Prompt -- Mind Games

1.   There is a magic talisman that allows its keeper to read minds. It falls into the hands of an ambitious politician…

 MIND GAMES

The cat by the toaster purred so loudly that Marcie couldn’t think. Stirring her tea, she left the kitchen and stepped out onto hotel balcony, looking at the sunrise over the Hilton parking lot below. She might be in Indiana, or Illinois or Iowa … some “I” state, anyway. She’d lost track of all time or place on the campaign trail. Her family was far away, having breakfast in Kalamazoo, Mich., and the only constants in her life these days were her immediate staff and one spoiled Maine Coon cat.

Actually, Tom had wanted to join her on the campaign trail, but 3-year-old Tilly had been feverish, and her husband hated politics anyway. He’d wanted to take Tilly to his parents’ farm north of Detroit, but her campaign strategist loved the name Kalamazoo, its goofy, small-town vibe and worked it in whenever possible that Marcie’s family was at their home in Kalamazoo, Mich.

Tom had sent her a present, though. The package lay on the kitchen counter and she hadn’t seen it until she poured her tea. Tom loved old things; their Michigan home was overflowing with rickety furniture and faded photographs, none of the usual politician furnishings with the fresh flowers on the mantle. Their mantle was crowded with old clocks, each keeping slightly different time and ticking in its own flamboyant, stubborn way. Her aide Fred, the one who loved the name Kalamazoo, also loved the clocks.

“You don’t think it makes me look like a batty eccentric?” Marcie had asked. She was 43 now, and never would have asked that question even five years before. Women aged quickly in politics and the public would never believe the clocks were Tom’s.

“No, the clocks are good, they make you look warm and homey,” Fred said. “Clocks are big in Pottery Barn catalogs.”

Fred loved Pottery Barn catalogs; privately he wanted to make her the “Pottery Barn candidate” without anybody but the two of them actually saying it. Marcie was steeped in science, with degrees in chemistry and astronomy, and anything Pottery Barn, Fred felt, brought her down to earth.

Well, Marcie thought, then Fred will love Tom’s latest gift. It was a small clock on a golden chain, lovely, really, delicate. She could hear the soft ticking as she held small gold disc up to her ear, a low, motorized purr like the cat’s. She’d have to tuck it under her clothes so Fred wouldn’t see it. He’d either pronounce it all wrong and never allow her to wear it, or he’d love it and she’d never be able to take it off. A man of extremes, that was Fred.

She pulled her reading glasses out of her pocket, the ones she never could wear around Fred, and looked at the clock more closely. Odd. Instead of numbers, there were four arrows: up, down, left or right. Great, she thought. Only Tom would send me a clock that couldn’t tell the time. Since putting it on, though, she’d felt a low hum, almost like words she couldn’t quite hear. Then, one word rang out: her own name, and the phrase “… better be up.”

The knock on the door startled her so badly she dropped the clock on the balcony floor and hastily picked it up and strung it around the neck. It was Fred, of course, she knew his knock, and she hurried into the room and to the door, tucking the clock inside her Silk Blouse of the Day. Marcie wore nothing but suits and silk blouses these days; her staff delivered racks of them wherever they went, all with labeled boxes of shoes and accessories and whisper-thin stockings that kept that secret that her legs weren’t perfect.

“That damn cat needs to go,” she heard Fred say as she opened the door. Marcie was surprised, Fred never spoke to her in the morning without an elaborate greeting.

“What’s wrong with Mr. Boo Boo?” she asked. Tilly had named the cat, when they found it abandoned in their yard with a bleeding ear and nose, and they all just had to live with it now.

Fred looked startled. “Why, nothing. Good Morning, Dr. Powers and future Madam President.” That was how Fred always greeted Marcie. He believed in positive visualizing and beginning the day with the proper internal identity. “I mean, is the animal all right?”

“He’s fine.” Marcie turned her back and tucked her reading glasses into her “man bag” like a guilty child. She was forbidden to wear anything with pockets or carry a purse. Items in pockets created bulges and purses were too “Queen Elizabeth.” Nothing like comparisons to an 80-year-old great-grandma to make you feel good about yourself. She was only 43 for chrissake. Anyway, that meant her personal aides had to carry a small briefcase around for her constant access, like walking purse holders, except it couldn’t be a purse because all her aides were men. So Fred had procured a small but manly bag that aides took turns carrying. Marcie called it her man bag and she knew that her aides played constant games to determine the loser who had to carry it.

“Why do you always have to have that damn bag?” Fred asked.

“What?” Marcy spun and stared at her aide. This was very strange behavior from Fred. He never swore and now twice in five minutes? Was he going senile like those sweet little old ladies with dementia who started cursing like sailors? Fred was 55, thin and slightly grizzled and got to wear his reading glasses in a jacket pocket like a normal person. Marcie sometimes called him her Cassius, with his lean and hungry look.

“I need this bag,” she snapped.

“Of course you do, Dr. Powers,” Fred said. The funniest look came over his face and he shook his head.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Tip-top,” he said, pulling out his phone. “It’s 6:43.”

That meant nothing to Marcie, who never knew where she was going or what she was doing or when she needed to be there. Fred had arranged her wakeup call, and she always popped up right away, no matter how tired she was, so she would have a minute or two to herself before the day began. She zipped up the bag and handed it to Fred.

“Shit, I have to carry this,” he said, which was true, it was just them and Mr. Boo Boo.

“Well, you won’t let me carry anything,” Marcie pointed out, shrugging on her jacket and buttoning it up. Fred was apparently cracking under the strain and she decided to play along. She actually liked the swearing, it reminded her of Tom. Of course, Fred looked nothing like Tom, who’d been a football quarterback in college and still maintained his broad, intimidating figure. Plus, Tom had never worn that startled deer look that Fred was wearing now. Her aide opened his mouth, shut it again, and meekly took the bag.

“Donor breakfast with entrepreneur Vinlas Morgan at 7; meet and greet with Girl Scout president at 7:30, staff meeting at 7:45, photo op with celebrity chef Colette Caramel at 8:15 …”

“Why are you telling me this?” Marcie asked as she crossed to pet Mr. Boo Boo goodbye. She never liked knowing her schedule ahead of time; it was too depressing. She and her staff went over the day’s, week’s and month’s priorities every evening and the schedule reflected that. The schedule was the execution and she didn’t need the execution in her head.

“Telling you what, doctor?” Fred asked, hitching the bag on his shoulder and opening the door for her.

“I don’t need to know what I’m doing at 8:15, she said.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Fred protested.

“But you …” Now Marcie opened her mouth and closed it again. She was still hearing the schedule in her mind, in Fred’s voice, on a relentless loop: “luncheon with Indiana Patriots for Safe Streets at noon, national security briefing at 12:45 …” but Fred’s mouth wasn’t moving, he was just looking at her with concern now, as the voice churned on. “Stop it!” she snapped at him.

“Doctor?” He stared at her baffled, the droning schedule suddenly halted. “Are you all right?”

His mouth definitely moved that time. “I’m fine,” she said carefully, watching him closely.

He nodded and turned to lead her down the hall and she could hear, muted now, the schedule starting up again: “Presentation of donor campaign pins at 3:05 …”

She followed, her head spinning. He wasn’t saying the schedule out loud, but it was his voice. “Fred?” she asked.

He turned and looked at her calmly, mouth closed, but she clearly heard his voice say, “What the hell is it now?”

“What were you thinking about just now?”

“Great, you sound like my goddamn wife,” said his voice, but his mouth didn’t move. Then it did. “Just running through today’s schedule, Dr. Powers.”

“You were thinking about my schedule,” she said.

He nodded. “Of course,” he answered and turned to walk again. “Crazy bitch this morning.”

“Fred!” she cried, outraged. Her aide turned and stared at her. “Did you call me …” She stopped. Of course he hadn’t. In the 20 years they’d known each other, he’d never sworn in her presence. Either he was cracking up or she was.

“Dr. Powers?” he asked.

“Nothing, go ahead,” she said, purposefully slowing her pace. The droning schedule resumed, but she noticed that the further Fred strode down the hall, the man bag bouncing, the softer the voice grew.

Then she heard another voice, behind her, a deeper voice:

“STARGAZER approaching elevator, clean sweep, only IRONMAN ahead …”

Marcie turned to see her Secret Service agent, Dan, looming up behind her. Usually he was a silent, bulky presence with empty eyes, why was he muttering under his breath all of a sudden?

“IRONMAN?” she asked him. “Is that Fred?”

“Yes ma’am,” Dan said crisply.

“It must be the muscles,” she said mischievously. Fred’s scrawny arms had no muscles to speak of.

“Golf, ma’am,” Dan said.

Ah, that made sense. Fred was an obsessive golf player, always jamming with other aides about nine-irons and drivers and titanium clubheads. A clever Secret Service name, and likely a gentle dig, too.

IRONMAN was waiting at the elevator. “Christ, it’s almost 7,” he said. “She must be there precisely on the dot, not early – she must be in control – but not late, he’ll take exception.”

“Who?” Marcie asked.

“Vinlas Morgan, founder of Planful.com. He’s considering a big contribution, but wants to hear your stance on net neutrality and the level of regulation in the web service economy.”

The elevator door opened and Marcie, Fred and Dan slipped inside. Dan was counting, low, under his breath. Why was he doing that? But she couldn’t ask, because Fred was still talking about Morgan.

“What’s Planter.com?” she asked

“Come on, get it into your head,” Fred said. “Planful.com provides time management experts to plan your day for you, set priorities and …”

Marcie blinked. Something was definitely up with Fred. He was never rude.

The elevator door opened to a gaggle of reporters and Marcie staggered back, overwhelmed by the screaming voices in her head.

Goals and Priorities and Bears, Oh My!

“Plans are only good intentions unless they immediately degenerate into hard work.” Peter Drucker

The first thing when starting a new endeavor is to set goals and priorities. Now that I’m actually sitting in this space, with the freeway humming outside my window and Snapple chilling in the fridge, I have to think about what I want to accomplish here. I can't just sit at the desk and mutter dementedly. I can do that at home.


Here are some neat thoughts on the importance of planning.

MY WRITING GOALS

STEP A
List your top priorities for the coming quarter. What three things to you want to have accomplished three months from now? Is there a conference you want to present at? A proposal you want to win? A deal you want to close?

Name those three accomplishments and list them as your priority this week.

I have three major goals for the next five months, which will take me through the rest of this quarter and through the second quarter. My writing year begins Jan. 1, so the first half ends June 30.  You could argue that June will be kind of a wash, since I’ll be traveling so much, but I can still work on my writing priorities even if I’m spending little time in the studio.

My three major goals for first half 2015 are blogging, memoir and short pieces/stories.


GOAL ONE: Blogging

Post in my Stealth Life blog, Killer Robots blog and California Dreaming blog at least three times a week. I hope to do it every day, but let’s start with three days a week.

GOAL TWO: Memoir

Finish this memoir by June 30. No matter how ridiculous, out-of-date and Frankenstein’s Monster this memoir turns out to be, I will NOT go through another summer without finishing it.

GOAL THREE: Short pieces/stories

I can’t commit to writing another novel until I finish that damn memoir (see above), but I want to keep my fiction muscle working. So I will write short writing prompts and stories. I can work on my mind-reading politician story, but only as a daily writing prompt.

STEP B
List three tangible steps you can take on each top priority to move it toward completion.
If your thoughts run toward the mathematical, you’ll know that having three tasks for three priorities means that you’ve just created nine separate goals for each week. That could sound as if you’re creating work for yourself rather than lessening it. But there’s a reason we’re breaking work down this way, which you will see in section #3.

Blogging three times a week
- Write life blog post for Stealth Life, then revamp it for California Dreaming
- Write writing blog post for Stealth Life, then maybe revamp it for Killer Robots
- Always look for art to accompany it

Finish Memoir
- read through current draft
- plan out how will structure rest of memoir
- read Anne Lamott’s “picture frame” advice when you get scared and try to write a little piece at a time.

Write short pieces/stories
- write at least 1,000 words every day
- Flag prompts that could be developed further
- Write and edit short stories



STEP C
Commit at least two hours on studio days and one hour on newsroom days to your priorities. Newsroom days should at minimum include a 1,000-word writing prompt. If you have time left over, write a blog post, edit a story or do a one-inch picture frame on memoir. 


STEP D
Ask yourself at the start of your writing time, “How will I accomplish this?” Take the direct and precise action that will achieve your goal.

Be specific in your tasks. Rather than “work on funding for next year’s workshop,” instead, work out the steps you need to take to get funding, such as finding sponsors and getting a grant.

Tasks include scheduling a meeting with best sponsorship lead, telling him or her the latest good news about your project, with a request for a meeting; specifying the sponsorship you’re seeking in writing; and completing at least one section of the grant proposal.

Each phone call you make, each page of the proposal you’ve written, is a strike-through on your long list of tasks—a list that is now becoming shorter.

We Have a Writing Studio!

Yes, it's true.  For years my writing space has been a card table in the corner of my bedroom and I thought the only way to change that was to get a bigger apartment. But  San Francisco has overtaken New York as the most expensive housing rental market, with one bedrooms averaging more than $3,000 a month. That means my family and I will stay in our tiny, rent-controlled space at two-thirds the market rate.

For months my writing partner and I have been meeting in cafes twice a week to write, which has worked well enough (it has kept us writing regularly), but it started to pall. I couldn't afford $8 sandwiches and $3 cups of tea, and often we were shoehorned around a tiny desk with our open laptops shoved back-to-back like two warriors surrounded by a ring of enemies. Then I got a $70 parking ticket for exceeding the two-hour limit, which really frosted my flakes.

So Writing Partner and I started talking about getting our own space, a place where we could commute to like a job. Away from the distractions of home or loud cell-phone talkers and coffee-grinders, we would be more productive. Unfortunately the co-working spaces in San Francisco cater to the tech entrepreneur crowd. These "disrupters" apparently require exposed brick, giant whiteboards, hardwood floors, wired conference rooms, micro-roasted coffee and investors on parade to execute their strategies. All that synergy doesn't come cheap, and at $500 a month for a single lousy desk, such places were way out of our price range.

But my Muse was looking out for me. Maybe she was sick of being squashed into a corner table at Starbucks, too. I found a place on Craigslist, a little painting/office space for $500 a month. It was a wretched little garrett with a single, ground-level window, but we saw the potential. We could paint over the black ceilings and walls, hide that nasty cinderblock corner, cover the pitted concrete floor. Which is exactly what we did, and now we have a tiny studio that I'm beginning to love dearly.

So, here I am: Saturday, February 21, 2015, at 4:15 p.m., typing this in my studio. I’ve had writing spaces before, occasionally whole rooms, but I never had a place outside my home that was just for writing. I feel like I’m starting a new job, which, in effect, was exactly what I was going for. Get in the car or on the bus, travel to the studio, work, then come home. I’ve never had such a clear delineation between writing and home life. I can hear the low, steady hum of the freeway, occasional chatter outside on the street, but I can’t see anything but a patch of blue sky through the white latticework.

It also helps that this place is way cute now. When picking the colors, we wanted bright and energetic rather than subdued and tasteful. This is a creative space, not a serious study. It has a purple door, blue-and-white-striped walls and a pale green panel. Writing Partner has added a gauzy white curtain with drawings of birds and three potted plants. We each have our individual corner.

My corner is pretty sparse for now, which is okay. Just a card table, a chair inherited from the studio’s previous inhabitants and some files in a plastic box. I'm a little underwater with the money right now and I don’t need to spend a bunch. Maybe in a few weeks I can buy a desk. This chair is surprisingly comfortable.

So, it feels like a new job, and in a way it is. I have hired myself to be writer. Here is my office. How do I begin?

We'll see.