Krazee Baby Names, Part 2

Ever have one of those days when you’re not feeling particularly creative, when you couldn't write a line of zingy dialogue to save your ass? Yeah, me too. Fortunately other people’s kre8ivity fills the sucking void with guaranteed entertainment. Herewith, another neatly categorized installment of New Parents Gone Wild:

Just Plain Awd:
Awdly Junior Stanley
Shcolvick
Shafungus (you read that right)
Shun R. Bonds (someone's bitter)
Trendarious
Stryder Entropy
Ja'Larry

Yes, We Get It:
Pashients
Cylence
Xistenz
Syxx
Marvelis
Earnest Lee

WYSIWYG:
Coal
Cola
Strait Cash
Free

Thanks, Gramps:
Alpha Betty (klever!)
Hunny Angel
Classie Mae
Fancy Mae
Dunkn
Little Miss

Say What?:
Kourtlyn-Neglorious
N'Ascent Mi'Princess D'Zyre Heavenly
Vandayvion Vandale
Zuh'Quaryon Ty'Rail
Xsavoiryawn
Onchorynchus Horatio (come again?)

(Disclaimer: These are all honest-to-god names. Really. This is the kind of dry, unproductive day I’d probably name my kid Female.)

Susan Sontag, blogger manquée.

I’m fascinated by Susan Sontag’s journals (and not just because she was a big ol’ dyke). Her thoughts resonate for writers, er, bloggers decades later: "In the journal [read: blog] I do not just express myself more openly than I could to any person; I create myself...One of the main (social) functions of a journal or diary is precisely to be read furtively by other people." Spoken like a true blogger, a woman ahead of her time.

She also said "Nothing prevents me from being a writer except laziness." Susan Sontag, intellectual eminence – lazy? Now I don’t feel quite so guilty about staying home sick two days in a row and barely getting any real work done. And like many a Hollywood writer, she suffered from self-doubt: "With a little ego-building – such as the fait accompli this journal provides – I shall win through to the confidence that I (I) have something to say, that should be said." I think all bloggers (even the avowed narcissists) can relate.

She believed in taking lovers willy-nilly, but she suffered from romance: "Poor little ego, how did you feel today? Not very well, I fear – rather bruised, sore, traumatized. Hot waves of shame, and all that. I never had any illusion that she was in love with me, but I did assume she liked me." Ouch! Veterans of the LA dating scene feel your pain.

She was conflicted about being gay: "My desire to write is connected with my homosexuality. I need the identity as a weapon, to match the weapon that society has against me." One hopes that as she matured intellectually and sexually, she learned to embrace her fierce 'mo self.

She conflated writing with sex: "The orgasm focuses. I lust to write. The coming of the orgasm is not the salvation but, more, the birth of my ego...The only kind of writer I could be is the kind who exposes himself. I write to define myself – an act of self-creation – part of process of becoming – in a dialogue with myself, with writers I admire living and dead, with ideal readers." If only she'd lived long enough to discover the dialogue of the blog.

I am reminded of Twyla Tharp’s fabulous book The Creative Habit, in which she argues that creativity is not so much about the divine spark, but the dogged daily practice of one's work. Once a wonderful poet I gave a reading with, when asked how she coped with the inevitable dull, even blocked periods between flashes of inspiration, said that she believed in two things: the muse and the mule.

One of my favorite ways of preparing for creativity is to play the piano – but I gave up my piano when I moved to this new apartment. Instead I play FreeCell on my computer. Immersion in that mindless game allows for the most extraordinary thought processes.

Now back to writing the outline for my The Closer spec. I don’t like writing outlines, but it must be done. Twyla Tharp talks about the importance of making a plan, then letting it go: "once the shell is in place and you start work on the interior, the scaffolding disappears."

Hollywood Babel.

When I lived in the Burbank foothills, I used to stare from my writing desk through the windows to the mountains – sometimes a green bulk, sometimes shrouded in mist. Here the view from my desk is of a wall. I wonder if this lack of a tranquil vista blocks my creative feng shui. But far more detrimental to my creative progress is the noise of Hollywood.

The poodle upstairs yaps incessantly, as shrill as if he were in my own apartment. Add the bass woof of the boxer and the clicking thud of their paws as they run back and forth, back and forth overhead; the treble shrieks of the kids next door; the sharp voices of their parents: I’d never sleep in Hollywood if it weren’t for my ear plugs.

I recently came home early from work, sick and spent from a week of coughing, and dropped off from sheer exhaustion. Then, waking at the noise, I had to stuff my ears. It’s not the quiet Valley neighborhood I’m used to. The next-door neighbors fight, the upstairs neighbors argue, and when they’re not arguing, they laugh drunkenly till all hours. Helicopters throb overhead – I mean directly overhead, shining a spotlight on the friendly gangstas next door. Horns honk to the tune of “La Cucaracha” till I want to slit my wrists. Music blares at all-day, all-night shindigs. I had to call the cops to complain about a children’s birthday party – it was midnight and they’d been going strong for ten hours. I was tempted to run over and jump in the bouncy palace – I bet that would've scared those shrill little f**kers straight.