who are born burbling poetry, who can write music before they know how to read, who can draw amazing landscapes without any lessons. These people exist, but they are freakishly rare. “Why then is there so much amazing art in the world?” the author posed.

The answer? Perseverance.

I am not a fast writer. I am slow. Like slow as molasses. Like slow as a stubborn bottle of ketchup.

Sometimes it takes hours to spit out a paragraph, so when I tell you that I’m committed to delivering a new post every week of 2010, that’s a big deal.

52 posts this year, yo.  (Plus an additional 100 or so at Yummery). I hope you’re stoked … cause I’m kind of freaking out.

—-

… AND because this has now officially become the LONGEST POST IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, I’m resolving to end this thing. Like right now. (You’re welcome.)

Oh and one more thing …

HAPPY NEW YEAR LOVELIES! May 2010 bring you all the love, hope, peace and prosperity your little hearts can handle, for better or worse, in sickness and health, forever and ever, amen.


(Photo credit: Nicmcphee@flickr.com)

8 comments

December 30, 2009

Christmas in California

It’s December 23rd, 2009, a gorgeous day, the kind that makes your chest swell and ache at the beauty of it. Cloud-dappled skies and sugar crystal sand are the bookends of Huntington Beach where I am walking—the heels of my feet making dimples in the damp shoreline—with my brother, his wife, and new baby.

Crush, crush, crush. The waves lull me into a wakeful sleep, and I smile at the busker on the boardwalk who is earnestly strumming a song I can’t hear. Salt is everywhere—kissing my lips, knotting my hair, stinging my face—and I get the distinct feeling I’m being brined, like a pickle, like a turkey, like a pickled Christmas turkey.

In my periphery, a flash of crimson and white shocks my eyes. I am amused, when on the pier—it’s caterpillar network of sturdy beams stretching high above an expanse of churning, turquoise soup—Santa comes riding, not in a sleigh, but in the back of a cherry red pickup truck with the word, LIFEGAURD emblazoned across the side. A radical twist on the conventional costume, this Jolly Old St. Nick is wearing Rayban Wayfarers.

And I think to myself, “This is why I’m here.”

This is what Christmas in California looks like.

—-
Last time I visited Huntington Beach, it was Thanksgiving 2006. I was married. My brother was not. Tommy was healing from the heartbreak of a broken engagement. I was about to—unbeknownst to me, my adulterous ex-husband having orchestrated my absence so he could break bread with his mistresses’ family in Pittsburgh—suffer a similar misfortune.

Three years later, my brother is married. I am not.

I spent most every minute of the last eight days cradling, my arms wrapped tight in a protective swaddle, the form of my pudgy precious nephew. Colby’s stunning halo of flaxen curls and the delicious pink bloom on his cherubic cheeks transfixed me like a cobra charmed, and my heart—now that I’ve returned to Houston—hurts a little knowing I won’t see him again until summer.

Sure, Christmas in California looks like Santa in sunglasses. But it also looks like closed doors, fresh starts, new love, true love, and a beautiful baby boy.

I’ve only been gone a few days, but I miss them already.

6 comments

December 23, 2009

Top 10 of 2009—A Few Of My Favorite Things

When I was in third grade, I desperately wanted to play the Gretel, the littlest member of the Von Trapp clan, in our school production of the holiday classic, The Sound of Music. I’m not sure why I wanted to be Gretel, except her name kind of sounds like “pretzel” and well, who doesn’t like hot, twisty bread?

On audition day, the entire 10-year-old population of Big Lake Elementary was corralled into a classroom and given their marching orders: read two lines from the script and then pass it on. When it was my turn to read, I cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders, opened wide my eager mouth, and then … whispered the words so quietly, they were less a dramatic dialogue and more a strange, sleepy lullaby.

Predictably, my theatrics (or lack thereof) didn’t land me the plum role of Gretel, but I did—out of pity, I suppose—get cast as A Few of My Favorite Things Song Leader #1 (of 6). And that singular experience—captured in photographs where I’m dressed in a billowy, white top, apron, knee socks, and braids, amidst a backdrop of butcher paper edelweiss—is one my favorites of childhood.

Hännihaus is not a gift guide or shopping-type blog, but there are a few things I’ve discovered (and/or re-discovered) in 2009 that really rock. I thought I’d share them here.

JUST IN CASE YOU’RE WONDERING, IN 2009, THESE WERE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

1. Yeowww! Catnip Banana yeowww catnip banana I like my catnip like I like my raisins: organic and awesome. The Yeowww! Catnip Banana is not only cute, it’s also stuffed with 100% organically grown and intensely-scented catnip. Bella and Sphynxy go crazy for this toy! The only downside? The banana has been known to inspire annoying Internet phenomenon flashbacks. Can you say, ITS PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME?

2. Student massage

With the economy in shambles, I feel so blessed to have a steady, salaried job. The tradeoff for gainful employment in these tough economic times is that I am expected to do more with less—to work harder than ever before with fewer rewards and resources. To earn my corporate keep, I have sometimes felt like a sopping sponge that’s gone rough from being wrung dry; More than a few times this year, I have felt overwhelmed.

massage

(Photo credit: thomaswanhoff@flickr)

Therapeutic student massage has saved my sanity, and at a fraction of the cost of professional massage, is a luxury I feel I can afford.

If you are in Houston, I highly recommend the Memorial Hermann Massage and Spa Therapy School. A 60-minute massage with an intern therapist will set you back just $29. So cheap.

3. Yummery yummery-header

Psst, my other blog is a foodie shopping blog. When I’m not posting here, you can find me (most every day) at Yummery.com. Yummery is a unique, product-centric Web site focused on all things food, where all manner of unique items are showcased, from aprons to zesters and everything in between. Personally, I specialize in posting about items that—like alien juicers, ninja salt shakers, and ravioli sponges—have a quirky distinction….Or maybe they just stink. You be the judge. Check us out.

4. Regina Spektor

If love is like oxygen, then you’ll want to take in alt-rock, piano mama, Regina Spektor with big, greedy gulps.

Regina’s charming, Far, with its sweetly sung, slice-of-life songs about God, lost wallets, and steamy summer hookups, is my favorite album of 2009. Highlights include: the delightfully disturbing, “Genius Next Door” where Regina sings about a lake that turns into butter overnight and the man who drowns in it; pop-eccentric ditty, “The Calculation” where computers are made from macaroni pieces; and the ominous and infectious “Machine” which delivers—over a clanging metallic background—a strange story hinting at impending doom (“living in your prewar apartment/soon to be your post-war apartment.”)

regina_spektor

Other albums that got play on my iPod in 2009? Yeah Yeah Yeah’s It’s Blitz!, Fall Out Boy’s Folie A Deux, Where The Wild Things Are Motion Picture Soundtrack, and John Mayer’s Battle Studies.

5. Netflix

In addition to adjusting my thermostat, re-tooling my cell phone plan, and signing with a less-expensive energy provider, my efforts to save during the recession paid off big time when I killed my expensive ($40/month) cable and joined über-affordable, Netflix. netflix-logo For $9-something per month, I get unlimited 1-disc DVD rentals delivered directly to my home. A fan of TV on DVD, every week I enjoy hours of viewing my favorite shows—House, Gossip Girl, Dexter, Ugly Betty, Weeds, Mad Men, Big Love, and True Blood—all without commercial interruption.

A subscription that saves me both time and money? Dear cable: I’d tell you I miss you, but then I’d be lying.

6. My triumphant return to blogging!

number1

(Photo credit: HikingArtist.com@flickr)

OK, not a product. But still, this is totally awesome. Right?

7. NYX Eyeshadow Trio nyx eyeshadow trio After seeing it featured on a Girl Next Door makeup tutorial, I became obsessed with the Bobbi Brown Nude Eye Palette, but at $60, it was not in the budget. Enter the NYX Cosmetics Eyeshadow Trio: at just $6.99, the Nude/Taupe/Dark Brown palette—which I’ve found to be comparable to higher-end boutique brands in both quality and pigmentation—is my best beauty find of 2009.

8. L’oreal Colour Juice Sheer Juicy Lip Gloss/ Milani Crystal Gloss lipgloss The perfect complement to a nude eye is a glossy, beige mouth. Kim Kardashian routinely rocks this look, as does J-Lo, Rihanna, and Heidi Klum.

MAC Underage and C-Thru Lipglasses are popular for creating a neutral pout, but I hate their sticky texture and $18 price tag. L’oreal Colour Juice Sheer Juicy Lip Gloss in Bubble Gum and Milani Crystal Gloss in Secret are perfect dupes of Underage and C-Thru but have a better texture and price point ($8 and $4 respectively). Love.

9. The Gluten-Free Almond Flour Cookbook

gluten free almond flour cookbook

This year, one of my favorite food bloggers released an amazing cookbook. Elana Amsterdam (of Elana’s Pantry) is a culinary wizard whose focus on whole foods and grain-free cooking very closely aligns with what I do in my own kitchen. Her wonderful Gluten Free: Almond Flour Cookbook is an epiphany for people like me who strive to banish bad-choice foods from their households. I can tell you from personal experience, Elana’s delicious (low-carb) almond flour pizza crust, herbed crackers, pumpkin pie, and pancakes taste just as good as their traditional counterparts, but are nourishing in a way that white-flour foods just aren’t. Three cheers for delicious nutrition!

10. Twilight Edward Bookmark

I am a fanpire. I have read all the Twilight books and am now working my way through the Sookie Stackhouse series. On opening night, I made Andrew Hotpants brave an Ugg-booted throng of squealing teens and cougars to accompany me to Cinemark’s 8:15 New Moon show. And the girl who yelled, I’m having an orgasm!, as a shirtless Edward stepped toward the sunlight in an act of Voluturi defiance? It may or may not have been me.

I am not ashamed. I totally own this bookmark:edward bookmark twilight

Team Edward 4 ever.

—-

And that concludes my awesome countdown.  Tell me, what are your favorite finds of 2009? Movies, burgers, jeans, books, bikes, cars, kid stuff, mom stuff, man stuff—lay it on me.

Leave your love in comments and I’ll totally love you back.

17 comments

December 16, 2009

Love Shack(in) Up. Big News: Andrew And I Are About To Be Engaged … In Sinful Premarital Cohabitation!

living in sin diagram

If you asked me what’s new, I would say nothing except I’m about to commit what some—including my devout catholic grandfather—would consider a mortal sin. (Although, if we are keeping tabs on crimes against humanity, Grandpa’s insistence on stretching a tan thru Speedo across his wrinkly, 83-year-old butt cheeks would certainly qualify for more than a few Hail Marys … but I digress.)

The big news, which is “nothing new,” except that it is, is that:

Andrew and I are moving in. Like together.

We are going to live in sin, which if you think about it, is not unlike living in Singapore except there’s a few less letters to contend with. And also, the unfortunate practice of caning won’t come into use in our household … unless Andrew makes a habit of leaving the toilet seat up, in which case all bets are off. Just kidding, honey! (But not really.)

And no, we don’t think cohabitation is a bad idea. Andrew and I have been together two years and this particular pre-marital proposal has been under consideration for about six months. We both agree that marriage is in the cards, but we’re still sorting out when that will happen—wise men say, only fools rush in. And neither of us is into making serious, life-changing decisions by sticking a careless, wet finger into the wind. Now, sticking a careless, wet finger into an unsuspecting earlobe? We totally back that.

wet-willy-finger

In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you there has been *some* concern, as it applies to increased domestic responsibility. “There’s a reason why women hesitate to shack up,” Mom recently explained. “Taking care of a man—all the additional washing, cooking, and cleaning—it’s like accepting a second job where the pay really sucks.” I told Mom she was being silly. I said I’d been living with a boy the past five years and I’d never had to fold his underwear. “That’s true what you’re saying sweet girl,“ Mom replied. “Sphynxy is very good about personal cleanliness and he doesn’t go through a lot of laundry, but honey,” she said, “that’s because he’s a cat.”

Andrew—who has never had a roommate—is so lucky he’s leasing an apartment with me. I am a GREAT roommate! In college, I bunked with this sweet girl, Megan Snelling—she was on the crew team, which meant she was gone most weekends at rowing competitions. Every Sunday, while she was out, I would wash Megan’s bedding and turn down the sheets. I did this partly because I really liked Megan, but mostly because I’d secretly spent much of her absence passed out, naked—Saturday night’s vile vodka-Kool-Aid cocktail oozing from my pores like a steamy bowl of microwave ramen—on her convenient, bottom bunk. And only once did she catch me actually in her bed (she’d returned earlier than scheduled). She gasped at the sight of me tucked into her covers, drooling, at 2PM on a Sunday afternoon. As Megan ripped back the purple comforter, the one her granny had gifted her, she asked, Where are your pants?! Looking at her buff rowing legs clad in teeny athletic shorts, I could only reply, I dunno. Where are yours?!

(As an aside: I wonder what Megan’s doing now … and why she won’t add me as a friend on Facebook. It’s a nice gesture and all, but every time I send a request—instead of hitting “add”—my long-lost roommie emails me a link to this video called “Are You F*cking Kidding Me.” Poor girl. She never was very good at computers.)

So Andrew and I are currently apartment hunting. If you are in Houston, we highly recommend the services of Denise “Boots” Boucher at Apartment Living Locators (713-783-1441). She only winced *very slightly* when I told her Andrew and I (being fitness enthusiasts) had special needs that include: space for six bicycles, a dedicated spandex closet … and most probably, an intervention.

If we don’t get committed first, February 2010 Andrew and I are moving in. And then we’re going to buy new furniture. And then—if you ask my Grandpa Banana Hammock—we are going to burn in hell. I personally think the only burning Andrew and I will be doing will occur in our shiny, shared kitchen, but  there’s only one way to find out. Premarital cohabitation, here we come!

6 comments

December 9, 2009

Birthday Party Redux: We Came, We Saw, We Had A Huge Cake

One time I was born and that time was 30 years ago. And to celebrate the day of my birth—the occasion of being expelled from my mother’s womb, which is not unlike being expelled from school, except that, in my case, the consequential spankings are celebratory—I had a party.

At the party there was cake, and presents, and chardonnay. And also, there was a dress code. I tried to leave my house appropriately attired—that is, in my birthday suit. But Andrew wouldn’t have it, partly because he said I might get arrested showing that much skin, but mostly because it was way too cold outside.

So instead of wearing the suit my mom made me, I settled for festive flaming eyeware.

birthday smooch

And even though I felt they were tres chic, I was still kind of embarrassed about my silly glasses. So, I cracked a few jokes.

I was all, these glasses really light up my face! And everybody laughed.

And then I was like, hey I have a blue frosting unibrow! And everybody laughed.

But then I was all, these frames really make my eyes look huge! Can we get something like this for my BOOBS?!

And then everybody was like …

birthday not funny

CLEARLY not as amused as I was.

And for a moment the room was entirely silent, except for the person who fake coughed: “Inappropriate!” … And that person may or may not have been me.

For presents this year, I got some neat things: cowboy boots, a David Sedaris book, an apron for entertaining, a scented candle. My favorite gift was a very thoughtful birthday card from my dear friend, Ashley. So sweet and sentimental, it read (in crazy bold lettering), “THE ROMAN NUMERALS FOR ‘30’ ARE XXX. NEED I SAY MORE?”

When I read the card aloud, my boyfriend’s mother fluttered her hand to her mouth and gasped. I think it’s because the message—the implication that I was in my dirty 30s, that I was about to hit my sexual peak (yay!) while dating her hotpants son (bow chicka wow wow!)—it was so beautiful.

I’m pretty sure Andrew liked the card too … and the fact he was taking me home later.

Birthday Couple1

And in case you’re wondering, it’s true what they say, that everything is bigger in Texas.

I mean, check out my cake! You could park an aircraft on that thing.

look away cake

And check me out!

Shortly after this photo was taken, I got my birthday wish…

blow out cake

And it was for another glass of wine … which I promptly downed.

… And which probably explains why I felt it was acceptable, nay imperative, that I be photographed in the following manner:

happy cake

In conclusion, I would just like to say—for anyone who claims I’m full of hot air—it took me two tries to blow out seven candles. Two tries! Pathetic. Apparently the only time I’m long-winded is when writing racy, birthday-related blog posts. Thank God we only do this once a year. And also? Thank God the flaming glasses have made a mysterious disappearance. The birthday suit, however, is in full effect whenever I can rock it. Something tells me I’m REALLY going to like my 30s.

16 comments

December 2, 2009

30

Hanni 5 birthday

See the girl in that picture? That’s me. I’m celebrating a day that’s a lot like today, except it was 25 years ago. I was 5. I had fewer teeth, bigger dimples, and a lot less candles on my cake. My favorite TV show was the Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes Comedy Hour, followed closely by Knight Rider and the Dukes of Hazzard (check out my sweatshirt). I had just learned to tie the shoelaces on my clunky, kid-sized Caribou boots, and was very proud that my bed—now that I was a “Big Girl”—was stripped of its protective, plastic sheets.

The day I turned 5, I remember my smile—like a watermelon in winter—was wide. At my party, I was Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt; instead of red grapes, I was served a Duncan Hines chocolate cake coated with canned frosting so sweet, it made my mouth ache. Before we cut the cake, Mom asked that I make a wish on its flaming crown. I filled my little lungs and puffed my cheeks. I blew for all I was worth, dousing the candles with a not-so-mighty wind and spray of spittle.

“What did you wish for?” Dad asked.

“World peace!” I cheerfully replied, mimicking something I’d heard Luke Duke say on TV.

My father snickered, and within moments the entire table was laughing at my precocious distraction. As I had hoped, no one was any wiser about my REAL wish. My secret wish, my true heart’s desire was that every day could be a birthday … that every day could be filled with friends, fun, and cake from mix … that every moment of my life would be so charmed. And also, I wished for a pony, even though I was scared of their stumpy legs and overly-large eyeballs.

…

Flash forward to today and suddenly: I am 30 years old.

I have gone to sleep and woken up 10,958 times. Since my birth, ticking clocks have counted down 15 million minutes. And if my life’s breaths were dollars, I’d have more than a quarter billion.

I have—as my 5-year-old self wished—lead a favored and felicitous life. I have many friends, an amazing family, money in the bank, and business cards with my senior title emblazoned across the front. I have hiked Mount Fuji, biked the Texas hill country, and survived nights spent at sleazy, Canadian hostels where the aged windows busted and shattered when wedged shut. I have witnessed great beauty in blizzards of cherry blossoms and in raindrops that transform when white-sleeved snow gowns are donned. In the faces of my cherubic nieces and nephews I have seen God, and because of them, I know He is gracious.

Save for my marriage to a troubled man who told so many lies—to myself and to his mistress—he lost track of all truth, I have had few sorrows. And even in sadness, there were always lessons learned. Since my divorce, I have pledged to love deliberately those who deserve it. And to those who do not? I now know to distrust a heart that’s so bowed it can’t break.

For my next 30 years, I’m wishing for babies, a house, a second shot at being a bride.

And if all those things come true, then the next time I do this assessment—when I’m 60 and smile lined—the only thing left to wish for will be the pleasure of a posture bra and sensible shoes. And maybe a pony, assuming I’m over the eyeball thing.

Happy birthday to me, xoxoh

4 comments

November 30, 2009

Wherein I Threaten Birthday Spankings To The One Who Is Not Turning 30 In Two Days

Andrew Hotpants: “Hänni, what night is your birthday party?”

Me: “Uh, you mean the party for my birthday which is in like two days?”

Andrew Hotpants: “Yeah.”

Me: “Uhm, would that be the party that you’re hosting? The one I watched you create email invitations for?”

Andrew Hotpants: *Blank stare*

Me: “So I’m guessing you haven’t prepared for anything big like belly dancers, sword swallowers, or uh … guests?”

Andrew Hotpants: (Cradling me in a massive bear hug) “Hey, you know I love you more than anything else in the world, right?”

Me: “Yep. Well, at least you remembered to order my ice cream cake.”

Andrew Hotpants: (Squeezing tighter, sweating a little) “Ice … cream … cake? Erm …”

birthday cake
(photo credit: gracey@MorgueFile)

3 comments

November 26, 2009

Happy Thanksgiving!

Someone recently told me that I’m a real turkey … and also, that I am bad at photoshop.

I can’t imagine why anyone would say either of those things …

Oh well.

thanksgiving turkey

****HAPPY THANKSGIVING****

****FROM HÄNNIHAUS****

7 comments

November 23, 2009

On Gratitude

It is the fifth time in so many days. I pull my white, scoop-back chair up to the chocolate Parsons table where I do my writing. I flip open my laptop, flex my fingers and place them on the keyboard; I’m ready to impart something profound to the blank page, but when the cursor blinks, I freeze and then the something that happens is: nothing.

I am stuck.

A creative-type Brer Rabbit, my words are suddenly entrapped in a thick tar of psychological block and self doubt. No matter how desperately I will it, the stories won’t write. And the thorny thicket of free and easy creativity—that laughing place which holds my escape—it’s as elusive and mystifying as the literary dots I can’t connect.

Frustrated for the 50,000th time, I force myself to sit and punch keys for three hours. My perseverance is rewarded with a page full of blank and a headache the size of Texas. Resigned to artistic failure, I flutter my hands to my temples in a white flag of surrender. A sob chokes my throat. I bite my lip. Pull my hair. The head theater starts, and in the coming days of confounding self-flagellation, I do all but rent my clothes.

—–
I plop my items on the conveyor: bulk spices, organic apples, hemp milk, free-range eggs. Though I am physically present at the Whole Foods on Woodway and Voss, my mind is somewhere else entirely. I am sitting on a white, scoop-back chair. I am telling myself I suck. I am saying things like I will never be able to write anything worthwhile again. I’m like, you’d better get used to this Hänni; this block you have is permanent now, like an ugly scar, like a contract you can’t break. And I imagine the disappointment, in myself and for others, when my triumphant return to blogging proves to be a fluke … proves that all the frenetic posting pre–writers block was just a flare up before the inevitable fizzle. I blanche.

“Ma’am, are you OK?” the cashier—all dreadlocks and tattoos—inquires.

Suddenly I’m awakened from my angsty, self-involved stupor. I tell him I’m fine. But the way I say it, with my voice rising at the end of the sentence, it sounds like a question and not a statement of fact. Dude lifts his eyebrows, unconvinced.

“Your total is $42.67,” he intones. “Oh, and by the way, whatever it is, it will all work out.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, lying through my teeth.
—–
I don’t want to jinx it, but I think my writer’s block is on the wane. And just how did I banish that importunate beast? By brandishing my shiny sword of gratitude.

For all the nights it’s kept me awake—the molasses of my creative malcontent stewing even as I lay my head to sleep—writer’s block has thrown into sharp relief all the things that ARE working in my life.

I am healthy. I am happy. I am loved.

And also, I am gainfully employed as a writer. Even when I can’t string two sentences together for this blog, in my professional life the words are steadfast. Sure it’s unsexy drafting technical content for enterprise software solutions, but my fulltime job guarantees a tidy, bi-weekly paycheck … writer’s block or no.

In this season of thanksgiving, I am appreciative. For writer’s block, its lessons learned, and its quick departure thereafter, I am eternally grateful. Thanks.

yellow thank you
(photo credit: nateOne@flickr)

7 comments

November 17, 2009

Me To Writer’s Block: I Can’t Quit You

alphablock
(Photo credit: mmconnors@morgue photo)

Dear Writer’s Block,

This little thing we’ve got going between us, it needs to stop.

I could say it’s been fun, these too-many days spent wracking my brain for words that when typed are the literary equivalent of lukewarm gruel, but then I’d be lying. Truth be told, I’ve had more fun getting my wisdom teeth pulled. At least then there was lots of sympathetic head patting involved. And pudding.

Yes indeedy, I haven’t had this much fun since the frat party in college where I decided to flavor my dixie cup of keg beer with a handful of skittles. Skittlebräu, I called it. “Mistake” would’ve been a more accurate descriptor. I can taste the rainbow! I thought while taking great, greedy gulps of the saccharine liquid that made sweaters on my teeth. When it came back up—chunky and candy-colored—it tasted less like rainbows and more like hot vomit. It was a regrettable experience … especially for the dude standing adjacent, my unfortunate regurgitation having painted a stinking, Jackson Pollock-esque scene on his tidy, black Pumas. Yes, that was the best, and by “the best” I mean the worst. The worst until Writer’s Block swooped in and stole my mojo, that is.

I mean really, I just can’t take much more. This creative block is torture. I’ve got cobwebs in my head where a brain used to be! Cobwebs! What’s more, my appearance has really started to suffer. Where I used to get Sandra Bullock, America Ferrera, or the boy muppet from The Dark Crystal, lately I’ve been told I bear striking resemblance to Sigourney Weaver in Alien or Sinead O’Connor circa 1992. Bald chicks.

alien III

In deed, my friends have gotten very concerned about my recent hair loss. The other day Paul, eyeballing a shiny patch of scalp, asked if I was OK. “Everything’s fine,” I told him, “it’s just I have this weird psychological condition which makes me want to pull all my hair out.” “Ahh,” he nodded. “Trichotillomania?” “No. Worse,” I breathed, “writer’s block.” Jesus Christ! Paul blurted as he  clutched his hands to his chest and scurried away,  the look on his facing saying  “I hope its not catching.”

And I’m wondering Writer’s Block, what’s next? Are you going to steal my boyfriend, take my lunch money, wedge my feet into cement shoes and deep six me somewhere over the Atlantic? Are you going to outlaw organics, advocate infanticide, drown kittens, abort babies, and betray the Jedi? Are you gonna sprinkle when you tinkle and then leave it for me to clean up? Are you going to melt the polar ice caps and increase the price of gas by $5 a gallon? Are you gonna interrupt Taylor Swift because Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time? I don’t really know where I’m going with this, except to say that Writer’s Block, you are a gigantic pain in my @$$! Please to dislodge yourself before I lose it completely…. Of course, the fact I’m having this conversation with a concept and not a person (or cat even), means I’m probably already there. Crap.

Writer’s Block, I can’t quit you. And that would be OK if you were Heath Ledger and I your gay cowboy lover, but let’s face it: you are not Heath and the only guns I’ve got are made of muscles. If you’re going to be something I can’t quit, I’d at least like you to start wearing a ten-gallon hat. And chaps … preferably assless. And also, you should bring me some Rogaine. And pudding.

I won’t miss you when you’re gone.

*kisses* H

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