Friday, December 25, 2015
Happy Holidays!
Really accomplished writers – the Dan Browns and Leah Reminis of the world, if you will – often speak of their “writing processes,” which generally seem to involve adorably distressed-looking roll top desks and locales rustic enough that you might run into a ferret or something but not so rustic that you won’t have easy access to a T.G.I. Friday’s. My own process, I must admit, is not quite so much like something you might see in a Pottery Barn Teen catalogue. Typically I climb into my favorite Pajama Jeans, eat an entire bag of Funyuns, and stare blankly at my laptop, pausing only occasionally to google what Willa Ford is up to these days (being fired from the set of a movie based on a video game, thank you very much) or whether Dennis Franz is still alive (mostly). From time to time I type and then erase some hilarious observation about a certain Real Housewife’s battle with Lyme Disease or the way strangers accidentally dry hump you on the train. I flip on the television, since obviously all that is lacking is a little inspiration from Candace Cameron-Bure’s masterpiece of understated psychological realism, Christmas Under Wraps. And then ultimately I write the whole thing in about ten minutes immediately before it absolutely has to go out (or my entire family will be murdered, assuming my life has become a Liam Neeson action thriller). Clearly, I am never going to be Ernest Hemingway, which is too bad, because I already had my descent into alcoholism and madness all planned out.
And speaking of madness (do they give out Cable ACE Awards for transitions?), it’s been kind of a crazy year. I’m not just talking about the fact that our political discourse has been reduced to the level where that guy who stands outside the Daley Center blowing a whistle and wearing a sign that says “The FBI Raped Me Daily” now seems like a viable presidential candidate. The biggest movie of the year was basically the biggest movie of 1993, but with more Bryce Dallas Howard. Hillary Clinton’s email generated more excitement than any electronic communication since I got that amazing business opportunity from that Nigerian prince. Pope Francis visited the United States, but not EPCOT Center, which is boring. And same sex marriage became legal nationwide, although as I understand it, repeatedly asking same-sex couples when they plan to finally tie the knot remains punishable by death.
In the midst of all this madness, my own life thankfully remained relatively stable. I’m still working for the Attorney General’s office, because the thrill of trying to avoid accidentally looking at photographs of horrific gunshot wounds never wears off. Ian and I still live in Wrigleyville, Chicago’s number one source for questionably-themed bar crawls and disappointment. In April, we adopted an adorable yet impressively neurotic beagle from a local rescue organization, furthering our lifelong quest to ensure there is no surface in the condo that has not yet been soaked in urine. In June, we welcomed our first nephew, Jack, who is incredible at tummy time but admittedly seems confused by some of my more obscure pop culture references. We also traveled to Spain, where we thrilled at the artistry of Gaudi and Goya, as well as the fact that Spanish McDonald’s serve mayonnaise with their French fries. It is such a big world, and yet I remain undeniably the single most important part of it.
I kid, of course. It’s Jennifer Lawrence’s world; we’re all just waiting to inevitably turn on her in it. Until then, let’s all have fantastic holidays and great 2016s, even though it turns out Santa is pretty much a dirty communist.
Really accomplished writers – the Dan Browns and Leah Reminis of the world, if you will – often speak of their “writing processes,” which generally seem to involve adorably distressed-looking roll top desks and locales rustic enough that you might run into a ferret or something but not so rustic that you won’t have easy access to a T.G.I. Friday’s. My own process, I must admit, is not quite so much like something you might see in a Pottery Barn Teen catalogue. Typically I climb into my favorite Pajama Jeans, eat an entire bag of Funyuns, and stare blankly at my laptop, pausing only occasionally to google what Willa Ford is up to these days (being fired from the set of a movie based on a video game, thank you very much) or whether Dennis Franz is still alive (mostly). From time to time I type and then erase some hilarious observation about a certain Real Housewife’s battle with Lyme Disease or the way strangers accidentally dry hump you on the train. I flip on the television, since obviously all that is lacking is a little inspiration from Candace Cameron-Bure’s masterpiece of understated psychological realism, Christmas Under Wraps. And then ultimately I write the whole thing in about ten minutes immediately before it absolutely has to go out (or my entire family will be murdered, assuming my life has become a Liam Neeson action thriller). Clearly, I am never going to be Ernest Hemingway, which is too bad, because I already had my descent into alcoholism and madness all planned out.
And speaking of madness (do they give out Cable ACE Awards for transitions?), it’s been kind of a crazy year. I’m not just talking about the fact that our political discourse has been reduced to the level where that guy who stands outside the Daley Center blowing a whistle and wearing a sign that says “The FBI Raped Me Daily” now seems like a viable presidential candidate. The biggest movie of the year was basically the biggest movie of 1993, but with more Bryce Dallas Howard. Hillary Clinton’s email generated more excitement than any electronic communication since I got that amazing business opportunity from that Nigerian prince. Pope Francis visited the United States, but not EPCOT Center, which is boring. And same sex marriage became legal nationwide, although as I understand it, repeatedly asking same-sex couples when they plan to finally tie the knot remains punishable by death.
In the midst of all this madness, my own life thankfully remained relatively stable. I’m still working for the Attorney General’s office, because the thrill of trying to avoid accidentally looking at photographs of horrific gunshot wounds never wears off. Ian and I still live in Wrigleyville, Chicago’s number one source for questionably-themed bar crawls and disappointment. In April, we adopted an adorable yet impressively neurotic beagle from a local rescue organization, furthering our lifelong quest to ensure there is no surface in the condo that has not yet been soaked in urine. In June, we welcomed our first nephew, Jack, who is incredible at tummy time but admittedly seems confused by some of my more obscure pop culture references. We also traveled to Spain, where we thrilled at the artistry of Gaudi and Goya, as well as the fact that Spanish McDonald’s serve mayonnaise with their French fries. It is such a big world, and yet I remain undeniably the single most important part of it.
I kid, of course. It’s Jennifer Lawrence’s world; we’re all just waiting to inevitably turn on her in it. Until then, let’s all have fantastic holidays and great 2016s, even though it turns out Santa is pretty much a dirty communist.
