Writing and the afterglow


Creative motivation? The brainchild behind the writing? It is this very question that has left me with five unfinished drafts, thirteen neglected followers (don’t peel those bumper stickers off just yet, and yes, the “WE ♥ U CARRIE DOUGLAS” t-shirts are still being shipped), two sweaty armpits, and one helluva hazy evening from too many klonopin.  The five drafts meant to tackle the very debacle of WHY I WRITE are still left in my queue in their virgin form; here is a sampling of their current endings:

  1. fuck fuck fuck where is the fucking tuna (homage to best line ever: Bridget Jones Diary)
  2. blah blah blah
  3. aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
  4. enough with this bullshit Carrie, p.s. you suck
  5. fjdksajfsakd;ghjsd;fj lhrfek;grwaujgia32uj

I will spare you the rest of the bloody aftermath. You’re welcome.

The agony of working through my first ever writer’s block (mini sidebar: what qualifies me to even make this statement) has about pushed me into a mental hell.  D-E-D-I-C-A-T-I-O-N has won out, and the beautiful work which will now unfold is for you, my devoted followers.

Clearly, my creative motivation is not to find a new way to tell myself what a lousy writer and blogger I am. It actually just reminds me of a handful of activities I attempted as a child:

  • Tumbling (loyal followers, who have been following me since I was a shorty, will recall my post about my cartwheels looking like a sideways donkey kick)
  • Softball (as a highly-undercoordinated lefty, my positioning at bat always had me end up facing the catcher)
  • Hell, I was the only kid at recess who could strike at kickball. YES, it happened

So, just the mere title of “blogger” or “writer” has recently confounded me. Paralyzed, I sat before my brand new Twitter account blankly staring at the computer screen. I agonized about who I am and what I think I’m doing in the blogosphere.  How presumptuous, Carrie, to claim writer or blogger after publishing three little posts. Who do you think you are?

Does anyone else find a way to mentally berate herself with something as simple as delineating a Twitter profile? So, when this magic finally rolled out…”air-fiver, blogger, and counselor,”…I naturally began an internal diatribe about the Oxford comma.

I would be lying if I told you writing or blogging was my absolute passion. Actually, I feel a bit like an impostor…or at least like someone who came late to the oops we forgot to tell you it WASN’T really a costume party party wearing an orange, 1980’s, Bruce Jenner-type (think Wheaties) tracksuit with a white terry headband and then got caught double-dipping into the salsa.

So, it goes something like this. I didn’t really know I loved to write until it became more than an afterthought.  In my youth and young adulthood, I experimented with writing: journaling, poetry, etc. I haven’t filled a journal or written a poem in at least a decade. But this writing? It’s different, euphoric.

Maybe this euphoria is something that every writer, faced with her own lack of raison d’être, comes to know after a drought. Perhaps, it’s just that after obsessing so earnestly about one’s next work, the relief of finally bearing fruit is palpable. A coup, of some sort…a writer’s high? Is it even more?

The radio blares that song “Roses” by Chainsmokers and my foot is off the gas because the light ahead is red and every fiber of my being longs to coast just a minute longer because it is that part in the music that makes me almost want to burst out of my seat with joy and the surge of just fucking being and it is resonating through my body because the music is so loud and there is
pure melody and
her voice
and the bass
and I am ready to touch the brake because it is past time now and I am filled with sorrow because it was too fleeting and in a millisecond the regret is a memory because the light blinks green and the lane is wide open so with pure, fucking, unbelievable joy I step my foot onto the gas and sail through that green light and the music is still at that spot where it feels so exhilarating to drive fast; it is perfect and it is happening and
and I understand my reason for being alive and
CLICK CLICK CLICK the dopamine is drowning my brain,
my body,
my fucking soul
and it is like this with the
of the keyboard when there is the hum of taps and clicks and this sound is like no other and my thoughts are literally pouring from my brain and the monitor is flooded with words and I just know this is right, this is what I imagined
my words are the perfect circle and they keep streaming from my mind and
CLICK CLICK CLICK the keyboard is my SONG and this is what I’ve been yearning for, this feeling, this connection, this certainty of being one with something
my mind and body nearly writhe and as the moment ebbs I know that this is all I was ever really after…

I languish in the afterglow; I savor it, breathe it in, feel the comfort of just being. I am still and I am quiet. I stare at my hands where they rest on the keys. There is no sound but the slight hum of the modem. My eyes blink before the monitor; although the room is dusky, I wish the lights were lower and instinctively pull my cardigan tighter across my breasts, my chest.

Transporting, this culmination of work. I will chase it again, but am sated now. One click left: publish.

Like any high, once satisfied, the craving begins anew. These moments are fleeting. They are perfect, tiny and few, but they are mine.

Hangin’ at the Community Pool (I brought my floaties)

lone woman at pool

Wading the Community Pool

Ever feel like you just did the most graceful cartwheel of your life?  But somebody recorded it and you realize you look like you did a sideways donkey-kick (and your butt looks bigger than you remember).

And so it begins. The obsession. I wake at night and obsess about my blog, its stats, views, likes, and comments.  Do they get me? Am I relatable? Please like me. I lose sleep. I write inside my head but fail to rouse to make it concrete. Often, my best work becomes lost somewhere between slumber and awakening. I curse (fuck), I am certain it was good, but now lost forever (double-fuck). The artistic genius that inhabited my brain from 2:37am – 3:46am (ish) is now dead.

It will begin again, anytime I am near an electronic device. My stomach in knots… Don’t check it, doooooon’t check those fucking stats…. and yet, I refresh, I wait, I refresh, I imagine my next post, I start writing my next post in my head, I refresh, and in all of this, I forget to actually do the one thing that I set out to do, which is to write and make it relative.

I made the mistake of asking my mom what she thought of “pimps…”, as I now refer to my first post (i.e., my earlier work). In fact, I’m going to just call it pimps from here on out, because it’s fun….no other reason. “Pimps.” Say it yourself. Purse your lips together and say “pimps.” How often do you get to say it? My guess is, not enough… not enough.

Here is a bit of my mother’s email:

“It is amazing but way too long…wonder if your venue should be something other than a blog?

It is my understanding that blogs are to be many, many things, but not long.

Should you perhaps turn your sights to short stories?

Or somehow make that piece one that can be turned into a two day blog.

I’m not an expert on blogs but if I were looking for a way to connect to a blogger I believe I would have about 45 seconds to grab some quick inspiration and then come back tomorrow for another fix…..I still believe you need to either think of another  venue for your talents or find a way to hit it hard with fewer words. People want short and powerful not too lengthy.

SHORT STORIES? How the fridge will I now switch mediums/venues to start writing short stories?  Jesus Christ, I was confused enough just starting THIS site. Do people just publish ONE short story? It’s normally a “collection,” mom. What would the title be: Pimps…, a short story? And a two-day blog, what even is that??  Oh, and by the way, thanks Mom… no more sleepless nights for me! No siree!


I also asked my sister. Pretty sure it went something like this: “It’s waaaaaay tooooo loooong, and while you’re writing, try to make it interesting.” Okay, I may have made that last bit up, but GOD, I knew there was a reason that I was going to keep this blogging thing to myself.

Has it come to this? Whose approval would fill me? I am highly competitive (except when it comes to something that requires actively or passively sweating). I want to know that this one thing is both artistic and able to be connected to; both provoking and funny, profound yet relatable, relevant and yet somehow still symbolic. Didn’t someone once tell me I could write?

My mind said, “who in their ‘right’ mind would want to read this stream of consciousness, immature bullshit?” But seeing bloggers like Mimi Smartypants and No Wire Hangers, Ever be so freaking awesome, entertaining, and relatable (and pardon me, not comparing them to my immature bullshit) made me trust in mankind. Period.  “I can do this, I am doing this.”

Seven days ago (but who’s counting), I had for a moment, a real boost in self-confidence and sent a successful blogger an e-mail asking her to check out my first post “Pimps, dissonance, and the human condition” (aka “Searching for Pretty Woman”).  I had no idea whether or not she’d respond and bam, within twenty minutes my heart was soaring: you like me…right now….you like me (cue Sally Field moment). She told me I was relatable, and that that is the tough part, that “being relatable” part. She also gave me some constructive criticism: shorten the posts.

So the question? What is it I want to accomplish?

If a lack of “likes” or “follows” (and how it plays on my self-esteem) is in part what fuels my obsession, then turning my attention to some blog know-how (if you will) has been my next step. A caveat to this whole bloggin’ life, according to HeatherBlog, is: don’t allow your self-worth to become correlated with how many likes and follows (in “How to get more blog traffic”) …Yikes, that’s a bitter, bitter pill for a girl like me. Not base my self-worth on others’ opinions? Blasphemy, Heather!  From where would I attain my self-image?

At the end of the day, perhaps I need to just.be.real. I know myself. Of-fucking-course there is some remote form of ego-building and ego-seeking going on. I want everything I do to be noticeably worthy.

For now, I will continue to hang at the Daily Post’s Community Pool for feedback, inspiration, criticism, and maybe praise.  I have been brave enough to wade in its waters but have not swam its depths or gone all in; neither jumped in with the fury of a cannonball nor elegantly swan dived. You’ve seen me there, I am sure, in a simple one-piece, trying to look casual. When I do make my splash, I am certain it will be with all the grace of a flailing belly-flop and painfully awkward for us all, because I’ll just be doing me.


Mindfulness or Motherhood

shadow lady

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOM, my ponytail is stuck in my hair,” Esmé yells from the dining room table.  Esmé, I think, that is your name and yet it sounds as though it is a foreign country I may have learned about in geography when I was twelve. “La, la, la, la, la, la, la,” I sing in my head to assuage the noise.  Zaid, sitting on the living room floor out of my sight-line, struggles with something of which I am vaguely aware.  Grunts and groans of frustration echo into the kitchen. Ophelia sits at the dining room table across from Esmé with a heaving sigh that demands some task, some answer, at best some nonverbal cue that she has my attention.

For some reason tonight, their needs do not sway my loyalties to the dishwasher and the very important task of unloading it. I somehow feel torn but just need one……. more……..second. Only then will I relinquish my freedom for the 407th time today.  Who are they and how did they get here, I think in wonderment. I blinked my eyes and they were here, inhabiting my house, my brain, my every waking moment like they did when they were unknown beings growing inside my body. Four times. Four…..four?

I  methodically start on the silverware in my self-induced trance. My only affect is the act of not being affected at all.  That is my role for these moments. I force myself to be conscious of the smoothness of the tines on a fork as I run my fingers up to the points, then tap my index finger slowly: one, two, three, four.  I stare for just a moment, over their heads at some faraway place.  Plates: I want to feel the warmth of the smooth ceramic against my palm. This is my play, I am actress and director, they will not cry “cut,” not yet.

On borrowed time, my independence and alone time will be over. But even thinking about this finale is an assault on my senses….I must get back, I focus with a new urgency.  This is my refuge, my salvation.  My livelihood is now dependent on this, this one thing that is mine. My focus refreshed, I continue with my task; I wrap my hand around another drinking glass, its perfect cylindrical curve within my hand; I intently listen to the clinks and thuds as I stack glasses and then push them to the back of the cabinet.  I bring a large warm mason jar to my breast and let it rest until I can feel the warmth through my shirt. I slide the pads of my fingertips around its ridges, feeling the lines of demarcation, slowly, purposefully.  I clutch the jar at my breastbone for a second more and then set it on the counter next to the other dishes that need putting away.

Mindfulness is inevitably ending; marching orders must be given. There will be homework, teeth-brushing, hand-washing, covers drawn, and goodnight kisses. There may yet be bargains and buts and rebuttals, but there will be my presence again, I know.  And, cut.

pimps, dissonance, and the human condition



Ever been to one of those super high-end outdoor shopping malls? Boasting names like Williams-Sonoma, Louis Vuitton and Burberry. “Gaaaaawd,” I inwardly groaned (in that Napoleon Dynamite sort of way).  It’s such a love-hate relationship. I end up feeling like such a hater when I leave those places.

I traveled at least 60 miles (and let’s be real, somewhat out of my comfort zone) to find a dress for a black-tie event. “Comfort zone BE DAMNED,” my acerbic brain unleashes….but then reality; self-doubt inevitably creeps in and my entire identity and value as a person somehow begins to correlate with whether or not I am able to “keep up” with the people at places like this.  Because I like to mix me some judgmental with my irrational, I start to become angry at the upper class for having a different lifestyle than me. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to step one Mossimo-shod, “man-made materials” ballet flat into Henri Bendel or Kate Spade…not these babies; I was certain they’d smell I was not of old or new money and somehow inherently know that most of my shopping takes place in discount retail chains and Target.

I walked into Neiman Marcus and made a bee-line past the expensive dresses.  The woman at Neiman’s, who introduced herself as “Sandy,” was a living doll: 5’2”, champagne blonde precision-cut bob and in black, head to toe.  She had just a smidge (exponentially speaking) of filler in her lips along with steroidal-induced eyelashes.

She first steered me to some tight black numbers that had a bunch of layered draping…yoooou know the kind ladies. It’s supposed to “camouflage” one’s unflattering feature or attribute. Hmmmm, if that’s the case, my garment should be a goddamned Ghillie suit. I explained that after four children and having a new baby, there is no amount of expertly placed draping that will disguise my belly.  I failed to mention that my new baby had just turned one, and that the ship housing the hope of losing the next twenty lbs. by “aggressively nursing” has long since sailed. She began to explain the miracle of Spanx (I can barely afford a dress, Sandy!) with these disguise panels (WTF Sandy, look at me!) I think.  I continued to peruse the dresses, doing my best to pretend to not look at the price tags.  I thoughtfully ran my hand over gown after gown.  Anytime I touched something that was not synthetic, I inwardly winced and dreamed of a different me, with nothing but money to burn.

The adorable Sandy found me again by a gorgeous Tadashi Shoji dress that had a price tag of $610. WHAAAT? She told me how great this dress would be at disguising my midsection, with its floral applique masterfully placed under the bust line and zigzagging down to the middle of the gown. And besides, it was black. God I love black, a shroud like night, the cocoon of death, and the only color that may disguise the cronuts and pizza that form the inner tube that I now call my waist.

At last, I had to be honest about my budget.  I told her the dress was over my budget. She smiled (I think it was genuine), “Okay,” (pause, head tilt, cute smile) “let’s be girlfriends; where else have you been today looking for dresses.” Girlfriends? Wow, I sort of liked this concept. For a minute, I thought of that scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts has that fairy-tale moment somewhere in Beverly Hills. She is shopping on her “uncle’s” dime and the scenes are a collage of Cinderella-like moments.  Vivian, as she was called, whisked out of her Rodeo Drive dressing room multiple times looking more ravishingly beautiful after each new outfit. I think of sugar daddies and pimps and wonder how I missed that boat. Then I remember I’m not a hooker; and sleeping with a man I’d never met (hmm, what’s he look like)…but taking money for it? You betcha. DAMN YOU MISSED OPPORTUNITY.

But alas Sandy is not going to save me from my financial ineptness or my mediocre figure. She is merely suggesting there are other department stores whose gems I may have yet to unearth. “Lord & Taylor,” I meekly admit. Goddammit.  Isn’t Lord & Taylor the Dollar General of department store retail?  Why do I even care? This girlfriend thing is like truth serum suddenly. She says that Lord & Taylor and Macy’s may be more feasible with all of their discounts and sales.  For some reason, I trust Sandy.  I do not feel mocked. I think she really wants to help me.

Sandy gently guides me to the sale rack (she must know I already browsed it, albeit with a feigned carelessness so as to not let her and her Neiman’s guests know my meager price point). She pulls two dresses (one, a size 6–ouch) and the other a silver, shimmery number that I tell her is too big and must be size 12. I’m very fashion-savvy, with my keen designer sense instantly knowing the size. “Size 8,” she says without an ounce of judgment. Shit. I keep screwing up.  If it looked like a size 12 on the hanger, imagine what it’s going to look like when I squeeze my middle-aged, post-baby, cellulite-ish body into it.  She shows me the price tag, $700 marked down to $220. We make eye contact. I inwardly give her an air-five.

Maybe I did it for Sandy. Maybe I did it for me. Maybe I did it because I was still secretly praying for my Pretty Woman moment (minus having to blow somebody). She brought some Spanx (her sing-song voice cooed, “even though you told me you didn’t want them”) into the dressing room and laid them over a tufted footstool. She also placed a water bottle on a small table next to a Victorian styled floral chair. (They do that here?). God I am so out of the loop. This dressing room is nicer than my bedroom. The lighting in the dressing room makes me look, well, nice….almost. I give myself a mental pep talk to don the gowns.

I slip on the Spanx (which I want now too, thanks very much Sandy).  The size six won’t fully zip in the back but it has the potential to be a beautiful gown. I gently ditch it and slip on the “It look like it’s a size twelve.” The “It’s actually a size eight” silver number is too, well, silver. I have a golden/yellow undertone and prefer something a tinge warmer on my skin (like black).  Gosh, now I feel a little guilty. There’s the water, the Spanx, our girlfriend status. Fuck…how am I going to not buy a dress from Sandy? She gets me. She’s not judging me. She said I’d look good with the camouflage draping.

There will be no future for us. I tell her the truth; the zipper won’t close and that cool silver tone just underscores my corpse-like glow….. It’s the damned serum again…I give Sandy the absolute truth. She has utterly disarmed me with her bob (I’m a sucker for them). “There’s always these websites for Rent-a-dress,” she says gingerly. Again, I am struck by her honesty and lack of judgment.

I know what this means. I’ll have to stay up all night on a vanity-driven, manic-like binge to find the one gown that is not only affordable (aka used) but also fills my yucky void. So…I find myself dress-less but optimistic. I steer clear of MAC, L’Occitane, and nearly every other store in my path to avoid the temptation of material things. I secretly loathe the women I see with multiple shopping bags in their beautifully manicured hands and at the same time, I want to be them.  On the drive home, I work at being present. I feel a little lost, as though I’ve been an impostor for the last several hours.


As I get closer to my home the landscape turns more agrarian. Corn fields line the highway and farm houses and the occasional cell tower dot the horizon. Vampire Weekend’s “A Punk” is on Pandora and I feel light and giddy as I slam my hand on the steering wheel to the rhythmic vocals. I look down at the speedometer and realize I’m driving 90 mph. I press my brakes and the van shudders….”brakes,” I think, “I still need brakes.”

My mind tries to hold the simultaneous thoughts of buying brakes versus buying a dress and it fails. One will win…the brain will attempt to rationalize one of two conflicting beliefs or behaviors to compensate for the discomfort of trying to hold two contradicting thoughts at the same time… If I had a sugar daddy I could have brakes and a dress. I think of the savings jar on my mantel that houses the likes of $20 and think about how long it will take to save for my children’s college education, let alone brakes.

I pass a small cross that someone has nailed to a large tree on the side of the highway. It is small and it is white. I notice brightly colored fake flowers at the base of the tree as I fly past.  Somebody that was loved died there. That is the accident site of someone who was loved and now is no longer here. Of course I think about my dead brother. I think about the things that I hold most dear: my children, my family, my mom and sister. I think about how grateful I am that I am not out driving looking for the tree where my loved one died so that I may nail a small cross to a tree and lay flowers at its trunk. I feel fortunate and lucky and tiny. Tiny, because I have been consumed by my overarching need to look good, which sometimes translates: “to feel good.”

I cannot understand how I can feel so deeply for this lost person and his/her family along with having been fixated on me: my dress and accouterments, my appearance, hell, even my brakes.  Regina Spektor’s song, “Fidelity” plays and I start to sing about the voices in my head.

I become certain that there are people who think and feel this way; significant yet inconsequential, secure yet lost, both fortunate and needy….. I think maybe I just don’t know them….will never know the stream of consciousness that gallivants within their brains…I wish to somehow see through or within, to be able to both hear and see their beating hearts or any other form of humanity in its absolute frailty.

I pull into the garage and turn off the ignition. I find a nickel and one penny on the counsel as I look to grab my handbag. I wrap my fingers around them and walk into the house and I pad toward the fireplace. I pull the big antique glass jug toward me and drop the six cents hearing the metallic pings as they come to rest against the other coins. I feel like there are thousands just like me and yet I also feel alone. Cognitive dissonance again; I must connect. I must find my fellow brethren. And when I do, should I ask, “Are we all just haters?”