Report from the writer battles

Sometimes I’m not sure which is harder: writer’s block or that rare and supposedly wondrous state of flow, where words fly from the end of your fingers without conscious input from your mind, where things like eating, getting dressed, and taking the dogs for a walk either get forgotten or force themselves upon your attention like the unforgivable person from Porlock.

I used to live for the flow state. Now it exhausts me. Definitely more exhilarating and productive than writer’s block, though.

I’m working on the cannabusiness article and for those of you who wanted to know: no, it will not be behind a paywall, but I don’t know when or whether it will be online at all. It was commissioned by Backwoods Home (love those guys) and even after it grew into a two parter, they still wanted it. So look for it in the print ‘zine, probably this spring.

Normally, the very few times I’ve had an article rejected by a client, I abandon it. In this case, I’m so thrilled and empassioned by the people I’ve met and the things they’re doing, I’d have gone and marketed it someplace else — some city or state glossy or OMG, do you have any idea how many slick, ad-loaded, beautifully laid-out magazines there are now dedicated entirely to pot?

I’m glad BHM still wants the piece so I don’t have to go around flogging my wares to other editors like the Little Match Girl, doomed to die in the streets. But it would have forced me to step outside my comfort zone and make new contacts.

—–

After their walk this morning the dogs were well-behaved and let me write. About 1:00 Ava started lobbying for attention or food or adventure, so I took them driving along the river and let them walk around at a big fishing spot that’s got no traffic in the 44-degree rain. They liked that.

I was glad they pulled me away from the writing. You can stay in that intense state only so long at a time.

—–

But you know, when it’s time to return to that state … don’t stop first at McDonalds.

I wasn’t ready to go home, though, and I talked myself into a McWrap (which, as McDonalds goes, is pretty close to health food). Except they no longer carry McWraps. So, stuck there at the drive-through, unable to go anywhere, I recalled reading yet another of those articles that tells you your brain will rot if you don’t eat fish. And I did something I advise no one ever to do. I ordered the Fillet-o-Fish.

Now, McDonalds has improved in the last few years, so I was expecting one of the tasty glazed buns like they put on their club sandwiches. Or at least, you know, sesame seeds. Nice, crispy lettuce, maybe a pickle. Besides, it was a $4.09 item. At McDonald’s that’s practically top-of-the-menu. One has expectations.

What I got was the sort of “food” comedians joke about. In size, it could have served as a fine hockey puck. Just barely. The bun was one of those frightening mushy things your mother may have served you when you were eight and believed Wonder Bread and Hostess Twinkies were the epitome of haute cuisine. At first I thought there was nothing else but the bun and the fish. There was certainly no greenery. No pickle, tomato, onion, garnish, of any sort. When I pried the bun open I did find a generous smear of tartar sauce above the square of alleged fish. But below the A.F. was something I can describe as “cheese-like” only at risk of great exaggeration. It was a burnt-orange rectangle about a millimeter thick, one inch across, and two long. It appeared to be made out of plastic and it was less than 1/3 the size of the fishlike substance it was meant to accompany. When I bit into it — for yes, I ate the whole thing — it had no taste whatsoever.

Now I know, you’re going to say, “Claire, what do you expect from Mickey D’s?” But though I eat there seldom, I’ve had several very good items, including those late, lamented McWraps. And they had multitudes of fresh, crispy veggies in them, including red-leaf lettuce. And cucumbers. For well under four bucks.

This thing must have come from a special menu of you’ll-pardon-the-expression foods they haven’t updated since 1958. Heck, for all I know, my particular you’ll-pardon-the-term sandwich was one of the originals, created by some corporate hack for the sole purpose of polluting our precious bodily fluids, addicting us to their chemical concoctions, and ultimately leaving us mental and physical wrecks, dependent on the state, victims of some corporate crony capitalist plot.

They should at the very least put the Fillet-o-Fish on the $1 menu to warn people.

Anyhow, if you’re as rare a visitor to McDonalds as I am and are a babe in the woods as I was … don’t order the Fillet-o-Fish. I warn you.

—–

All is well, though. After drinking a gallon of water to dilute the impact of that thing on my system, I’m now sitting by the propane fire with the dogs, sipping chamomile tea to complete the physical and spiritual cleansing.

I will write again tomorrow.