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I’m doing my Kathleen Turner impression from ROMANCING THE STONE, today. Not the glamorous part where Michael Douglas sweeps her off her feet, or where as she gets more lost in the jungle she mysteriously gets more make-up, better hair, and her clothing rips artfully so it will display her in a more fetching manner. No, I mean the beginning of the movie. The part where she’s wearing almost no make-up, her hair back in a clumpy pony tail, and she’s wandering through the house looking for Kleenex or toilet paper or something to cry into because she’s been writing so long that she’s forgotten to buy paper products, or anything else. Ah, the life of an unmarried, childless writer, where you can actually forget that much of your life and no one complains but the pets. I think she had a cat. For those reading this blog regularly you know I didn’t forget that much of my life, so why the analogy?
I walked past a mirror and saw my hair in a graceless pony tail. I’ve put no make up on today, because I just didn’t want to take the time. I wanted to get to work. The days when you could see me with make-up and nice clothes (with the exception of publicity or tour), are the days when I’m not feeling eager to get to work. The days when I forget everything; my hair, my make-up, and grab the first thing I can think of to wear for clothes, are the days when I usually get the most done. On days like this, it’s all about the internal life. It’s about the writing, not about what my hair looks like, or if the shirt I’m wearing actually matches my pants. Jeans are great for days like this, they match nearly everything.
I have, on occasion, dressed up for writing. When a scene is defeating me, or a character is being particularly difficult, I’ll dress up. I’ll dress up, almost like for a date. I haven’t had to do that in awhile, because most of my imaginary friends would rather I tell their story than be looking a certain way, but early on with some of the sex scenes, I had to get myself in the mood. I will confess to doing the whole number; lingerie, candles, etc . . . to sit down at the computer to do a scene. It worked. It got me over my reluctance. Sometimes, even now, if I’m not in the mood and it’s one of those scenes, I’ll put some effort into getting myself in the mood, and then the mood comes at the computer. But that’s on bad days, actually. On a good day, the sex scene could be done in sweats, and neither I, nor my imaginary friends give a damn. As more than one man I know has said, over the years, it’s not about the wrapping paper, but what’s inside the present that counts.