Lying? Who me?

I'm taking a creative writing class through community ed. Basically, it's a crap class led by a doddering old guy who worked for the Parks Department before he retired about 350 years ago. He's nice enough, but I can't help but think that the class would be much better if we didn't have this coach who likes to wax poetic about whatever book his book club is currently reading. Last week I almost yelled at him because -- for the second week in a row -- he shared completely untrue facts about "The Diary of Anne Frank" and the house where the families hid. I've been there. I know what I'm talking about. But ... I digress.

I really like the people in the class, and it's fun to hear stories by other writers. I also kind of get off a bit when they tell me how good I am at the 650-word genre. Of course, if I had to stretch it to 1,000 words, I'd probably find myself in a big, stinky mire of molting junk. This week's assignment is to write a piece about "when lying is necessary." This topic got me thinking ... which story to choose? I'm the kind of person who lives in constant fear of hurting other people's feelings. This is probably because I'm also the kind of person who is honest to a fault, so I'm likely to blurt out something completely inappropriate if you ask me my opinion about something. Hence, the dilemma.

My honesty doesn't stop me from lying when I think I have to, but I usually have to limit my lies to telephone conversations or e-mail. My face gives me away every time. It's like I have a big neon sign on my forehead that says, "Smack her! She's LYING!" My many weekends spent grounded from ages 13-16 taught me that I can't lie very well, so I'm better off just admitting when I've fucked up.

So besides the obvious "no, those pants don't make you look like a gargantuan beast with elephantitus of the hips" lies, when else is lying necessary? I know my faithful readers will have some interesting thoughts on this subject, so I challenge you to come up with the most colorful, creative reasons for lying. Help me! My piece is due tomorrow night!

The formidable task of keeping this blog alive

I'm a ridiculously lax blogger. Sometimes it's the sheer jealousy I hold (or maybe that's contempt?) for others' more extensive musings on the web (Hulles, your capaciousness and veracity make me sick with envy!) It's not that I don't have too much time on my hands, because I do ...

Anyway, I've been thinking lately about what makes a writer "a writer." I write all the time, but it's mostly blather. Right now, thoughts of a series of short stories are muddling around in my brain, but no matter how much I try to find that right balance of wit and panache with well-constructed sentences, I find myself hitting the delete button a lot. My friend, James, is a writer. He doesn't get paid for it (yet), but he can't help himself. He has thoughts, stories, or just a couple of words written down on scraps of paper, on his computer and in notebooks. He HAS to write. I, on the other hand, force myself to write. I spend far too much time with my nose buried in the pages of other, more disciplined writers rather than sitting at this damned laptop and creating for myself.

But then again, I've never even kept a journal. I'm too afraid someone will tear out a page or two and leak it to the press someday when I'm doing something that would compel the American public to opine on my worthiness and devise an appropriate public-shaming ceremony. Just ask emh. I have to keep her on the payroll in order to ensure that her journals from the late '80s never see the light of day.