I hate algorithms. I loved Pinterest until more than half my feed became, Picked for you.
Yesterday, I searched for red painted chairs. Today, you guessed it, my feed is mostly red chairs. I don’t want another red chair. I have one already, a sentimental ladder back my dad rescued from a junk pile. I love it. But one is enough.
Why did I type red chairs in the search box? Images. I search when I write. I want the perfect red chair to sit behind a computer psychic’s work desk. I want the perfect red chair next to the fireplace in my main character’s log cabin. I have the perfect red chair for me in my own house.
Why does social media insist I’m so meager that I can’t think for myself? What if tomorrow I need to describe yard art? A six-foot, ceramic alligator? Will the Bots-That-Be throw reptiles in my face for a month?
By nature, writers need to be alone. Most days I’m happy-happy talking to myself in strange voices, running the dialog past my favorite critique partner, Jasmine Tea Schnauzer.
And then, I have a day like today. Call it mood. My husband, who usually fills the gas tank, leaves the car on empty. My oldest guilts me into letting her wear my new Keds to school. The characters in my book aren’t yelling loud enough for me to get them off the cliff where they’ve been hanging since Sunday.
I google people I knew in the ’80s. I find out. They’re dead. I obsess over my kids’ grades in the school’s, too convenient, Parent Portal. The meter reader passes through my fenced backyard, eight feet from the family room window. I check myself. I’m covered–albeit in a flannel pajama top and yoga pants. I scramble for cover, wondering if he’ll close the gate behind him. Will I remember before the dog runs out to chase a squirrel?
On this day, I’m a lonely grouse.
I have two choices.
A. Continue on the current path. Write nothing. Search Google for dead acquaintances. Hide out until late afternoon when I’m forced to think about school pick-up and dinner prep. By this time, I’ll be raving, cracked, and depraved.
B. Get the hell out of Dodge.
Opting for B.
Do you like to be alone or are you a lonely grouse, too?
Just walk into your local book store or grocery store and see how many romance novels are on the shelves. Some girls will not want you to know that they are finding it tough after a break up and will put on a brave facade to not let you know how much they are hurting. She may even contact you before you get in touch with her.
Honest to gosh, I copied and pasted the words above directly from Akismet. Unlike most of my spam, it’s almost coherent. It’s punctuated. It uses verb tenses correctly. And that last line, “She may even contact you before you get in touch with her,” shows empathy. It’s conspiratorial. Winking.
I see him in the bookstore, hiding like a creep in the stacks of Romance, spying on the lovelorn ingénue, waiting for his big chance to offer her a personal-sized pack of Kleenex. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Do you read Nora Roberts? Here’s my number. Call me, maybe?”
He stalks her in Fantasy and Science Fiction. At the precise moment she turns a corner, he blocks her path. Hulk green and drooling. “Do you wanna dance, Baby?” Spittle litters the napless carpet. She runs away, cowering between the blank books and the greeting cards.
She sees him in Children’s, legs folded criss-cross applesauce, reading Winnie-the-Pooh aloud to no one in particular. She sighs. “He’s the Piglet to my Pooh.”