Spreadsheets for life

Although I predominantly work with Microsoft Word as a writer and editor, I'm surprised by how often I end up using Excel spreadsheets. I started using them to organise submissions for WORDLY when I was editor-in-chief and used it on Verandah when I was submissions manager and secretary. It was an excellent way to keep track of things--who submitted what, their contact details, how many editors gave feedback, which editors were assigned to which piece and at which stage, whether or not editing tasks were completed  ... I had a beautiful colour coded list system going on to keep track of everything in one place.

I kinda miss the mayhem of putting those spreadsheets together. I miss the satisfaction and relief of entering that last set of submission details or colour coding the final green box to signify that all the edits were complete.

I have stayed in the habit of using spreadsheets to keep track of rent and utility bills from month to month, which is especially important in a share house like mine. But for a little while now I've been wanting to find a way to incorporate it back into my writing and editing life.

Recently, I did a little clean up of my laptop. I deleted many dank memes and screen shots ... and I stumbled upon some really old stuff I wrote way back in high school. Gosh, some of it was terrible.  But once I got my dedicated writing folder organised and separated the scrap pile from things that had potential, I decided to take an extra step and make a spreadsheet.

I'm going to use this spreadsheet to record writing opportunities and keep track of my submission habits. More importantly, I'm going to use the spreadsheet to make a habit of submitting and holding myself accountable when I don't. The spreadsheet is also going to help me keep track of the submissions--when they're under consideration, being edited, rejected, accepted and published. There's often such a long time between submitting and hearing back that sometimes I forget what I've sent out and where. 

I have been a terribly lazy writer lately. I'm hoping this will help to kick my creative juices into gear.

How do you motivate yourself to write? 

Bonnee.

Weekend Blues

I've got a case of the weekend blues that started on Friday morning, when I woke up to the news that Linkin Park's lead singer Chester Bennington had taken his own life. Admittedly, I hadn't listened to any of their music for a long time, but a few years ago a number of their songs were the anthem of an angry, stifled, rebellious teenage me, who was still trying to figure out how the hell she was supposed to fit into this world. Songs like 'Numb', 'In the End', and 'One Step Closer' were the tunes I turned to in my darkest hours, the ones I blasted through my headphones when I wanted to block out the rest of the world. Chester's voice resided on a playlist of other loud, angry music on my iPod, and on a mixed tape my first boyfriend made for me. I stood in the crowd in front of their stage at Soundwave in 2013, surrounded by people who were too tall for me to really see past, but we were all singing along.

All day on Friday, I read posts from other bands paying tribute to Chester and urge anyone who was struggling to reach out and talk to someone, anyone, because suicide is not the answer. My heart feels heavy just thinking about this.

I've been trying to make an effort to list three positive things at the end of every day to help keep my mood in check. It's worth doing just to make sure I'm not always focusing on the bad things, even though they often seem more frequent and severe than the good. I've been doing it for about two weeks now, but on Friday, after dealing with Rest in Peace posts all day, I really struggled to find three good things to list about that day. I ended up trying to focus on the simple, small things that made the day a little brighter: I had a rostered day off work, I went for a long walk in the nearby park lands, and my partner came home early from work.

Though I am saddened by Chester's passing, once we acknowledge the tragedy and urge others who are suffering in silence to reach out for help, and offer condolences to those who knew him ... I would rather celebrate his life, the greatness he achieved, and the amazing music he shared with us, than only remember him as a man who hung himself.

This weekend, I am listening to Linkin Park even though I haven't done so in a couple of years. I'm also thinking about Chester, the pain he must have been in, the way he must have felt and the things he must have thought in the time leading up to his passing. I turned to this man's voice in some of my darkest moments because those lyrics rang true to me, like this stranger understood how I felt. I wish there was something, anything I could have offered in return to help him too.

Writing prompt: there is no exit

I stumbled upon a flash fiction challenge over on Chuck Wendig's blog and thought it might be a good opportunity for me to try and kick my creative juices into gear. So here it goes ... this one is based on an experience I had a couple of years ago. 

Prompt: there is no exit. 

The sound as I slid into the back of the Nissan was not as deafening as I had expected. I tried to change lanes at the last second, when I realised the wet road wouldn’t allow me to stop in time, but the decision to yank my steering wheel to the left occurred a moment too late. Thunk. My little Daewoo stalled. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking into my seat. I pressed the button for my hazard lights. The traffic on the Ringwood Bypass continued to flow around me while I restarted the engine and pulled off the road.

The Nissan driver was a middle aged man and his wife was the passenger. In case I didn’t feel awful enough after crashing into their vehicle, the first thing they did was open the boot to make sure the two dogs they were transporting were okay. Thankfully, their fur-babies were fine. I was still overcome with guilt.

They were friendly enough, assuring me it happens to everyone, we’re all lucky it wasn’t a serious prang, do I have insurance, blah blah blah. We took photos of each other’s licenses and number plates and of the damage on both cars. I’d pushed in the back left corner of the Nissan with the front right corner of my Daewoo. The driver of the other car put his hand in the gap between the wheel and the body and pushed the dent back out—only some chipped paint remained as evidence that their car had been damaged. My Daewoo was worse off … the front headlight was smashed, loose pieces of glass and plastic still finding its way onto the bitumen. The right side of the bonnet had buckled and the forward side panel was pinching the driver’s door, so it only opened enough for me to squeeze in and out.

We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to call it a day. It was starting to rain again and there was no point standing around. The Nissan drove off and I called the friends I was meant to meet for lunch and explained that I couldn’t make it, even though our meeting place was two blocks away from where I was stopped. I thought about calling to get my car towed; the engine might still start, but the car was far from roadworthy with a busted headlight and a door that wouldn’t open properly. But that meant sitting and waiting and paying—and then what? I just wanted to go home.

I got myself onto the bypass again and headed back towards Eastlink. I wasn’t familiar with the area, but damned if I was going to touch my GPS after the cash. I’d been following my GPS’s directions on the way to lunch, but it had detached itself from my windscreen and fallen into the passenger’s foot well. I’d yanked it onto the passenger’s seat next to me as quickly as I could, but in the rush of the moment I hadn’t heard the instruction the GPS’s robotic voice uttered. I glanced at the screen to see the arrow telling me to turn right at the upcoming intersection. What a stupid thing to do. In that split second of looking at the GPS screen on the passenger’s seat, the traffic ahead came to a stop. I looked back up in time to slam my foot on the breaks and at first, I thought everything would be fine. But the road was wet and oily and my little Daewoo slid further than I thought she would—right into the back of that Nissan.

No, I told myself. No more GPS today. Once I was on the freeway, it would be easy to get home. At least, that’s what I’d hoped. But as I approached Elgar Road, inbound on the M3, I had an awful realisation—there was no exit. I saw the ramp from Elgar Road coming down to merge with the freeway, and the outbound traffic had a ramp to exit onto Elgar Road. But from the inbound lanes, there was no ramp to exit onto that road.

I regretted not setting up my GPS for the drive home.

A few Ks down the freeway, I spotted the exit to Belmore Road and took the turnoff. I still wasn’t familiar with the area, but I knew it was closer to where I lived than the freeway. After a few wrong turns, I found a street I recognised and made it home. The Daewoo sputtered sadly into the garage and the driver’s door made an awful sound when I tried to close it. I would have to call RACV later. I went up to my room and flopped down on my bed, defeated. 

Old words in a new world

My partner and I were recently discussing how people continue to use words and phrases that no longer apply to the context they're used in. For example, I know a lot of people who would say something like 'I saw a film on the weekend', even though most movies use digital cameras instead of film these days. 

We were driving to the shopping centre at the time of this discussion and another example we thought of was 'wind down the window'. Newer cars have electric controls to press instead of a manual window winder.

There's something charming about using old words to continue describing things that have outgrown the meaning of the words we use. Or maybe I'm just nostalgic. I'm sure there's a term for words like this but admittedly I do not know it.

Can you think of any examples?

-Bonnee