writing in the moment exercises

I'm pretty pleased with the way these came out:

1. I enjoy the way the bristles of the electronic brush shudder against my teeth and the loud buzzing of the advanced craft currently mapping out my molars. Despite my unfounded conviction that a toothbrush with batteries is more powerful than the old-fashioned model, out of habit I press much harder than I need to. I don’t floss. It’s one of my most shameful secrets. Although I know it’s probably bullshit, I tell myself that if I brush with conviction I’ll fool even the most astute dentist. I pay particular attention to the teeth cowering in the pockets of my cheeks—those fools, always thinking they’ll escape notice! As I merrily bring the brush around to the front, I ponder the thinness of the teeth I present to society when compared with those burly bastards on the sides that do all the work. There’s gotta be a metaphor there, I pontificate, something about the proletariat. I snort with laughter, which prompts Lena to shout, “What’s funny?” She’s in the kitchen, doesn’t know I’m occupied. Annoyed at having to explain myself in the midst of this—the most intimate of all possible moments—I exact meaningless revenge. I yell a response in swampy-mouthed near-gibberish:

“NOSHING IS REARY FURNIE, BRURSHING MAH TEESH.”

I turn the tap on. Before cupping cold water in my hands I do a quick mirror check to see how much toothpaste is escaping my mouth. An old boyfriend and I used to brush our teeth together, and he was always disgusted when a few drops of blue dribbled down my lips. After hearing from him again and again that I was using too much paste, that I was brushing all wrong, it’s something I’m self-conscious about—even when alone. Tonight there’s only one drop, which is excusable. I wipe it off and stare into the mirror for a moment. Rinse, and spit.


2. Today—as on many previous days and many sure to come—I am convinced that I have found the perfect two songs for editing a manuscript to. The first is Lady Gaga’s “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich,” and the second is the Ramones’ “The KKK Took My Baby Away.” I’m listening to them on repeat and editing the longest project that’s ever been given me. The work is tedium in itself. If the work were a guy that you met on the street, he would be the stereotype of an accountant personified—a dull, unwrinkled charcoal shirt, plain black slacks and glasses. The kind that speaks when spoken to and can only talk about taxes. That’s the kind of boring work this is.

Before I started listening to music at my desk I was miserable. With a rhythm behind the hundreds of pages I scroll through—changing chapter numbers, deleting tab stops, formatting headings—eventually time ceases to exist and I attain an almost Zen thoughtlessness where it’s just me and the text, me and the text.

I encounter an obnoxious phrase. He’s staying capitalized for no discernible reason. We dance. I’m wearing out my repertoire trying to seduce him, but nothing short of deleting and retyping seems to work. I’m a lost cause now. I whisper, “aw c’mooooooooon,” no longer aware of the coworkers who can hear me.

The editor-in-chief comes over. I’m blasting Lady Gaga and don’t hear him; my high heels, possessed, are doing a strange little shuffly-dance under my desk. He doesn’t knock. Instead he just says my name as loudly as he can. “GAH!” I yell, hitting turbulence on the runway back to reality. “I—I’m sorry.” I remove my headphones.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Frank says. All this is standard procedure. He hands me a set of contract requests and departs again.

--Julia Aaaarrrrrrrrrrrrr!