Note to Self: Write Clearer Notes to Self

It was jotted in my own manic scrawl, in pencil, on the corner of a scrap of paper and left on my desk. It sat there with gravity, weight. 

It Meant Something.

And it stayed there on my desktop for several weeks, patient and waiting,  because it, yes, Still Undoubtedly Meant Something. 

It was an Idea. A Spark to be fanned into a blazingly hilarious blog post, destined to make laughter pierce the air!... turn readers' days instantly better!... with readers' families and coworkers catching the mirth through happy bloggy osmosis!... 

Yes, there would be dogs smiling... babies giggling... and inevitably it would bring peace to people across the world except probably not Egypt because let's be realistic: a crappy note on a piece of paper can only do so much.

And that note, that note intended for boundless humor read:

"The Cellars Progressive Wine Sale"

...

...

Yeah: I know. I have no idea where I was planning to go with that either. And it is so. not. funny. 

The babies, they weep. The dogs, they smile not.

Egypt is still Egypt.

I might-- and I can only guess here-- have been thinking of questioning whether Progressive Wine was branded politically, or whether it was a simple suggestion that one should drink many sequential bottles at once in increasing alcoholic content percentages.

One would think, from my lack of memory, that I had tested that out.

But somehow the whole joke of Progressive Wine Differing from Libertarian and Conservative wine in, say, belief in how much involvement the winemaker should have in the fermentation process...

Well, it doesn't really live up to the whole "wishing I could buy the world a Coke/glass of Progressive Wine/beverage of choice and live in perfect har-mo-neee" thang.

And then there's that "carpool" note over there. Clearly that was written at another time, since it's in ink. But I don't carpool. I can't recall having an event to go to that required a carpool. 

Or maybe the paper is just one grand statement on designated driving.

Yes, your guess is as good as mine, folks. All I can say is, thank goodness I'm not Guy Pearce's character from Memento. 

There'd be no telling what I'd find tattooed on myself.

Question for the day: Do you ever write yourself notes and then get amnesia?

And by the way-- who are you people?

Literary Beer Goggling -or- Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon

Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon: the mysterious principle by which any piece of prose or poetry, fiction or non-fiction-- which appears coherent, insightful and well-written one evening-- changes into a giant bubbling puddle of ectoplasmic goo and poop when you look at it the next morning.

How does this happen? I was thinking about this over the weekend as I rummaged through some boxes of aged creative writing. I was searching for the final draft of a humor book I'd written right after college.

I recall liking this novel. I recall feeling good about it.

I even recall proudly asking my friends Scoobie, Austin and Rhet to read some of it. (The poor dears. How they have suffered!)

Now, I didn't yet locate the final draft. Which I understand from Scoobie was a lot better than the steaming pile of equine excrement I seem to have stepped in.

But honestly, I don't have much hope for it. Based on what I've seen so far, I think Scoobie was simply trying keep me from setting fire to my entire body of work then and there-- in one massive smoldering flame-o-rama. She was probably trying to save her eyebrows from singing.

Who can blame her?

Because it's very clear Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon has hit, big-time.

So, again, I ask you: how does it happen?

What chemical of delusion courses through a writer's brain during the act of writing that makes us misinterpret hideously malformed plot-lines... bloodless dialogue... and clammy satire... as something even remotely safe to see under the golden light of dawn?

As I've grown older, I've become more aware of this phenomenon. I've tempered my enthusiasm for new projects with a more guarded attitude. Sort of like you would each time you send your toddler up to bat in T-ball. You cheer the kid on with a: "Hey, do your best, little guy!" With some knowledge that no matter how much you love him, he could wet himself in front of everybody, or run entirely the wrong way around the bases.

But it makes me fearful for past blog posts, I have to say. How can we trust what will hold up to time, if the writing process makes us blind and brain-dead to the truth-- if only for a euphoric fleeting moment?

It's the writing equivalent of beer goggling, some might say. And I'd love to know, how can we face ourselves that morning after, when what we see just really ain't purty?

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