Orodomop

 

220px-Il_pomodoro

 

 

I hate ‘technique’. I hate rules of ‘creativity’. I hate identifying nouns, verbs, and constantinoples or whatever they are called. Who made these rules? Why are they rules that we have to follow? If I am baring my soul to the masses of strangers that read my blog (there are at least 10 of you), why do I have make certain that I have inserted a semicolon and not just a colon! A colon is a part of your ass, not something one needs to pay attention too during writings of emotional strife.

Like right now.

I am sitting here, on my laptop, legs curled, yelling at my cat because he won’t stop meowing because he murders birds (whole other story), watching the Real Housewives of New York (the one where Luann gets arrested), and testing out the ‘Pomodor’ technique. For some reason, saying the ‘Pomodor’ technique reminds of saying a favorite and very reliable system we used as teenagers called ‘the pull-out method’, but I digress because the two methods/techniques are not even remotely similar.

I am a procrastinator. I have lists and lists of things that I must get done. In my ever quest for seeking meaning in my life I have created things that must be done to attain this. I am fantastic at making lists, and should probably market my technique, however I really haven’t figured out how to actual do what is on my list. Actually rewind that. I can do the things on my list that mean nothing.

  1. Wash dishes
  2. Clean carpet
  3. Floss
  4. Pluck
  5. Clean windows

Everything else remains on my list, and gets carried over to my final task:

  1. Make new list.

On this new list (and every new list) is the task ‘write’. Make sure to write. Write an outline. Find that book on how to get published. Finish your story. Find apps to help you finish your story. Again, finish your fucking story.

Finishing a story is a tall order, I know, and as a writer I will not stop writing until I am dead, or my fingers fall of because of my inability to control my Diabetes – whatever. What I actually mean by ‘write’ is to actually sit down and create. My hard drive is chalked full of beginnings of stories, ideas of stories, paragraphs I wrote when I could not see through my tears, and words that inspire me. I also have finished stories, however before you ask me than what my problem is, these stories and essays were given to me as assignments. If I did not do them I would not pass a course. So, regardless of how I feel about the finished product and how great they are, they are still assignments. What I mean when I list ‘write’ on the top of every list is to actually write because I want to, because I don’t feel scared, or full of self doubt, or tired, or hungry, or anything else I can think of to not write.

In this search to keep myself focused I recognize that I need help. Help on my own. Self-guided guidance if that is a thing.

I have found one thing.

The Pomodoro App.

I know that the Pomodoro (pull-out .. argggg) technique is not a new thing. Apparently it is a big deal that many people have done for many reasons. It is also a pasta sauce. I really don’t care about the history of it – I just want it to work. I have also just decided to rename it the Orodomop because I don’t want to think about the pull-out method anymore. Anyways, I am so happy that I found something that was simple and what thrilled me the most about this technique was the little photo pops up as my App icon on my phone.

A little tomato timer.

My grandma had one of these, and a tomato pincushion, and each one these fascinated me to no end. Call it nostalgia or a far cry from Grandma Alma from the grave telling me to get my shit together and write. Either way, it worked.

I am on day two or writing 750 words per day. This is a big deal. It may not be sole focus of the bestseller I am writing (or not writing), but it is something.

I will take something over nothing at this point.

And a bowl of pasta.

And another 16 words to make it 750.

But, I won’t, because, you know, rules.

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Orodomop

Final Project Chronicles

The time has come for me to complete this very quick time with the U of C. I am currently finishing my last class. Well I am not finishing it, I have just started, but it all feels like a finale of sorts.

So, here is my project so far… bit-by-bit.

-Abstract-

-Writing 500-009 Creative Writing Final Project –

What Comes Before Comes Again

By: Dallas Barnes

 

“It does not do to trust people too much,” Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper

 

I took one of those nonsensical quizzes on Facebook a few weeks ago, it guaranteed to ‘measure’ your personality traits by analyzing the myriad of multiple choice answers to questions developed to gauge your disposition – sounds legit, I know. After minutes of clicking and averting Facebook ads – my most dominant trait: distrust? Fantastic. Although some caution should be adhered to when dealing with any quiz and analysis created by a person with the user name areyouserious69, I knew that this result was 100% accurate. Trust is a slippery slope and I needed to work on that shit. I need to understand why I wasn’t normal anymore.

I never expected to be here when I was normal. When I say ‘when I was normal’ I mean when I was about 5. And even than, I probably wasn’t normal. What I am now, what I have become, what came from circumstances out of my control, was never desired, not even for a possibly crazy 5-year-old. But, nevertheless it is mine to embrace and cherish like a big hairy mole protruding from the tip of your underdeveloped (in my own opinion) nose.

The thing is, I am crazy. I own it. The word is mine. I am also fat, and I own that too, but that is for another chapter. There are those people that will call me insensitive, politically incorrect, an ableist, blah, blah, blah, but I really don’t care. I earned that badge – that crazy badge of honour. Us crazy folk are a breed like none other.

I was 30 when I was first introduced to Charlotte Perkins Gilman. I was in University, working on my illustrious education as a Women Studies major which resulted in a career in the equally illustrious retail management. I digress however because my shit career is not Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s fault. In fact, she is my source of light, my constant, the butter to my bread. Charlotte Perkins Gilman gets me.

She was a crusader, a feminist, an activist, and a survivor. Abandoned by her father she was raised by her mother and aunts, Suffragette Isabella Beecher Hooker, Uncle Tom’s Cabin author Harriett Beecher Stowe, and children’s education activist Catharine Esther Beecher – the powerhouse of early kick-ass ardour for the ‘lesser sex’. She wrote about the role of women in society. She spoke the truth about patriarchy and the inane state of affairs in American society. She spoke to me in 2003.

It was one of my most enchanting classes – Women and Literature. I never knew I wanted to write at that point in my life, I just knew that I found a sort of magic in the understanding and the communal sense of subordination of all self-identified women. Women and Literature was simply an elective in my previously mentioned illustrious Women Studies Degree.

My professor had us read a work of her choosing as homework each week to prepare for the next classes lecture. We were bestowed with such great works from the likes of Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and Flannery O’Connor. These were all works of art; however, it was the one andgb , only Charlotte that ignited my soul. The Yellow Wallpaper, written in two days in 1890 stayed with me even as I stare at this computer screen.

 

“And she is all the time trying to climb through – but nobody could climb through that pattern – it strangles so…”

 

That fucking pattern.

Final Project Chronicles