Dear Manuscript: I'd Rather Eat Grass - A Procrastinator's Story

Yesterday you sat idly and watched as I took my screen doors off their rollers. You listened while I used the garden hose to wash them free of the wind-swept dust that had been clouding my view of Maui's Mount Haleakala for too long.

My allergies will probably thank me later.

I knew you were there, Manuscript, listening, waiting for me to come back to you, but I didn't care. You see, I was procrastinating. I didn't really care about the screen doors. I just wanted something else to do.

Procrastination. Such an ugly word, and yet it plagues 95% of writers—the honest ones anyway. Since starting this blog post I've made my wife lunch, changed baby's diaper, checked my email about 500 times, participated in a lengthy web discussion about whether Iron Man has a catheter in the groin of his suit, replied to several Facebook posts by people I haven't spoken to in years, and Googled "why do dogs eat grass," because when I went to type "why do writers procrastinate," dogs eating grass was the first suggestion Google came up with and that sounded far more interesting at the time.

So why do writes procrastinate?

There are a variety of answers, none of which I know because the thing I've spent the last hour reading about is a case study of 49 dog owners whose dogs had regular access to grass and other plants. The study found that 80% of the dogs had eaten plants at some time, with grass being the most common thing eaten. Apparently dogs eating grass is so common that even wild dogs do it.

Believe it or not the most widely accepted scientific theory as to why dogs do this is boredom. I know. I scrunched my face at that too. Even though there may be dietary or nutritional reasons for some dogs to eat grass, most do it simply because their owners don't engage with them enough.

Huh. How sad.

I'm sorry to have ignored you, Manuscript. On the bright side I now have a nice view of Mount Haleakala, a wealth of knowledge on why dogs eat grass, and a brand spanking new blog to send off into the internet. I'll return to you shortly. For now I think I have some vacuuming to do.

Why do we vacuum?

You're doddling writer,

---

Dear Manuscript is an ongoing series by author C.W. Thomas discussing his frustrations with those annoying voices in his head.

Click here to read more.

5 Things You Didn’t Know About Surfing

In the same way that some people say "I don't do pain," or "Nope, I don't do spiders," or "snakes," or whatever.

I don't do athletic. I just can't. But I’m tall and trim so I can fool most anybody into thinking I'm in shape.

The truth is if I didn’t have hands to catch myself I’d have no face from all the tripping and falling I’ve done over the years. My nose would be flat. Just a flat nose. Just a flat face with a flat nose because I’m a big non-athletic clutz.

But apparently I’m good at surfing.

On my first wave I jumped to my feet, kept my balance for a short distance, and sat back down before I wiped out. And I actually did that more than once. That’s surfing right? I'll pretend it is.

Our Instructor From The Zoo

I’ve got to give credit to our instructor though, a man who introduced himself as Armadillo, or Armor for short. He claimed to come from the zoo. He has a brother named Possum, and other family members from the rat species.

Honestly, if you asked me if he was kidding, I wouldn’t know what to say. In between pushing back long strands of gnarled blond locks from his copper face and looking like he desperately needed some weed to take his mind off his hangover, for all I know Armadillo probably actually was born in the zoo.

5 Things You Didn’t Know About Surfing

1. Bikinis and Surfboards Don’t Mix
Most movies about surfing always show the female surfers in bikinis because, well, I think the reason is obvious, but after 10 minutes on a surfboard you begin to realize just how unrealistic that is. Surfboards HURT! Even with a long-sleeved surf shirt my stomach and chest were beat red by the end of our lesson and the insides of my thighs were chaffed from straddling the board.

2. Surfing Should Be Called “S.E.D.”
Surfing shouldn’t be called surfing. It should be called Shoulder Exercise, or maybe S.E.D., for “Shoulder Exercise, Dude," because, really, there's little "surfing" involved. There's lots of paddling and chaffing and falling and swimming and praying and looking for sharks, but surfing is actually a very small part of the whole process.

3. "Surfer Dudes" Are Real
They’re not just some stereotype invented for TV. I already told you about Armadillo, who is every bit the laid back surfer dude you’ve ever imagined, but there were plenty of others just like him with long, scraggly hair, sun-spotted skin, and a nonchalant strut.

4. Surfing Will Kill You … No, Really.
Death is a major deal in surfing. If you don’t do it right it will kill you. There are sharks in the water that can kill you. There are rocks and rock walls that a wave can plow you into in a matter of seconds, killing you. If a wave carries you in too far and too fast even the beach will kill you. When you wipe out there are rocks and coral under the water that will gash your body, slice your arms and legs, and, yes, even kill you.

5. Snowboarding Doesn’t Make You A Better Surfer
I was proud to tell Armadillo that I was a fair snowboarder on the wintery cold mountains of Vermont. He just dropped his head between his shoulders and shook his head. Apparently snowboarders are hard to teach. When your brain is so used to having your feet strapped to the board it can be hard to get your mind to remember that surfing requires you to often change your footing.

Going Back for Seconds?

Unfortunately, cameras and surfing don’t mix, so Danielle and I have no actual proof that we did any of this. We intended to go back and take turns surfing while the other took pictures from the shore, but, honestly, surfing can, like, totally freaking kill you, so we decided to get pizza instead.

My Favorite H.G. Wells Quote

The Island of Dr. Moreau is by far one of my favorite books. I first read it as a teenager and have probably read it more times throughout my life than any other book.

As a kid I even memorized the final paragraph. To me this single section of text reveals a profound insight to the human condition. It suggests that nothing we do can fulfill us—not acquiring wealth, not garnering fame, not being in control or chasing after power, status, love, sex, drugs, or anything else. It points to a source of peace far beyond ourselves to something much more esoteric.

The story in The Island of Dr. Moreau is an exploration of humanity's animalistic tendencies. Are we, by nature, animals, or are we held to a greater standard by the concept of morality? If morality does exist, who decides what is moral, and can it save us from ourselves?

In Wells' story this concept is presented by the character of Dr. Moreau, a mad scientist type who creates a race of humanoid beings by genetically modifying animals—pig-men, dog-men, leopard-men, and many others, though sometimes with nightmarish results.

The curious thing about this tale is that without the continued medicinal support of their creator the creatures revert to their more feral natures. Once they became self-aware enough to recognize the cruelty of what Moreau is doing they turn on him, but in destroying him they destroy what they need to survive, essentially destroying themselves.

At the end of the story the main character returns to civilization and struggles to find peace after all the horrors he witnessed on Moreau's island. He turns to astronomy and finds something he did not expect.

And I quote.

"Ah-hem."

Taps microphone.

"There is, though I do not know why there is or how there is, a sense of infinite peace and protection in the glittering hosts of heaven. There it must be, I think, in the vast and eternal laws of matter, and not in the daily cares and sins and troubles of men, that whatever is more than animal within us must find its solace and its hope. I hope, or I could not live."

Hope.

Sometimes it's as vague as morality, but according to Wells we can't survive without it. It can't be found in what we can see, taste, or touch, not in our troubles or our worries or our fears, but from somewhere else.

And maybe it's found in different ways for different people, but this much is clear: as I watch our society destroy itself under its myriad of petty arguments on racism, gender issues, politics, ethics, religion, and more, it becomes increasingly apparent that people need to shift their focus. The more time we spend obsessing on all these issues, fostering dissension, hate, and fear, the further we fall from hope.

Update On Book 3 - Somewhere Around Chapter 35

The deeper this series goes the more the story takes on a life of its own. This wasn't entirely unexpected. The outlines of the first four books that were created, and the conceptualizing of the following four left plenty of room for flexibility. The final book has not been outlined at all. That one is in fate's hands.

But things have taken on a life of their own sooner than expected.

Last week two of the seven main characters were ready to have their narratives reach a climax, much sooner than planned, I might add. The setting changed. The timing changed. These two characters suddenly came together and wanted to have a big finale. Nothing wrong with that, just surprising is all. It's wonderful when characters take on a life of their own, but challenging as well.

The chapters that came as a result of this sudden merger were a delight to witness, with short, rapid-fire moments that bounce from character to character catching different beats of action as the story slingshotted to the end.

It won't be long now, and draft one of book three will be complete.

Stay tuned,

From Tohellwithit – Bad Driving Habits

Introduction
From Tohellwithit is a new series I'll be updating periodically with my optimistic pessimistic thoughts on life, love, and all the monotonous annoyances that ruffle my feathers. Through it I hope to amuse a few readers and provide myself a therapeutic outlet. Enjoy!

---

I love driving around and seeing the sights of Maui.

I hate how the locals drive.

PRO TIP

If you ever come to a stop light in Maui, wait a few seconds after the light turns green before you actually go, otherwise you run the risk of getting T-boned by what I have affectionately come to call "a complete moron."

It took me a while to figure this out. I'd be at an intersection three or four cars back. The light would turn green, but nobody would move.

"Move!" I'd say while lifting my hands up off the steering wheel, the universal gesture for, What in God's name are you people doing?

Then one day while approaching an intersection I watched the light turn red as I slowed to a stop, but the car ahead of me plowed through.

"He just ran a red light!" I declared to my wife. "That light turned red looong before he reached the white line. What a complete moron!"

Running red lights is so common in Maui that the locals have learned once a light turns green you need to wait a few seconds just in case there's a red light runner.

Too bad the cost of living in paradise has to be common sense.

From the blissful state of Tohellwithit,

World, Meet My Son

My son has arrived! He weighed 8 pounds, 10 ounces, and was 22 inches long. His name is Tobias Alexander (when I'm mad at him), but most of the time we just call him Toby.

If I could use one word to sum up what I witnessed as my wife labored and gave birth, it would be strength. I saw my wife do the miraculous. I saw her push past limits I never knew she had. I saw two midwives watch stunned at not only the long, hard labor she endured, but the steadfast, resilient, determined, way she handled it with no meds, no hospitals, and after 24 hours of no sleep.

Several times the midwives made remarks like, "Your pain threshold is unbelievable," "You haven't complained once," and "I wish more women handled labor like this."

They were in awe. I was in awe. I've never been more honored to call myself her husband than I am today.

My favorite moment.

Toby was doing fine until his head emerged. His right hand was trapped behind his head by his umbilical cord that was also wrapped around his neck. There were a few moments of worry as the midwives worked to get him free of his little tangled mess.

When he finally came free of the birth canal, the midwives tried to get him to breathe, but he wouldn’t make any noise. They cleared his nose and mouth of fluid, but he still wouldn’t suck in air. 

Dani started praying out loud, “Dear Jesus, help Toby breathe.” The midwives said, “Talk to your baby. Let him hear your voice.” “Breath, Toby,” Dani said. “Come on, Toby.”

That’s when I leaned down real close to him and said, “Hey Toby. This is your daddy. You need to breathe buddy.”

And at the sound of my voice he inclined his head to me and squeaked for the first time.

Dear Manuscript: No, You Can't Drive

We started out on this journey together with a working understanding of each other's roles. Or so I thought.

I was the driver. You were the road. I was making the turns, reading the maps, deciding if west was better than east or if a pitstop couldn't wait until the next Burger King where I could get a large fry and an ice cold Dr. Pepper.

But you decided Dr. Pepper wasn't worth waiting for. You wanted to stop at McDonald's for a far inferior Coke from a watered down soda machine. So you took over. I don't know when, but somehow you managed to wiggle yourself down into the driver's side and plop me in the passenger's seat strap me into a carseat in the back like a wailing infant. Just who do you think you are?

We need to find a way to work together again. I understand that you've got your own ideas, and that most of them stem from nothing more than intuition, but sometimes we need to plan ahead. (I'm sorry, but Prince Tristian Elle cannot become king of Tranent. It doesn't make sense, no matter how much you want it to. I think. Actually, I don't know about that one yet. It might be kind of fun.)

But I digress.

Let's reevaluate, because my plans for this series are flying wildly off course and I think it's because I've given you the reins one too many times. You had a few good ideas, but it's over. This is a partnership, not a dictatorship. We're like the United States from a hundred years ago, not this tyrannical do-whatever-the-hell-it-wants governing body ruling over us now.

So calm down with your fly-by-the-pants ideas and let's work together on this. We're only at book three with six more to go. Capisce?

Your backseat writer,

---

Dear Manuscript is an ongoing series by author C.W. Thomas discussing his frustration with those annoying voices in his head.

Click here to read more.

Dear Manuscript: Where Do We Go From Here?

Dear Manuscript is a series by author C.W. Thomas updated periodically with his thoughts on the hair-pulling frustrations of being a writer. The characters in his manuscript talk to him, and so this is his outlet to talk back. It's sort of a "Dear Diary" meets a Michael Bay film, but no boobs. Please like and comment and give this indie writer some love.

Thanks!

---

Dear Manuscript is an ongoing series by author C.W. Thomas discussing his frustration with those annoying voices in his head.

Click here to read more.