ADHD + Vista Operating System = Edit Mess; I Need Proof


So. I want to shoot myself. I…just…want….to fucking…shoot myself. Anytime I think I’m getting better, anytime I think I’ve gotten a handle on just how crazy I am—I need to stop whateverthefuck it is I’m doing and grab a gun. I’m so fucked up that I’m starting to worry that I’ve contracted more mental maladies than just the vicious case of the ADHD and mild dose of obsessive-compulsive disorders from which I know I suffer.

When I write, I self-edit as I’m key-stroking after every five words. Why? Because I’m a hunt-and-pecker typist who looks at the keys as he types, AND I FUCKING SUFFER FROM ADHD! That forces me to stop typing and look up to read this silly shit I’m writing every ten seconds.

After finishing a paragraph, or a couple paragraphs, I read what I’ve written to determine if it has some thread of intelligent thought. If I can’t make heads or tails of it why foist it on you?

Then there are the many times that my ADHD fully grabs my brain and hijacks the several thoughts at the top of my heap of thoughts. Those multiple thoughts get spun into logic strands that resemble human DNA. When that happens, my writings resemble conflatulated post-nuclear anti-war protestings aimed at ridding America of Rick Perry and ending the drought.

After such brain hijackings I’m required to rewrite entire sections of whatever stuff I’m writing. If that isn’t bad enough, every time I stop writing—either to go to the bathroom, take a call, get a beer or even to think about what it is I’m writing about—I have to reread my recent writings, again, to get back into the swings of things.

Of course, I reread each page as I finish a new one and then I reread the entire thing when I’m finished. After that rereading, I minimize the document and take a break. When I come back, I reread again. Each of these rereadings always includes an edit.

As I wrote my book, all of the above self edits and rereadings were performed five-words-by-five-words, paragraph-by-paragraph and page-by-page for more than 400 pages. All of that shit was then edited by professional editorators, and several times at that. I self-edited the manuscript, what we authors lovingly call the “mss”, and stop the fucking presses. Whereinthehell does that last comma go? Just look at that little fucker sitting there mocking my ass.

I’m going to put all of my punctuations involving quotation marks, which are NOT affiliated with an actual quotation, in brackets. Like this: “…what we writers call the “mss”[,]…” I’m sick of dealing with that shit.

I self-edited my entire mss at least forty times. Honest to God.

After I sent the finished, final edited mss to the publisher the first time, I opened it up on the computer to show Gram what it looked like and discovered an error on the first fucking page. The first fucking page. I stopped the presses and sent the mss back to the editor to be re-fixed. Again.

Turns out my fucking Vista operating system screws things up. But Justine, my main editor, fixed it and then I resent the re-re-re-re-fixed mss back to the publisher.

Today, all fucking excited and beside myself, I received the UPS package containing the proof copy of the book. Sent to me by the publisher as a final “take-a-gander-at-what-you-have-done” [,] I was more excited than a five-year-old boy on Christmas morning. I grabbed a beer and called everyone in the house to the big kitchen table. When they got there I said, “Grab a cold one everybody, I’ve got a surprise.”

Gram fetched a Carta Blanca from the walk-in cooler, and Mother asked me to make a big pitcher of Margaritas for everyone else. Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon were here, as well as the P-cubed, Squirt and Honor the cat, Rush Limbaugh and the ostrich Rick Perry. My big pet pig has a summer cold and he was snot-snuffling like crazy through his giant snout. He was blowing these sticky snot bubbles the size of a basketball.

“Tell yer fuckin’ pig ta blow his nose, Mooner. Er I’mma git my 12-gager and blow it fer ‘im.”

I grabbed a dirty bath towel from the laundry room and wiped my piggie’s snotty nose. His face crinkled at the dirty cotton towel, but he blew anyway. He acts like a spoiled two-year-old. Appropriate, I guess, for a 500-pound domestic hog with the brain power of a kid of two years age and the manners and shitty attitude of his radio talk show host namesake.

After depositing the snotty towel back to the laundry area and washing my hands, I returned to my place at the head of the table. “This,” I said as I held the UPS package high in the air, “is the proof copy of my book!”

I ripped the package open with greedy hands, grabbed the book waiting inside and brought it to my lips for a big, juicy kiss. After lip-smacking a wet spot on the cover, I held it up for all to see. They applauded and Sister said to me, she said, “Read a little, sweetie.”

Sister sometimes calls me “sweetie” and that warms my heart. Since I haven’t let anyone close to me read the book, I relented to read them a few passages. I always hesitate to read aloud as my ADHD induces frustrating orations. But I opened the proof copy to the first page of Chapter One, found the line where I wanted to start and said, “Holy fucking shit! There’s a typo on the first fucking page!”

I scanned the next few pages and found typos on each. “Mother—fucking—Vista operating-fucking system!” If I had a gun in my hand I’d have shot the book first, my computer second and then myself.

“It’s OK, Mooner,” Mother said, “it’s a proof copy. You get to make corrections before the book goes to print.”

It didn’t matter, I was beside myself with frustrations.

Sister stuck her hand out to me and said, “Pass it around, sweetie. We want to see it.”

I handed her the book and sat on my chair with my head in my hands. Each family member oohed and aahed as they flipped through the pages of the proof copy of Full Rising Mooner. Each had something nice to say, things like, “It’s a nice jacket—clean and simple,” or, “It’s so brave of you to write about your murder charges, son.”

When it arrived into the iron-fisted claws of my grandmother, she looked the cover over with her beady little eyes, looked at me, looked back at the cover and looked back at me. “Who tha fuck you callin’ ‘centric?”

Huh?” the best I could manage from the depths of my self pity.

Mother said, “It’s “eccentric” Gram. You know Mooner has some strange acquaintances.”

Gram gave Mother the evil eye and then shifted her devil’s gaze to me. “You callin’ me strange, Mooner?”

With my head still in my hands, I responded,“Oh for shitsakes, Gram, it’s just a teaser to catch people’s interest in my book. It’s just bullshit like all marketing crap.”

I’m still getting the evil eye—I can feel the heat of Gram’s gaze. “I can take your name off the cover if you want me to. It’ll be no problem since I need to reedit the entire fucking book.”

“Ah it’s OK, sweet cheeks. Maybe I’ll get all famous an shit and it’ll help me catch more boys.”

My randy old grandmother is always looking for an edge as she trolls for college boys in her Ferrari at Texas’ major universities.

And speaking of trolling, fuck it—I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.

PS: don’t forget to check in on my August 13/11 bloggie and enter the FUCK RICK PERRY Haiku Contest. You can win a free autographed copy of the aforementioned, totally fucked up book.

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5 Responses to “ADHD + Vista Operating System = Edit Mess; I Need Proof”

  1. Squatlo says:

    If I had to go through that ordeal in order to type anything, I wouldn’t type anything. Pretty simple, I don’t have that kind of patience. You obviously have things you need to say in order to put up with all that for a blog, much less an entire book!

    Sir, you are to be commended, typos and all!

  2. ADHD sucks.
    Mooner can’t focus on shit.
    Carta Blanca Time.

  3. admin says:

    Squat. ADHD is a terrible thing to waste. This is my brain on ADHD!

    Reck. Your are my haiku hero! I can’t wait to read your next offering.

  4. Brandon says:

    Murder charges?

    Oh, and you may want to invest in a ‘you talk it types’ program for quick and easy ramblings. From there, editing is a cinch. 1,000 word blog posts take two minutes to dictate, 10 minutes to edit, and boom.

  5. admin says:

    Brandon. For starters, yes, but acquitted and released. OK, what it this talking typer dealie? Sounds James Bondish.

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