This blog is welcome to anyone and everyone, regardless of race, class, gender, sexual orientation, or political affiliation. Unless you don't like writing short stories or smelling bear. Or if you voted for the other guy. Also, I don't really like it when you leave up the toilet seat, so could you stop doing that? Muchas, muchas gracias.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

A Trip Inside My Head, Man

On Wednesday, my ex-boyfriend and I filled out the disclosure forms that are part of the process of selling the house. On these forms we reveal everything that could possibly be wrong with the place, I guess so the buyers won't sue our asses. All I could come up with was that the woodstove smokes a little when its first lit. But my ex-, who is wracked with feelings of guilt, had a whole list of things, including this: sometimes ants walk across the roof. So far, then, I'm well on the way to leaving the old life behind for good.

And after all that's happened in the past year, I've been thinking it'd be fun to take a trip. But where would I go?

Here's what I decided: the best kind of trip I can imagine is a head trip.Which, no, I'm not going to smoke up the contents of the compost bin. That, my friends, I will save for when Jane pays me a visit.

Instead, I'm going to take the month of November off of work, because November is National Novel Writing Month. Don't get me wrong; someday, I hope soon, I will visit Mongolia or Iceland or one of those countless places I'm dying to see. But between now and the first of November, I'll think, research, and prepare. Because sure, the result might well suck, but so what? I'm going to write a novel. If I'm lucky, I'll get a good short story's worth of material out of it. And stories are what really matter.

That's all I have to say on this particular subject right now. Tomorrow night, I salsa dance all over your hearts.


Blogger jungle jane said...

*looks VERY guilty because she already smoked Ing's compost heap*

11:42 PM

Blogger purplesimon said...

All I can say is best of luck.

I will be halfway through my fiction course as you begin to write your novel. We can compare notes.

If I ever come to SF or you come to the UK, the smoking of a compost bin's contents must be "high" on the list of things to do. Pun intended.

Enjoy the Salsa. By the way, ants on your roof are better than ants in your pants. Remind any prospective buyers this.

purplesimon out...

2:54 AM

Blogger ginab said...

Funny, you sound miserable. But then, your foot has stamped my heart of which there is none.

Misery and heart stamping are great research by the way. I am being sincere. Supplies neat states (of mind), as in you can as a novelist fly to them and plunge if you like, break pencil lead and live.

Expensive hair-stuffs otherwise. Me? I'm debating allowing coworkers to marvel over my unkempt hair until this evening I can swim with the sharks, the old geezers, the vets, and then shower under the Y's powerful head. I only hope, as I'm creeping up there myself and as I have a clear image of what these sharks do with their evenings, that when mine begins with friends at the neighborhood bar, my eyeballs don't turn into barbells come midnight. As in, ZZZZzzzzzz.


PS: howz the hair dryer? I felt like a mom packaging off essentials to a kid at camp. Neat feeling. Oh well.

4:16 AM

Blogger sage said...

isn't a disclosure form a bit like writing a novel? I hate those forms and like your ex, have often felt guilty when the agent says, don't worry about that little leak or the mold growing along the basement wall... I end up telling it all.

Now if the owners of the last house I had in the desert had told me the sprinkler system wasn't working and what I'd have to do to get it fixed...

4:51 AM

Blogger ticharu said...

The tombstone was a nice touch!

9:25 AM

Blogger Le Chitelier said...

Ack! You're going salsa dancing again and I still havent' gone!

9:05 PM

Blogger josh williams said...

Bully for you ing!

10:28 PM

Blogger jungle jane said...

I've had heartburn all day. Then i realised it was just you salsa dancing over my heart.

I am happy to lend you my heart for a day, Ing. You deserve it.

4:17 AM

Blogger ing said...


Ah, but you didn't get the banana peels. The peels make all the difference.



I say that thing about the ants all the time. To potential buyers, to ordinary citizens, and to military recruits. So far, it has done little for me. But I do agree that everyone should know this.



I sound what? I'm afraid I'm miles and miles away from misery these days. But I haven't been to the gym in a while. I need the Y.



A novel is like a disclosure form -- hmmmm. That'd make for an interesting premise. Fiction as full disclosure of everything the narrator feels is a personal flaw about him/herself? Meaning, s/he is selling the self?

I'll think about that one.



Tombstones are always kind of a nice touch. But I wouldn't want one for a headboard.



You too, my main man!



Are you sure that wasn't just a sunburn?

My heart could use a loan. I would like it to be two times wider.

8:12 AM

Blogger Le Chitelier said...

I've been overlooked by the beautiful Ing?!
*lower lip starts trembling, looks about to cry*

12:06 AM

Blogger ginab said...

n'kay (gulp). I am so dang tired from all the swimming (laps today too!), but I am determined to eat ice cream, read the newspaper, watch more episodes of The Office. Yeah to DvDs.



4:28 PM

Blogger Labbie said...

Holy crap... You mean they call it the past because we have to leave it behind? Wha..!?

Salsa dance, eh?

I'm there.

8:24 PM

Blogger ing said...

Le Chit:

My dearest, most darling man, dead or alive (Le Chit = on par with Beck and Matty, my two idols [tho in two separate ways]):

I must have had a stroke to have missed you. I will save a whole night of salsa for you and you alone, my Chit, my chemist. Your lip will stay still as Everest from now on.

I cannot believe my utter carelessness. I am posting this comment separately in hopes that you will find it in your decomposed heart to forgive me.

11:12 PM

Blogger Le Chitelier said...

Awwwww, you are so sweet Ing. Of course I can find it in my dead corpse heart (but not dead in the emotional sense!) to forgive you. Anything for the ever-youthful-looking Ing!

4:37 PM

Blogger ginab said...

Sugar is sweet.

chocolate melts, and it's sweet (so sweet!)

honey yum favorite yum sweet the hon-ey!

this has been a monday needy of sweets so sweet; stick and dip and run our hands all over, stick to the sky with them and dip to the ground on them and wash them good and it's all over.

I want sweet (hear a baby crying).


7:28 PM

Blogger Spinning Girl said...

You GO girl!

Hmmm, ants on our roof? I would so pull out of that deal if I were the buyer.

I'm considering a house where water flows into the basement. Is that bad?

8:14 PM

Blogger matty said...

Ing -- Before you and Jane smoke that compost heap, I should probably warn you about that "accident" I had when I was roaming about...

So, I want to write a novel in which we chart the rise and fall of disco related to the career of Linda Blair. I think that there might be an audience for such a book!

10:04 PM

Blogger ing said...


And I am tired from spin class and lifting weights. But no DVDs for me. Tonight, I wrote reviews for each of the bookstores. We're going to be included some kind of guidebook. Look, here's me and my huge cup of coffee. I am a blur. Nobody can catch me.



You don't have to leave the past behind. It's just, sometimes you need to, yeah?

Can you salsa? I'm still learning. On your heart, mind you. It's more forgiving than the hardwood floor.


le chit:

Whew!! I wasn't sure what might lie within your many-chambered heart (aside from worms and a whole lotta love).



And you too, my good man and Sean Connery lookalike.

I'm coming over. You better not be snoring when I get there.



When it's that sweet, you can't wash it off. Not ever. It's always Monday in the bottom of your cup, sug.



Depends on the source of the stream and how big the fish, I guess. As in life, so the waters.

A home, though. Wow.



And what a shining career. Ah, to be lifted in the air by a man half my size (a man named BJ, mind you). Ah, to feel the weight of my skates and to know how inevitably, like two iron tracks laid across a continent, my career paralleled the coke-addled days of disco. I could weep with joy.

But alas, I cannot write it. I leave that to you.

12:51 AM

Blogger ticharu said...

I was for a time rather close to a group of young and beautiful who had a fascination with graveyard art. They would frequent the cemetary, do drugs and fornicate, bring home suveniers (spelling)
Weird bunch. They're all dead now...

4:47 AM

Blogger ginab said...

You get to run around and climb ladders with your cuppa. Your teeth look movie starish in your staff pics pic, by the way.

luck you! you are lucky!!


PS: you must have seen (convict speak) I goofed on the days. gd dream is what!

8:02 AM

Blogger josh williams said...

ing: My snore gland was removed at birth. Some people hear voices, some snore's...

1:44 PM

Blogger Moonpie said...

They look like great bookshops, if I'm ever on your side of the pond, I'm there. And you have ladders!

5:20 AM

Blogger ing said...

ticharu, baby:

That doesn't surprise momma one bit. None of it.



Yes, lucky. I do know that. I am extremely lucky. Sometimes I just can't believe it.

Lunes no es el dia? (I'm missing some accents, but you get it, yeah?)



Yeah, but only certain people hear voices. The whole midwest can hear your snores, plus those of us in N. CA with delicate ears.



Yes, do! Come visit! I'll let you climb the ladder to the stars which twinkle above the secret ceiling-hatch through which the newborn titles are received.

12:14 AM


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