Category Archives: writing

maybe i can still write about some things

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in his latest entry, ryan‘s friend shane bartell asks, “Hey, does anyone know whatever happened at the end of the X-Files?” i totally do, so i sent him this lengthy diatribe:

in the last season of the x-files, scully gives birth to mulder’s baby but then has to give him up for adoption because he’s in danger, or evil, or a superbaby, or something. she gives him to a farm couple who resemble clark kent’s parents, thereby fueling the whole superbaby theory.in the last episode, mulder gets arrested for murdering this dude named knowle rohrer. since knowle rohrer is a supersoldier and can’t be killed and therefore isn’t actually dead, scully and mulder and skinner and robert patrick know that the allegations are bullshit. to prove mulder’s innocence, they hold a military trial during which they recap the ENTIRE SERIES and invite back every single recurring character from the last nine years. it’s just like the final episode of seinfeld, but without that green day song.

despite the stirring retrospective, mulder is found guilty and sentenced to death by lethal injection. can they really sentence someone to death by lethal injection without a jury trial? there’s no time for questions like that, because scully busts mulder out of jail and now they’re on the lam! while they’re on the lam, mulder stops to take a piss and talk to the ghosts of the lone gunmen, who were killed off earlier in the season, in an episode cleverly titled “jump the shark.”

anyhow, mulder and scully drive to a pueblo in the desert to see the cigarette-smoking man. they climb up into his lair, where they find him all decrepit and white-haired and smoking through a hole in his throat. he tells them that the aliens are going to take over in 2012, and that’s when the world is going to end, and the mayans knew this back in the day and that’s why their calendar ends in 2012. i don’t think the smoking man actually used the phrase “back in the day,” but you get the idea.

meanwhile, outside the pueblo, robert patrick runs into knowle rohrer. it turns out that magnetite is a supersoldier’s kryptonite, so robert patrick kills him with the magnetite bullets he keeps in his purse for just such an occasion. hey, he didn’t walk away from those terminator movies without learning a little something about metal.

mulder and scully climb down from the pueblo and drive off in their car. and just in time, too, because some black helicopters show up and bomb the shit out of the pueblo, killing the smoking man and ruining thousands of precious native american artifacts.

later, mulder and scully sit around in a seedy motel room. they talk about The Truth, and then they make out. the end.

i hope this answers your question.

sincerely,
alison headley

a list of possible reasons why i’m having trouble writing

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1.  the other day in the shower, i noticed my can of shaving cream on the windowsill.  my hair was full of shampoo and i was in a bit of a hurry, but i picked it up and looked at it anyway.  the back of it read:

Skintimate® Shave Gel has a unique blend of eight skin conditioners, emollients and lubricants that are especially made for a woman’s needs, providing a close, comfortable shave and smooth, soft skin. Sensitive Skin formula, featuring Aloe and Vitamin E, helps shave even the most sensitive skin without irritation, leaving your skin feeling smoother and more moisturized. The light pink gel foams into a white, rich lather for easier razor glide and unbeatable razor protection against nicks and cuts.

it was the phrase “white, rich lather” that had caught my eye.  why, i wondered, had they chosen to describe their product in such an awkward way?  wouldn’t “rich, white lather” have sounded a little smoother?  perhaps the writer had gone with “rich, white lather” initially, but the higher-ups worried about their product’s minority appeal.  i pictured the board meeting:

bigwig:  i’m not sure we should say “rich, white lather” on the back of the can.  it sounds like “rich white men,” and we don’t want people to think our product is only for wealthy caucasians.  i’m worried we’d alienate a good portion of our customer base.

writer:  um, okay.  what should it say instead?

bigwig:  what if you just switched the words around?  a “white, rich lather.”

writer:  that sounds kind of funny, don’t you think?  and it’s really not that much different.

bigwig:  it’ll be fine.  just change it.

writer:  (thinks about the novel she was going to write and the short stories she was going to have published and all the people she might have inspired, and briefly considers sprinting down the conference table and jumping out the plate-glass window.)  i’ll have it on your desk this afternoon.

somebody out there makes a living writing the product descriptions on the backs of shaving-cream cans.  somebody makes a living writing directions for use.  somebody writes the warnings and the legal disclaimers and the assembly instructions and the technical specs.  the thought that this might be my eventual fate is an awfully depressing one.

2.  i work mostly from home lately, so outside of trips to the grocery store and extremely rare social gatherings, i almost never leave my apartment.  it’s hard to write when there’s nothing to write about.

3.  as you can see, i spend a lot of time extrapolating large worries from the small print on the various products that surround me.  how can i write anything when i’m so busy being insane?

things i might have written about, but didn’t

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dreams, the deferring of.

ennui, feelings of.

grandmother’s death, the year anniversary of, when my grandfather stopped talking mid-sentence, pointed at the clock, and said, “six o’clock.  one year.  anyhow, they took us to the park the other day…”

hair, the purpling of.

jobs, part-time/freelance web and writing, and whether or not they will make me feel better about my life.

love, the expressions thereof.

malaise, general.

men and women, whether or not they can actually be friends.  i’m on the fence at this point.

one-month anniversaries, happy.

phone conversations, which are nice but don’t do justice to being there in person.

transvestites, the ones walking down the street at noon pushing a shopping cart full of beer.  “oh, what a cute dog!” one of them said.  “it’s my birthday!” another said.  “open the door, bitch,” the third one said, “and don’t drop the beer, goddammit.”

valentine’s day, and how it’s dumb.

wine tastings, like the time we had one at the restaurant, and the wine rep asked us what we thought each sample tasted like, and i kept saying things like “baby wipes!” or “green beans!” or “paper clips!” thereby pissing him off.

writing, my alienation from.