Write brain closed for business

by Deb Di Sandro

Once you admit to being a writer, or even a humor columnist, people assume  you can produce anywhere, anytime.

"I want you to write Oprah for me," my sister announced, while I sat inhaling my mother's creamy, dreamy potato salad.

"Of course, the deadline is tomorrow, so you'll have to help me with it right  now!" she explained, pulling the fork from my mouth and replacing it with  a pen.

"But this (chew, chew, savor, savor) is my vacation and I'm busy (chew, chew, savor, savor) eating mother's creamy, dreamy potato salad!" I complained.

"It's not like you have to exert yourself," my sister said defensively. "Just  tell me what to say and I'll write it down."

"But. . . but it's my day off!"

"But if you tell Oprah how disorganized my house is, she'll send someone over  to clean it up. Of course, I haven't heard anything about the last contest you helped me with. So this time could you write it stronger, better, well, you know, like Hemingway or Danielle Steele?"

Without fail, family and  former-friends bring their scribbled resumes and sketchy grant applications to  graduation celebrations, family birthdays and Uncle Mario's foot surgery and  say, "Could you punch this up for me, Deb? And make me sound scholarly."

A hairstylist can say, "I'm sorry, I left my scissors at home." A doctor can  say, "Why don't you stop by my office some morning next week and well have a  look."

But what can I say? "Let me check and see if I brought my brain with me. Nope, it seems to be missing. I must've left it on my desk, under the big bust of Erma Bombeck."

My mother shoves a Get Well card under my nose. "I want to add something  caring, but encouraging. You write it, but don't mess it up, the man is sick you  know!"

My husband shows me his speech for a conference. "I know it's incredible  already, but if you want to punch it up, I wouldn't mind."

I've punched up, jazzed up, dreamed up, and cleaned up letters of  recommendation, biographies and birth announcements during baby showers,  football games and funerals, with the client hovering directly over my writing  muse. (And I thought editors were hard to please.)

"No, that stinks! Give it some zing." My sister complains. "This cheesy  sentence doesn't express how I feel. It needs to be more like Dave Barry. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"This is just the first draft," I  explain.

"Well how many drafts do you need to write?"

"I'm not sure."

"I thought professional writers just zipped through these things."

"We don't zip," I explained. "We think."

"Well think faster. The deadline is tomorrow."

My 20-year-old second cousin called the other day. "I didn't get the  restaurant manager position. They said the resume you wrote lacked  substance."

"Well, if I remember correctly the only substance I had to work with was the one day you worked at Ponderosa."

"Couldn't you have embellished it a bit?"

"An experienced connoisseur of American cuisine, was the best I could do." 

When I tell people at a party that I write, they immediately position the  "guest with a book" at my table. Before I can protest and explain that I'm just  a humor columnist, the "guest with a book" is pleading with me to "take a look." 

"Okay," I shrug. "Sure I'll read your book. Where is it?"

"Oh, I didn't write it yet. It's all up here," the author says pointing to  the thinking space just above his eyebrows. "I'll give you a brief  synopsis."

Six hours later, he's still synopsi-thizing.

"Gosh, I hate to cut you short," I say while leaping for the door. "You've got a real page-turner there, but you might want to see if there's a renewed interest in how to make jewelry out of gallstones."

At night, before I lay my creative write brain down to sleep, my toddler  says, "Read me a story, mom."

"How about the Three Little Pigs?" I yawn.

"No!" she demands. "One of your stories."

She means a made up story, one that will require my write brain to stay open  for another hour.

"Once upon a time, there was a girl named, Jenna who lived in a shoe. She had  so many children she didn't know what to do. . ."

I waited to see if Jenna would notice the familiar story line.

She didn't utter a word. Well, I sighed to myself. Not everyone's a  critic.

I quickly wrapped up the familiar rhyme and said, "Goodnight Sweetie."

As I walked out of the room, Jenna called out, "Goodnight,  copycat!"

Deb DiSandro is a syndicated newspaper columnist (appearing in several newspapers and regional publications, including the Chicagoland Daily Herald, the third largest newspaper in Illinois). She is also a creative writing instructor, frequent radio contributor and author of a new book titled, Tales of a Slightly Off Supermom: Fighting for Truth, Justice and Clean  Underwear!"

Deb's feature article on humor writing will be published in a future issue of  Writer's Digest Magazine. Her unique and "slightly off" perspective has been entertaining and inspiring  readers and audiences for over a decade. Deb says her goal in life is to help change the world one grin, giggle and guffaw at a time. For information on her book and upcoming conferences go to: www.slightlyoff.com