Writing musings and tuna fish

Most of the time, I love my job. Sure, I often have to write articles about things that I really, really don’t care about, but I know that if I go to bed without writing a single word all day, I can’t sleep, and so this is most definitely the only job for me.

Add to that the fact that I can work poolside, in my pajamas and at any time of day or night… well that makes it all the more gratifying.

That being said, writing can be very frustrating.

I started writing at the age of ten or eleven, and now, more than ten years later (gah), I still have yet to publish even one example of what started me down this path: fiction. So even if I get a little jolt of excitement every time one of my articles gets published (and another one when the payment comes in to my PayPal account), I still find myself leafing through old short stories and putting my heart into novels that, for the moment, will remain for my eyes only (and the eyes of those I force to read them… thanks Little Sister).

But possibly the most frustrating thing about being a writer is the fact that no one else seems to believe that sitting in front of the computer with a giant mug of coffee means that you’re working. Writing is a process, and it’s not the sort of thing you can sit down and bang out on a nine-to-five basis with a break for lunch. When left to my own devices, I get up at eight in the morning and write a bit, an hour here and an hour there, punctuated by coffee breaks and walking breaks and sometimes breaks during which I do nothing except watch marathons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’ve tried to sit down at a desk and work all day, but it just doesn’t work that way.

Still, I’ve got half a mind to run to the library and stay there when I try to bring my “work ethic” home. My computer is my workspace, and I can bring it wherever I like, but I may have to start sitting in closets or locking myself in the bathroom (the only door with a lock in our house), like I did when I was younger, escaping the constant soundtrack of a family of six with a novel, my back up against the porcelain bathtub. Because no matter where else you hide in my house–in my room, in the living room that no one ever goes into, on the third floor, which most people avoid in the summertime because it heats up like a sauna–someone will find me, and being a licensed driver means that someone is always looking for me.

I don’t mind it, most of the time. I get sent to buy pies or milk or pick someone up, and I turn the radio on to 92.5, Connecticut country and sing croony songs to myself in the privacy of my brother’s car, which he left here when he went down to Tennessee last month. I get a little bit of time to observe the town I grew up in, which is very important, considering the fact that the novel I’m working on right now takes place here.

I let the car guide me along roads that I know all too well, and I remember why I started writing this novel in the first place, the sorts of ideas and scenes I want to relay to my reader, and by the time I make it home, it doesn’t matter that I have enough rejection letters to wallpaper my new apartment, or that my computer has, once again, decided to restart itself in the middle of an article that I haven’t saved (When will I learn?)

Still… just once, I’d like to be able to finish an article without someone screaming my name.

End-of-Summer Tuna and Tomato Salad

1 head leaf lettuce
1 can tuna packed in olive oil, drained
2-3 really ripe summer tomatoes

Basil vinaigrette:
2-3 leaves of basil
1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. white wine vinegar
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
salt and pepper to taste

Assemble the salad in a large bowl, lettuce topped with tomatoes topped with tuna.

Combine the vinaigrette ingredients with a fork.

Just before serving, drizzle the vinaigrette over the top of the salad and toss.