Word Philosopher

The Insecure Writer’s Support Group:

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Check it out here: https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

June 2 question – For how long do you shelve your first draft, before reading it and re-drafting? Is this dependent on your writing experience and the number of stories/books under your belt?

I don’t think I’ve made conscious, consistent choices with this. Usually by the time something is “finished” (I am using that term loosely) I’m so over it that I don’t bother going back to it for months, if ever. That is probably because I rarely have a strict timeline in mind. Mainly I just want to get what is in my head on paper (Ok, screen, but I still think of writing as “getting it on paper”. Who doesn’t love paper?) and then get on with the next thing. Or just go back to slacking. Whichever.

This downtime will be something to keep in mind now that I’m trying to write with more specific goals. I’ll have to build some “lock it in the cabinet and don’t look at it” time into my writing schedule. I guess the length of the piece is probably a factor? Also how long I’ve been working on it? Seems like a day or two break wouldn’t be long enough for a novel, but it would probably be sufficient for a blog post.

I look forward to reading how other people plan this.

PS- I can’t help picturing going back for the rewrite and having to explain to the work in progress, “WE WERE ON A BREAK!”

***

I finally have something in common with a President of the United States. No, I have not mastered bodysurfing or started wearing stovepipe hats. Like Joe Biden, I have broken my foot while playing with a dog. (Note: it is NEVER the dog’s fault when this happens. I am confident Joe agrees with me on this.)

I was thrilled to have this in common with the next President, so I texted my kids about it.

Me: JOE BIDEN BROKE HIS FOOT PLAYING WITH HIS DOG

Me: #notjustme

Daughter: I bet he didn’t do it twice *three laughing emojis*

Yes, as my daughter loves to point out, I have two dog related broken foot incidents. Not exactly fun, but I think I can use the experiences to help the Biden administration.

The first one was when my kids were young. I had just put a frozen pizza in the oven. I never preheat for frozen pizza—I just put it in and start the oven. As the oven warmed up, I smelled oven cleaner and realized I must have missed some when cleaning the oven earlier that day. The smell didn’t seem like it would enhance the pizza flavor, (also-would the fumes somehow get in the pizza and poison us?) so I pulled the pizza out and turned off the oven. I wiped the oven out a few more times to be sure to get all the cleaner, then turned it back on, put the pizza in, and restarted the timer.

There were no oven cleaner fumes the second time, but we did smell burned pizza. I had forgotten that the pizza would be thawing while I wiped out the oven, and I hadn’t shortened the cooking time accordingly. Smoke, burnt cheese, black crust, etc.

  The kids were starting to wonder if they’d ever get dinner. To keep them occupied while the second pizza was cooking, we played tag. I chased them to the back of house and tagged them, then turned around and ran to front of house while they chased me. The dog was on both teams, running back and forth with us. On one pass when the kids were “it”, I ran into the dog and fell. Have you ever had the kind of break where it seemed like you heard it from the inside? It was like that. From the pain and the sound, I was pretty sure it was broken. I wanted to yell, but I tried to be as calm as possible so the kids wouldn’t freak out. (The dog was uninjured. Yay!)

I was lying there trying to look like everything was fine when the pizza timer went off again.

“Don’t burn this one too, Mommy” said my daughter, looking down at me.

Sighing at the lack of sympathy, I got up and hobbled to the stove. I cut the pizza into bite size pieces, then sent the kids to their kiddie table with their plates.

By then the foot hurt too much to even limp on it, so I hopped to the couch. I called my mom, then sat there waiting for help to arrive. A few minutes later the kids came to the living room. Clearly their “read the room” skills had not developed yet, because they asked for more pizza.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait for Granny to get here. I can’t get off the couch right now because I hurt my foot.”

“Granny! Yay!” they replied, clearly not the least bit concerned about me.

(This proved to be a trend with my kids. Years later, I fell off the monkey bars. Did they worry? Not at all. My daughter continued swinging across, stopping only to hang over me and ask, “Are you dead down there, Mom?”)

My husband got home soon after and took me to the emergency room. I then got to tell the front desk person, the admitting nurse, the x-ray tech, the doctor, and what seemed like 14 other hospital employees that I had tripped over a dog. Super fun.

I had to wear a walking boot and use crutches for about six weeks. Telling the “tripped over a dog” story for six weeks turned out to be even less fun than telling my mom that I had gotten hurt while running in the house. About three days in I started wishing that I had gone with hang gliding or something cool like that.

Moral of the story:  Cleaning ovens is for suckers. If at all possible, wait until you are moving out of state to clean your oven. Then you will not be the next person to turn it on.

It was twenty years, five houses, and four dogs later the next time I broke my foot, but when I fell, I acted as if I had done it the week before.

“I @&#%ing did it again” I yelled from the living room floor. (Since I no longer had young children, I felt that I was justified in being as dramatic as I wanted to be.)

My daughter ran in and immediately wanted to take me to the emergency room (Compassion! Finally!) but I resisted. After about an hour of pretending to be fine while my foot swelled and turned purple, I finally agreed to let her take me. (The dogs were uninjured. Yay!)

There were no rooms available in the ER so I was assigned to “Hall Four”—literally a bed in the hall, with a large number four painted on the wall behind the bed. By then my foot was so big and so purple that every ER employee who went by stopped to gawk and say something along the lines of, “Whoa! Dude! What’d you do?”  So many people came by that after a while I started to suspect that someone had sent an IM saying “Go check out that foot in Hall Four. Dang!”

Walking boot technology had improved a bit over the years, but my attitude about them had not. I was irrationally crabby about the whole thing. A few days later when I went back to work, I was not in the mood to tell even more people that I had tripped over a dog. Even if most of the people at work had not heard the previous story, I was not doing that again.

So I started telling people it was a meteor strike. Genius idea, right? Who’s going to question a meteor strike? Some people laughed; some people gave me a blank stare. That’s pretty much how my days go anyway, so it worked out well.

Moral of the story:  Blame any embarrassing injuries on a meteor strike. No one believes you, but it doesn’t matter because they don’t mind laughing with you. It makes the situation just a little less aggravating.

Five years later, I still maintain that the second one was a meteor strike. “Prove me wrong” is my attitude about it. And that attitude is exactly what I will use to help President Biden:

Me: JOE BIDEN BROKE HIS FOOT PLAYING WITH HIS DOG

Me: #notjustme

Daughter: I bet he didn’t do it twice *three laughing emojis*

Me: Meteor.strike. Get it right

Me: Hey! There WAS a fireball meteor seen on the East Coast a few weeks ago. Clearly Joe is a victim of a meteor strike as well! No dogs involved at all!

Son: That is hilarious. You should be his cabinet member of “bizarre cosmic injuries”

We laughed at the time, but later I realized that it is another genius idea.

I would be great at this job. If there is ever a dog related incident, I am confident that I will be able to find a meteor shower/eclipse/sunspots/Death Star malfunction/whatever to explain it away. It will exonerate the dog as well as shield the President from having to tell an ER physician that it happened again. To avoid potential conflicts of interest, if I am injured (dog related or otherwise) while Secretary I will not use a space related instance to explain it. I will sacrifice my dignity for my country and for dogs everywhere, and just say that I fell off the monkey bars.

Believable. Unprovable. Win/win.

Since most of the major cabinet positions have been filled now, it is a perfect time for President Biden to think about this.

I can start immediately, Mr. President. Just let me know!

It’s time for IWSG!

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day.

This month’s question is about reader reactions — have any responses been unexpected or surprising?

I haven’t put much of my writing out in the world yet. Response to my blog has been positive, but being an insecure writer, I naturally attribute that to my blog being read (mostly) by people that love me. My family and friends wouldn’t criticize my writing in public — right?

Occasionally the number of views is higher than I expect. Originally I expected about four views, so it doesn’t exactly require a viral response to beat the expectations, but it is still a pleasant surprise every time.

I was shocked the first time there was a view from another country. Naturally, the insecure part of my brain immediately reminded me that proxy servers are a thing. It simultaneously reminded me that I’m hardly important enough that someone would have to hide that they’re reading my blog. Insecurity wise, those thoughts balanced each other out and became the general “Hey, people I don’t know are reading my blog! Who saw that coming?”

I use all that information in feeble attempts to psyche myself up: “Even people that love me wouldn’t read something they hate”, and “They can’t all be hackers”. Surprisingly, those miniature pep talks do motivate me to write more often.

The feedback from the IWSG has been great for my morale as well — other writers reading my work! I never expected that! Many thanks to all of them.

If anyone is interested in joining in ISWG, you can find the information here: https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up

Check it out and get your motivation on!

This month’s ISWG prompt is:   Are you a risk-taker when writing? Do you try something radically different in style/POV/etc. or add controversial topics to your work?

You can check out the blog hop (and join!) here: https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

As I mentioned in my last blog, my main work in progress is an epistolary novel. That is about as “out there” as I am going these days. Not common, but not innovative.

I could be considered somewhat extreme in that I am currently engaged in an endurance writing event:  Most Years Writing the Same Book. I started it when my kids were toddlers. So long ago that The Clapper hadn’t even been invented yet. My kids are now in their twenties. They can ask their cell phones to turn on the lights for them (and send me motivational gifs), but I still haven’t finished writing the book. Twenty-five years and counting — extreme writing games here I come!

In college, the main extreme event was staying up all night trying to finish an assignment on time. I didn’t usually do that for writing assignments, but one time I somehow missed that I had to turn in a rough draft for a research paper.

Up until that point in my life, I’d never really dealt in rough drafts. I usually wrote papers as a first draft/final draft combination. Even if I did turn one in as a rough draft, it was still basically finished. I’d make any minor changes the teacher suggested, remove half the commas, write it out again, and turn it back in. No real editing was involved.

So when the instructor said “Rough draft due tomorrow” I freaked out. I was supposed to have two more weeks, and now it was due the next day! I tried writing like I always had, but after the first few pages I had to face that even if I pulled an all-nighter I would not be able to create the final product in one day. I had no choice but to embrace the “rough” in rough draft. I wrote pitiful, pitiful things like “They got off of the ship.” “They walked ashore.” “Back on the ship.” “Everybody died.”

PITIFUL.

It was the most horrible thing I had ever written, much less turned in for a grade. I was mortified. But I turned it in on time, so the anxious student in me tried to be happy about it.

For the instructor’s sake, I hope that it was just a way to check that students had started the assignment. I hope no one had to actually read that first draft. In any case, I don’t remember if there were any editing suggestions. I just remember wanting to make it better.  

It was the first time that I did a real edit on my writing. And it worked! I crafted sentences that had more than three words. I double checked my commas. I have no idea what the final grade was, but since I have no traumatic memories of it I’m betting it must have been better than the “F minus-minus, who let you in this college anyway?” that the rough draft deserved.

I occasionally used the “write utter crap and then fix it” process on other things, but I pretty much forgot about it once I was no longer writing college papers. Oh sure, there are versions of “write, then edit” everywhere. Even now there’s a sign on my desk that says “First drafts don’t have to be perfect-they just have to be written.” But somehow I never seemed to relate it to my writing process. I didn’t believe that terrible first drafts were a real thing that writers dealt with. I had somehow (read: purposely) forgotten the research paper memory.

I’ve relearned that lesson though. And in honor of The Worst First Draft of All Time, I am changing the sign on my desk to “Everyone died.” That should help keep me on track. I might end up having to retire from the writing endurance games, but I bet my kids will be able to come up with some great gifs as consolation prizes.

This is my first post as part of the Insecure Writer’s Support Group blog hop. You can check it out (and join!) here: https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html.

I’ve been checking out the IWSG blogs for a while, but have never felt confident enough to sign up. But this month’s prompt is about reading preferences and writing, and guess what? I have reading preferences and I like to write. I might be able to do this!

I have always loved reading mysteries. Encyclopedia Brown was fun. I read my Trixie Belden books so much I wore out the covers. But as much as I enjoyed them, neither of those affected me the way Agatha Christie books did. Once I discovered her my whole worldview changed. I couldn’t wait to grow up and have a house in the English countryside. I’d have friends that entered the house through the windows just like the characters in Ms. Christie’s books did. I didn’t realize that when Ms. Christie said someone came in at the window, she was actually referring to patio doors. I really thought the characters climbed up into the windows, and I could not wait to have friends like that. We’d have weekend parties and only use doors when we were dressed for our formal dinners every night.

I didn’t imagine solving murders though. No one ever died when I imagined my country house. No one even sprained an ankle exiting via the window. Sometimes I thought there might be some amnesia type mystery, but never a murder.

I eventually quit thinking that people climbed in windows, but I never did get inspired to write a murder mystery. I get a vicarious thrill when I see how an author handled a clue – “Ooooh, it must have felt good when you put that subtle mayonnaise reference back in chapter three. Excellent.”- but I have no idea how to go about doing that myself.

I am currently working on an epistolary novel, so these days the closest my brain would get to a murder mystery would be along the lines of, “Dear Maude. The vicar was shot. There is a person here investigating it.” I could probably keep up the suspense for three pages if I threw in a description of the ha-ha. (I’m still dreaming about that house in the countryside). The big reveal would probably be, “So it turned out the gardener killed the vicar because of the tea set. Oh right. Just realized I forgot to tell you that the vicar had a tea set that belonged to the Romanovs. Sorry about that. Anyway, they arrested the gardener. Please give the puppy a kiss for me. Love, Victoria.” Not Hercule Poirot-esque at all.

That’s not to say that my reading hasn’t influenced my writing. “Up the Down Staircase” by Bel Kaufman was the first epistolary(ish) book I ever read. It was the first time I noticed “how” a book was written. I remember thinking, “An entire book in letters/memos/etc? Is that even allowed?”

It also seemed like it must have been fun to write. I know now that might not have been entirely the case. Writing is not always fun. But the idea that writing could be fun was an exciting idea I had not considered up to that point. That one fun book in an unusual format captured my imagination in a way that all those murder mysteries had not.

Hang on-a fun book in whatever format I want? Sounds great. I will definitely finish writing that soon.

~

I’m always interested in an epistolary book, so If you have any recommendations please let me know. Murder mystery recommendations are also always welcome.

Just for fun, here are the results from this week’s Kick Ass Bingo card:

I got bingo! Yay for me! I kick ass!

Since the week is not technically over I could theoretically get a few more squares, so I left those blank. You never know when one of my dogs will do something totally crazy and/or adorable. And if someone starts a conversation about Doctor Who, I could get the TV quote square and the time travel square at the same time!

The ones with “FAIL” are either the ones that I was unable to avoid, or the ones that I know that I will not accomplish by tonight:

• Turns out you don’t need a hotkey for an em dash (figuring that out got me the “research anything” square! Yay!) so I won’t be creating one.
• Write 3000 words is not going to happen even if I include this blog post.
• Chips for dinner–Note to those worried about my nutrition: the meals were rice, beans, and cheese, but with tortilla chips as the eating utensils–sort of like nachos. I did not have bags of potato chips for dinner (this week).
• No clod incidents–I failed this one very early in the week when I cut my finger while trying to clean a hand saw. Bummer. But considering all the potential clod incidents—cutting myself with the chainsaw, falling off of the ladder, getting knocked out by a tree branch—a cut from a hand saw is practically a victory for me. Bingo-wise the day was a victory. I didn’t overreact to the injury—just bandaged it up and kept going—and I remembered to put the ladder away. That’s two squares! Woot!

Since I have kicked ass this week, I am now going to reward myself with a movie marathon. No guilt. I deserve it! I hope all of you are also rewarding yourselves accordingly. Feel free to share details in the comments.

Peace and love(and ass-kicking!),

Lori

Almost as soon as I posted that “space time continuum” would be on your Lori bingo card (see: “But Is It Really Cool?” blog post), I started thinking about a bingo themed blog post. What else would be on a Lori bingo card? Would other people have a different idea of what should be on it?

I sent family and friends a text asking “what are words/events/things that you associate with me? Just the first things that come to your mind.”

***Note:  Thanks to everyone who replied. I appreciate it!*** 

My original plan was to use the answers to make two bingo cards—one with my entries and one with theirs. Discuss how we see ourselves vs how others see us, etc.

I couldn’t make it work. Because I had not told anyone it was for bingo, many of the replies were not “bingo friendly.” For example,

• Introspective – How can someone tell if I’m being introspective or just trying to remember the capital of Latvia? (I’m still studying for Jeopardy).
•  Liquid lasagna -Yes, I once used so much sauce in a lasagna that it came out like tomato noodle soup. I had to serve it in bowls. It’s one of those things people never (let you) forget. Even so, it wouldn’t be good for a bingo square because it will probably never happen again.
• Intelligent/smart (thanks again, everyone!) – Ok, I’m smart, but is it observable? Maybe, if we’re watching Jeopardy together and I remember that Riga is the capital of Latvia. Otherwise, you’re much more likely to see me lock the gate, close the garage, and only then realize that the ladder is still in the backyard. People rarely ask about random capital cities, but I did the ladder thing just last week.
• Over-reactive – This is an outrageous lie. Clearly someone is trying to sabotage bingo so no one wins.

Due to the lack of bingo friendly responses I didn’t have enough information to fill out two bingo cards–not even if I relented and included over-reactive. So I set the idea aside for a while, hoping that something would occur to me.

Months later (procrastination should have been on my list) I still had nothing, but I wasn’t ready to give up altogether. People had taken the time to answer my question–it would be rude to not at least try to do something with their answers. Not to mention that by this point those people were probably thinking I’d only been fishing for compliments. I dragged out the lists and tried again.

The two card option was still not going to work, so I thought maybe I could tweak the lists to come up with one card. That sort of worked. I did come up with a card, but it didn’t seem like it would be particularly interesting to anyone. It was barely interesting to me. The only way it might be fun is if A–people followed me around all day, and B– it was turned into a drinking game. “She sneezed! Bingo! You have to do a shot!” 

Yeah, not so much. 

I finally gave up. Nobody would get anything particularly useful out of it, and honestly, it was just too dull. Pointless and dull is a pretty good description of 2020, but who needs more of that? Instead, most of us would probably like some encouragement and fun. So I came up with something else: “Kick Ass Bingo.”

It’s a did it/avoided it/overcame it list crossed with a bingo card. Instead of just checking items off of a list, we mark a square for every item we accomplish.

Items on my “Kick Ass” card for this week:

• Mow the lawn
• Text a picture of the dogs
• Do something  charitable
• Avoid cooking fiascos – no liquid lasagna, or similar
• Make someone laugh
• Take the dogs for a walk
• Sneeze – my life’s equivalent of  the FREE SPACE
• Dance
• Go to bed by midnight  
• Research anything
• Avoid overreacting at least once
• Quote a movie/tv show/book – “Not the droids you’re looking for!”
• Star gaze
• Stay up late reading
• Write 3000 words
• Equivalent of remembering the ladder before closing the garage
• Avoid cussing until after ? – (timing to be determined)
• Have chips for dinner only twice
• Cry– sad cry, laugh cry, sappy commercial cry, whatever
• No clod incidents – “I didn’t break anything (or myself) this week!”
• Prompt a “you’re not from around here, are you?” type comment – this usually involves my supposed accent
• Procrastinate
• Mention time travel or the space-time continuum
• Create a hot key for an em dash
• Sing at the top of my lungs

You can put some actual goals on your card if you want that motivation factor— I included a few on mine— but the main point of the card is to remind us to celebrate ourselves and the things we do.

You can yell “BINGO!” when you win, but I think it’s much more fun to yell “I KICK ASS!” while doing a victory dance. Your choice.

Once we have kicked ass (and we will!) we get to reward ourselves. Double rewards for getting two lines! After all, not everyone can do what we do.  We kick ass! We are amazing! And that is not an overreaction.     

Philosophical question: Can I really be cool with my nerdiness?

Don’t get me wrong. I am totally at peace with my book-reading, word-philosophizing self. Embrace the geekiness, that’s me. But is cool really the word to use here? Cool and nerd have traditionally been opposites, so trying to be cool and nerdy at the same time could theoretically cause a paradox so big it could tear a hole in the space/time continuum.

(You saw the geeky thing above right? That was blatant foreshadowing indicating that at some point you’d be marking “space/time continuum” on your blog bingo card.)

So can you (I) be both cool and nerdy at the same time?

Of course!

The most obvious, if a bit boring, argument for it is that “cool” no longer has to mean you sit at the popular kids’ table at lunch, or even that it’s literally a bit chilly at that table. “Cool” has evolved to mean, “I am at one with the present circumstances and do not let them bother me.” So yes, in the most basic sense it is possible to be cool while the popular kids call you a nerd. It’s barely a paradox at this point.

(Note: I can’t tell you why someone would be pleased to sit with a group of people who think discussing grammar is odd. All I’m saying is that it can happen without endangering the space/time continuum.)

Literary paradoxes are fairly common. They’re used to help make a point or to capture the reader’s interest. Two often quoted lines are “I must be cruel to be kind,” by Williams Shakespeare, and “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” by Charles Dickens.

No danger there. In fact, the examples above show that literary paradoxes can actually be a bit boring. Shut up already, Hamlet, we get it — everyone must pay for this outrage. Make up your mind already, Dickens, or I’m closing this book until less confusing times.

Paradoxes can be fun though, even the ones that aren’t strictly literary. One of my favorites is the video “Hip to Be a Square” from the tv show Sesame Street. (A spoof on the Huey Lewis and the News song.) In the video a square sings that it’s ok to be a square — all shapes are “hip” in his neighborhood. That’s a great lesson even if most kids probably don’t understand the paradox in being “hip” and “square” at the same time. But what makes this video paradox perfection is that the singing square and his square friends are in a rock band! Being “square” and in a rock band simultaneously is not possible — ask anyone! The video is a paradox with paradox subtext! Genius! Look out space/time continuum!

As great as that video is, the best part about paradoxes (at least if you’re a word philosopher) is that you can make them up at anytime. “I’m on-board with being shipwrecked with Indiana Jones,”— made that one up while I was on hold with the cable company. Try it on your next road trip or while waiting for a table at a restaurant. Show them that you’re cool with your nerdiness. Best paradox wins.

The clichés are out to get me.

Not that I’m special or anything. Clichés stalk everyone, trying to wedge themselves into people’s lives. The more people they can convince to write/do/be clichés, the happier the cliché powers-that-be are. “Do what you want,” says the cliché, “I can’t stop you. But don’t you want to just try this other thing? Or maybe just describe it this other way? See? I knew you’d like it. All’s well that ends well.”

I don’t know why the clichés were even putting effort into my life. It was practically a cliché already when all of this started. I’d been married to my high school sweetheart almost thirty years. We had kids, dogs, a mortgage, etc. The only thing even a bit unusual about us was that we were a military family, living on bases and moving frequently. Maybe the cliché committee wasn’t meeting its quota or something. Who knows. But for whatever reason they sent one of their oldest, most reliable, cliché inducing situations: the mid-life crisis. My husband, about to turn 50, left to start a new life.

For weeks, I was a total break up cliché — crying, binge watching TV, grief eating. Going to work and keeping the dogs fed were about the only two things that I could accomplish. Somewhere, an entry-level cliché handler was awarded an “Employee of the Month” parking spot for provoking my oh-so-typical response.

But soon, it occurred to me that the situation was not as common as it seemed. My Marine husband hadn’t left me for a woman he met on a deployment. He left to pursue a relationship with a woman from his Bible study group. Not ultra-common.

I was in the midst of preparing to be a bridesmaid as well. The wedding was in a different part of the country, so all the preparations were being handled long distance. Literally two weeks after husband left, I had to drag myself out of the house and go to the bridal store alone to try on bridesmaid dresses. I did manage to not roll my eyes or cry when random brides-to-be picked out their dresses. Bonus non-cliché points for that.

I had also recently been placed in the Jeopardy contestant pool. I was excited to get that far into the Jeopardy process, but I didn’t really expect to get on the show. But after my husband left, I just knew the next catastrophe would be Jeopardy calling me while I could barely function. There’d be a laryngitis epidemic, and I’d be one of the only people in the contestant pool that could still speak loudly. Jeopardy would be forced to call me as a last resort. Then, I’d get to have a nervous breakdown on TV when Alex revealed the category “Happily Ever After.” Surely that hasn’t happened often.

So, to review: Husband left me for Bible study woman; I was preparing to be a bridesmaid; and I was waiting for Jeopardy to call me out to Hollywood.

Nice try, forces of cliché! Instead of adding up to the biggest divorce cliché ever, my life had become the premise of a sitcom.

Sitcom me would be angry, not sad. She’d say things like, “Which Bible verse made him think this is ok? ‘Rationalizations, Chapter 2018’?” or “What, he’s a pirate now? Vows are more like guidelines?”

Sitcom me would lose weight and look fabulous in her bridesmaid dress. So fabulous that she’d convince a sexy groomsman to accompany her to the Jeopardy taping. In a brilliant, season-ending plot twist, she’d win big in Final Jeopardy by being the only contestant who knew that John A Lejeune was the 13th Commandant of the Marine Corps. Sitcom me and sexy groomsman would use the winnings to get surfing lessons in Hawaii.

Of course it’s not how my life went. I didn’t think up those snarky comments until I started writing this blog. I had a great time at the wedding, but the only thing I picked up was a hangover. Jeopardy never called. But even though my life didn’t become a sitcom, thinking that it could be one cheered me up. For a while, I even quit thinking my life was a cliché.

Of course the cliché committee couldn’t let that continue, so they sent online dating.

I had not been thinking about dating at all. When you’re dealing with a divorce, you’re not really thinking “Can’t wait to have another guy break up with me.” But people talked to me about dating all the time, especially online dating. Some of them even sang dating app jingles at me.

Since I’d been married so long, my only experience with online dating was from years before when someone used my debit card number to sign up for a dating app. So aggravating. Not only did I have to block my card and reset all my automatic payments, I also had to convince my financial institution that I did not sign up for that dating site. “No, I did not sign up for that app, I’m married. No, really. Look at my birth date, I don’t even technically qualify to use that app yet. Trust me, if I were to ever use a dating app, it would be something more along the lines of “cougarsrus.com.”

(Ok, I never said that last one to my financial institution. I said it at a party when the idea of being single seemed impossible. Sometimes the clichés team up with irony. Jerks.)

But now I was a prime candidate for a dating app. Why not?

Not sure what I was expecting. I guess some grand algorithm that paired me up with my ideal mate. He’d probably live in Buenos Aires and I’d never get to meet him, but at least I’d know a match was out there. We could at least be pen pals.

I’d forgotten that some apps are based on location instead of algorithms. I was shocked when I hit “enter” and men immediately appeared on the screen. I hadn’t even answered any questions about my favorite books yet! Was it swipe right or left if you liked someone?

On the first day I noticed a lot of guys from a city about 75 miles away. I’d never heard of the place, which was weird since the number of possible matches seemed to indicate it was a decent sized city. An internet search revealed that it’s a truck stop. Guys were stopping for gas, checking the app, and then driving away! Seemed weird and counter-productive, but then again, I had just learned which way to swipe. For all I knew, gas station likes earned extra star power or something.

On day three I finally got brave enough to send messages to some of the men. First guy responded with one word. ONE WORD. I gave him a day to add more information before giving him the left swipe heave ho. “No thank you,” I said to the app. “I do not have the mental energy to pry conversations out of a man.”

Another guy suggested we go for a long car ride on our first date. Oh sure, that’s not creepy.

After a few more frustrating interactions I took a break from messaging, but I kept stalking the app. I quickly developed some auto-rejection criteria:

Guys at the truck stop

Guys pictured holding a fish

Guys that didn’t smile in their pictures

Guys wearing a hat in every picture

Guys posing at the gym

Guys whose beards weigh more than my dog

Except for the not smiling one, there is nothing wrong with any of those things. They were just reasons to not have to pick anyone.

Rejecting every man no matter what? Afraid to open myself up to a new relationship? Ugh. You could practically feel the clichés in the room.

I kept scrolling and swiping, but with no real purpose. Two profiles finally convinced me that I probably wasn’t ready to date.

First guy said he was in the Air Force. “Give me a break, Air Force. Get back to me if you join the Marines Corps.”

Very next guy was a Marine. “NO MARINES! SWIPE LEFT! SWIPE LEFT!”

I laughed at myself and gave up. Probably just in time. Cliché-wise, I was probably only a day away from taking a chance on a giant-bearded, body-building, hat-modeling fisherman.

The only thing I got out of the app was stories. The truck stop thing made people laugh, as did my ridiculousness about Marines. I started thinking that the whole thing would be fun to write about.

BAM! Sneak attack! Big cliché had obviously found out I’d avoided the “I’d given up on love when I met him” trap, and they’d leveled up! Of course they’d suggest writing about online dating! Writing about online dating is practically the cliché-est of clichés!

I fought the urge to write. I told people that I’d really like to write about it, but it had already been done. I pretended I didn’t have a blog, or even a journal. But come on! I’m supposed to resist writing about people checking their dating apps at truck stops? Can’t be done!

So, I gave in and wrote this blog post. But that doesn’t mean the clichés are the boss of me! Sure, I wrote about online dating even though it had been done a million times before, but if I saw a cliché heading my way, I grabbed that cliché and used it as a weapon! I invoked clichés to beat other clichés at their own game!

Yes, I achieved Meta-Cliché! Victory! Bow to Your Queen, clichés! I own you.

Probably not interesting enough for a TV show, but it might make a good t-shirt.

Anyone else out there beating clichés into submission?