Wiley Wednesday: A Tool to Tame Entropy

Writer Zen Garden Posted on by

Someone reminded me recently, entropy is the natural state of things. It’s the state toward which things are inclined, so it is, in fact, inevitable. Thus, taking from the old standby, the Serenity Prayer, we know that we need the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Assuming we can apply that wisdom, and have figured out which things we can’t change, what about those things that entropy affects but that we CAN change? What do we do then?

It’s a factor of modern life that things have sped up beyond all reasonableness. Sometimes I think this is due, in part, to the ubiquitousness of computers and the internet – in fact, it’s hard to remember that it’s not even half the population of the world who has regular access to broadband! So, I guess I should say that in the small corner of my world, which is so all-encompassing to me and seems to reach to the horizon in every direction, what tools can help further productivity when the task list stretches off the desk and the clock points to fifteen-minutes-to-zero?

First, focus during entropy is critical. Our own ability to laser-think is underrated, but powerful. Like the force contained in two atoms that is released during fusion, when they are brought together, our laser thinking can bring us in alignment with our goals and actually bring those goals to actuality. Unlike fission, which provides energy by ripping things apart, laser thinking can bring order to the chaos that entropy creates.

While all of that is easy to write, it’s sometimes nearly impossible to put into practice. I’ve ruminated in these pages during prior Wileys about productivity tools, so the calmer, more focused tools have been discussed. But what do we do when the… well, it hits the fan? We can’t stop and breathe, we can’t take thirty minutes to do pages, we can’t run around the block? We all have those moments when we must sink or swim and we really don’t feel like breathing underwater, thank you.

What then?

I use a tool I came across from Mary Kay Ash, the founder of Mary Kay Cosmetics. She suggested using what she called a “Spatter Pad” to ‘bucket’ all the tasks that you need, want, or think you should do. I use it at work as a sort of chronological running journal of stuff that comes at me. Some days, it’s one page and very neatly-written (i.e., legible to someone other than a specialist in dead languages and cuneiform). Other days, it would make a surgeon laugh and squint.

But the point is not pretty, the point is productivity.

The spatter pad is literally all the day’s thoughts, spattered on the page like a Jackson Pollack painting. Can you do that lunch order? Did you get the car for my trip tomorrow? I need the figures for the Jackson Pollack family estate. Where’s the performance for Tim’s book? Did I do the passport renewal forms? Do we have eggs? What do I get my grandmother for her birthday in – gasp – a week – AND she’s out of state, so I need to send it by tomorrow or pay through the nose for Fedex…

All of that goes on the pad. That way, when the calmer times do come (and let’s face it, if you have time to surf the ‘net for news of the weird, you have time to sort out your spatters), you haven’t lost anything.
And THEN, you can impress your friends and confound your enemies, because you’ll gain a reputation as someone who forgets nothing. “How do you get all that done?”

Thank you, Spatter Pad. You make me look good.

Now, do we have eggs at home? And when is Mom-Mom’s birthday? o.O…

Off the Beaten Path

Writer Zen Garden Posted on by

I am not a social creature. After a day at a bustling office, all I want to do is go home and immerse myself in fiction, either my own works or a book.

This good group at the Writer’s Retreat has coaxed me out of my shell and encouraged me in ways I’d not thought possible. And the more people I meet, the more I find published authors and hopefuls alike announcing a roll of contact resources longer than my grocery list. I’m starting to feel foolish for hanging back.

One friend flat-out insists I need a Facebook presence to become a successful writer. Yet even as my resistance is tested by this gloomy forecast, I haven’t given in. For one thing, my employer blocks social networks, which means I must investigate them at home. And when I’m there, precious few hours are hoarded like treasure and spent on (hopefully) uninterrupted writing time.

A naïve part of me dreams of discovery by some powerful entity in the publishing industry. I want a benevolent handler who will front the business end and let me write. How’s that for fantasy? Especially since so much of what I write is rather far off the beaten path.

Perhaps it’s best for me to remain that way, peacefully occupying my own patch of undiscovered country, and enjoy sharing stories without the stress a professional encounters. I don’t want just another job entailing more dull meetings and endless emails.

Anyway, all of this speculation is pointless without finished product. Nobody has use for an incomplete story. That said, I’m going to try to block out the world for a while and have some fun.

At what point is an obsession unhealthy?

Writer Zen Garden Posted on by

Did you guys know that I have the spot for blog posts the first Saturday of every month? I certainly didn’t.

My attempt at sarcasm and humor aside, I was actually thinking that my first post would be due next week. Imagine my surprise when I realized that the first Saturday of the month was actually today.

Anyway, I have no real idea what to do for this one, so I’m just going to talk about what has been on my mind for the past several weeks.

Jesus Christ Superstar.

I suppose it all began when I stumbled across a post on the Highlander Message Boards talking about a Phantom of the Opera sequel that mentioned JC Superstar (which features music by Andrew Llyod-Webber, as well). I had seen it three or four times before, but it never really made that much of an impression on me, but I recalled really liking the first song of the show (called “Heaven on their Minds”).

A quick Youtube search later and I immediately fell in love with the song. That is when the obsession started. I put it on my iPod and listened to it, on repeat, for the couple of hours I spent cleaning the apartment (all by myself, but that is a totally different rant) the next day. I’ve been rather obsessed with songs before, but not that much.

When I went home for Spring Break, I decided to watch my father’s VHS copy of the original 1973 film adaption of the show (there’s also a 2000 film adaption, which I don’t care much for) and realized that there are some damn good songs on the soundtrack.

I decided to record my father’s vinyl record of the original recording (which came out before the stage show) and basically listened only to that on my entire five hour drive back to campus. I only changed the CD once to a different mixed album that I only put in because it had the recording of Heaven on their Minds from the first film version (I prefer that Judas to the one on the original recording).

Since then, I don’t really think I’ve deviated from the JC Superstar playlist that I have on my iPod and am even now listening to it.

So, I guess the whole point of this is to raise the question: at what point does an obsession become unhealthy?

A bit of fiction to see you through another Tuesday…

Writer Zen Garden Posted on by
Penny for Your Thoughts

“What are you thinking?”

Oh, he would ask that. Robert stressed the importance of honesty in our relationship, regardless of how painful the truth could be. I decided to offer him a not-so-subtle cue, giving him a chance to retract the question.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Penny, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

“All right. I was thinking how the ocean matches Trey’s eyes.”

“Oh.”

He said nothing more, for which I was grateful. A part of me had wanted him to know, I realized. I didn’t want an argument, nor did hurting Robert appeal to me, but Trey’s presence in my thoughts deserved recognition. At least I’d spared Robert the details.

I couldn’t help but envision what came to mind, though. Half a world away from Robert’s and my Villa on the Mediterranean Sea, certain bed sheets emphasized this particular aquamarine. Candlelight even caused those facets to sparkle like the sun on restive waters.

The continuing silence hung as uneasily as a shredded flag. I didn’t know how to dispel my apathy, which had become palpable long before I met Trey Stone. Robert and I had come here in a last ditch effort to blow some life into the dying embers of our marriage.

I’d agreed to this trip with the same lack of enthusiasm that I brought into everything these days. Since breaking off my relationship with Trey, nothing seemed worthwhile. Even work at the veterinary clinic, however rewarding, failed to engage me.

It didn’t matter that Trey wasn’t human. My heart didn’t care that his lifelong career centered upon torturing mankind. In fact, that’s how I met my daemon, assigned to torment my mafia enforcer of a spouse.

The villa’s private pool rippled in a sudden gust and my hat flew off in the next instant as the same puff of wind reached my seat. Robert laughed humorlessly and surged from his chair.

“I’ll get it, Penny,” he offered. “I don’t want the sun to freckle that delicate complexion of yours or for you to spill your drink.”

What would have sounded like a compliment in another era struck me as a criticism of my Irish roots today. Robert appeared bronze, only slightly more on holiday than back home. It was his Israeli heritage, olive skin and piercing eyes above a hawk-like nose, that first attracted me. Overlaying his masculine form, Trey’s willowy figure appeared in my mind’s eye. My face flushed with the recall of my hands appearing almost dark against the pearl luminescence of milk-smooth skin.

Not really caring, I wondered if Robert would take the blood tingling my cheeks as a result of too much afternoon heat. Fairly soon, I planned on taking my customary afternoon siesta beneath the lazy spin of a ceiling fan.

“In fact,” I mumbled under my breath, “better late than never.”

More loudly, I thanked my husband for the return of my hat. Proud of myself, I kept the words free of bitter irony when Robert’s big hand smashed the article on my head, flattening my hair. He never had been gentle. I placed my unfinished cocktail on a poolside table.

“Time for your beauty rest, eh? I’ll join you in an hour or so.”

I knew Robert planned on waking me to make love, if that’s what one could call our mating. My husband took and I gave in his brutish idea of matrimonial bonding.

Whereas Robert considered the act his right upon my body, Trey had taught me the beauty and joy of sharing one another. Those days were gone, though, ended because continuing would have resulted in his banishment from Hell.

Trey didn’t belong anywhere else, despite his protests. And neither did I, apparently, deserve anything different than the purgatory of life as the wife of a serial killer. Perhaps I was paying for sins from a past life. Either way, this one held enough merit that I didn’t want to risk it by trying to escape.

Dire thoughts aside, I dropped my beach bag with an almost contented sigh. The air in the room, warm and balmy, carried a nice fragrance. The piquant odor proved illusive. I couldn’t place the scent, redolent of neither the exotic flowers on the nightstand nor the humid sea.

What was it?

I almost identified the oddly familiar fragrance as I stripped off my loose caftan and prepared to lie naked on the lush bed. Trey? Yes, only different, somehow.

Lying back, I thought that I had surely drunk myself into this olfactory hallucination. Then the wall to my right began to shimmer.

White sparkles appeared. I rubbed my eyes, promising myself to cut out the afternoon beverages.

I scrubbed my face hard. This had to be a dream. Feathers winged the ceiling from a background of sparks, a familiar face as pallid as parchment bent toward me with a benign smile.

“Penny?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling stupid.

“It’s Trey. Well, Treylek, now. I forsook my duties. Come to heaven with me.”

“Home?”

“Yes. You’re forgiven. The marriage is absolved. ‘Until death do you part’ is no longer an obstacle. Gabe finished my work.”

I willed my ivory wings to spread, relieved to feel them after so long playing as human. Home. Love. Treylek.

“I’m ready.”

~The End~