Is she really that untidy?

Have you wondered what the deal is with the tagline for my blog: “She tried to look picturesque but only succeeded in being untidy?” It’s a quote from Oscar Wilde’s “A Picture of Dorian Grey” and refers to Victoria, Lord Henry Wotton’s wife. In the scene from which the quote was taken, Dorian is lounging around at Lord Henry’s house waiting for him when Victoria comes in. This is how the narrator describes her:

“She was a curious woman whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.” There’s more of it, but that’s the bit I like.

I imagine you all read the blog title and the tagline and think to yourself, “that Meg must be a mess.” Well, not true, mostly. For one thing, I rarely wear dresses. Skirts, yes, because I can match them with a black t-shirt. My friends and family do roll their eyes at me though, because I tend to wear the same or similar things all the time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to look nice, I do. Those fitted black t-shirts from H&M are very flattering. And no, I’m not too old to be shopping at H&M. Not for t-shirts, anyway. Besides, I am also cheap.

I guess I don’t easily tire of wearing the same things. I’ve always said I’d do well in an environment where someone told me what to wear. Like the army. Or prison, maybe. Frankly, it sure makes getting dressed in the morning easier and faster. I will not be the reason you are late getting out the door. Nevertheless, I assure you I am not untidy. I just really find those lines from ‘Dorian Grey’ amusing.

When you think of a writer, what image pops into your head? The disheveled man or woman, still in their bathrobe, sitting at the computer with coffee stains all over their images-1notebooks and crumpled bits of paper strewn across the desk and overflowing the wastebasket?

If you write full time, work from home and don’t actually have to see people face to face, would it be easy to slip into that habit? I think it could be. My office is in my home but seeing patients prevents me from sliding down that slippery slope of not bothering.

Imagine what that would do to one’s self esteem after a while. Not getting dressed, not fixing your hair or putting on makeup. Who cares? No one’s going to see you… That’s just one step away from: “I’m not worth it.”

I wrote a post in December about treating your writing like a job. Making time for it, being disciplined so that it doesn’t get shoved onto the pile of unfulfilled dreams. Let this advice be another aspect of that discipline: Take care of yourself. Get up and stretch, get some exercise. Come home and shower and put on the kind of clothes you’d wear for ‘casual Friday’.  It doesn’t have to be uncomfortable, just presentable.  Ditch the sweatpants and at least put on jeans! I don’t know about you, but if I don’t get out of my pajamas, it feels like I’m home on a sick day.  Then I end up binge watching Netflix and no writing gets done anyway.

Don’t let your writing space turn into a dump, either. Granted, when you’re in the middle of a project, a certain amount of clutter is inevitable but don’t let it get out of hand! Wipe up the coffee stains, empty the wastebasket and whisk the crumbs off the keyboard. Wait till you see how much better that feels.

Will these habits help you find inspiration? Cure writer’s block? Help you edit more clearly? I say yes. Don’t believe me? Give it a try!

The tidy author, grey sweater for variety!

(Header image courtesy abc news)

Flashback: Angsty teenage poetry

It’s a rainy day here in southeast Pennsylvania.  It’s my day off and for whatever reason, I decided to peruse my old notebooks.  Remember when you were young and love seemed as serious as a heart attack?  Well, I found a poem I wrote when, just after graduation from high school, I got dumped by a boy I thought I loved.

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The dull thudding rain falls softly

As another grey day goes by

I am drowning in misery

And wondering once again, why?

An umbrella shelters the walkers

As they trudge along the street

And I stare out my window, alone and desperate

The kettle whistles on the stove

But I just let it shriek

I’m too far gone, I can’t move

My limbs are growing weak

The empty bottle hits the floor

As I open my slackened hand

And I wonder once again

Why I loved that man

Jane: part three

”I found her like this when I brought her the mail,” Jane told the police officer. “It’s not my custom to check in on her every minute.”
“Well, Ma’am, it appears she’s been dead for a few hours. I’m so sorry,” he said sympathetically.
Jane’s husband put an arm around her and led her from the room. “It wasn’t your fault,” he murmured. “She had a bad heart. This was bound to happen one of these days.”
Jane and her husband sat on the sofa in her mother’s living room while the coroner dealt with the remains. After the body had been loaded into the hearse for its trip to the morgue, Jane and her husband went up to their second floor apartment. Jane stifled a smile as the weight seemed to lift from her shoulders.
“Shall we order in?” her husband asked.
“Yes, yes. That would be quite nice,” Jane replied. “Can I fix you a drink? I think I need one right about now.”
“Just a beer, love. If there’s one left.”
“Of course,” she said, opening a Carlsberg for him. She pulled a tumbler from the cabinet and filled it halfway with a dose of Glenlivet. The smoky amber liquid warmed her insides on the way down. “So where should we order from?”
“Listen,” he began hesitatingly. “There’s something I wanted to ask you about… Maybe this isn’t the best time… But…”
“Go on, what is it?”
“Well, er… It’s my mother. You know she hasn’t been well. I thought now that the apartment is going to be free…”
The blood roared in her ears and the room spun around her. Every day would be the same. She would wake in the morning with a knot in the pit of her stomach and pretend to be asleep while her husband prepared himself for the workday. Jane swirled the last of the smoky amber liquid around in her glass and drained it in one gulp. Then she stared at her husband and wept.