I’ll tell you where I’ve been.  I’ve been holed up in my Birdcage writing.  And yesterday I submitted my first major manuscript…to Disney.  Yeah.  I figure I’ll start from the top and go from there.  The New Yorker is next on my hit list.  I don’t care.  I’m going straight for the jugular.  When I hit the ‘Send’ button last night I felt like I was gonna blow chunks.  I’m finally starting to put my stuff out there and it’s an intimidating process.  Editors don’t play.  No.  They mean business.  They have no time for shenanigans and funny business, so check your ego at the door and proceed with caution.  I made a note in my journal last night:  

“I feel REAL.  Like Pinnochio.”

I’ve just driven my 1976  lemon yellow Dodge Colt onto the literary autobahn.  My knuckles are white, the gurd is gurglin’ and I’ve never felt more alive in my life.   My imagination has lost control of its faculties and has commenced to going buck wild.  Ticonderoga better hire a few more people because I’m wearing out the lead.  (I wonder if Ticonderoga has a mascot?  Because I’d dress up like a pencil for the right price.)

Now I must jet.  I just got nailed in the ear with a Saltine.  More later.

Most writers are often asked the question: “So who are your influences?”  The answer to that question runs the gamut from Laura Ingalls Wilder to Shakespeare.   I have three.  I’d love to have a three-way think tank session with them…but I’m afraid there’d be alot of weird tension between David and Sloane…and Sharon would put the smack-down on all of us.  So for now I have them separated but together within the confines of my mind.

Number One: 

Sharon Begley.  The Queen of Science with a wicked sense of humor and the ability to take the most complex idea and write about it in a way that even the simplest among us can grasp.   And I love that no-nonsense look she gives you.  Like she’s saying, “Listen up you ignorant twits.  I’m about to throw some science your way that will part your hair down the middle and make you cry like a toddler.  Now bask in my brilliance.” 

Number Two:

David Sedaris.   He captured my heard with his tale of being a 33 year old man who dubbed himself, “Crumpet the Elf”, while working in Santa Land for Macy’s Department Store.  He encourages me to write about my own attempts to grab a toe-hold in the beat down climbing wall we know as Life.

Number Three:

Sloane Crosley.  Author of “I Was Told There’d Be Cake”, a collection of her pee-in-your-granny-panties essays.  She’s like David Sedaris with better hair and lipgloss. 

And there you have it.  My “Top Three” will no doubt change as I mature.  Or not.  The notion of writing  about the immature tomfoolery nonsense floating around in my head makes me grin like a donkey in a clover patch.