Tag Archives: writing distractions

Rabbit Holes Are For Weekends Only!

Now and then the distractions I suffer as a writer are of cosmic proportion, the sort of distractions that send me off on wild tangents that I am physically forced to take, otherwise my brain will crack for want of exploration, and I get completely lost in them.  The trouble is, in some other universe I’m actually a theoretical physicist.

Have you met Quora?  This is Quora’s fault:

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And that’s just the little bits and bobs I scribbled down as I took this weekend’s adventure that spilled over into all of Monday and now Tuesday, as I write this post.  To think, I was actually going to post about the music that inspires my writing. Ha!  I’ll just save that for another time.

All of this began when a fellow on Quora asked the question: “How can I understand the 5th dimension?  Problems related to N-dimensional spaces are seen in Mathematics.  But I can’t visualize how a 5th dimension would look? What exactly is it?”

Boy, is that a deep and never-ending rabbit hole.

Do you want an answer?  I’m afraid you aren’t going to like it.

Basically, the answer, theoretically, comes down to something like this:  A three dimensional cube is made up of two dimensional squares by doubling the points, and a two dimensional square is made up of one dimensional lines by doubling points, so it stands to reason that a four dimensional tesseract would be made up of three dimensional cubes by doubling the points, and by doubling the points again, we can make a five dimensional object (or pentaract) that is made up of tesseracts, made up of cubes, made up of squares, made up of lines, made up of points.  Or something like that, but then it could be argued that three dimensional rules couldn’t be applied to a three dimensional object to make a four dimensional object in the first place, because they would require four dimensional rules, so a fifth dimension would definitely require fifth dimensional rules, and that in our third spatial dimension, the first spatial dimension only looks the way it looks, because we see it with three dimensional eyes, etc., but you see that spatially, there is (theoretically) no limit to the number of spatial dimensions possible.  As a rule though, you must know that the 5th spatial dimension would actually be six dimensions–five spatial and one time (at least), otherwise there would be no seeing it for anyone, because perception of any kind requires time… Unless he was talking about what the fourth spatial dimension looks like, which is actually 5 dimensions, in which case, he might just watch the film Interstellar and have his mind wrapped around on itself rather than ask Quora what it looks like (and then instead he could ask why it is presumed that time would be folded in a 4 spatial five dimensional construct, so that a girl who thinks she is witnessing her mother’s ghost is actually witnessing her father interacting with his own past from the future in order to save the world).  Unfortunately, we live in a three spatial dimension world, so we can’t know what a five dimensional object actually looks like (even in the movies), all we can do is make shadows on a two dimensional plane and rotate the shadow object in three dimensions, and pretend what we’re seeing is a reasonable representation. (Which begs the question, what does rotation look like in the 5th dimension anyway–is rotation even possible,or is spin only a three spatial dimension thing?)

I’ve seen all sorts of crazy on this little journey of mine.  I would love to explain to you all of the ideas spawned by this particular rabbit hole, to explain why, in my humble opinion, time must be the first dimension or how I think I actually diagrammed the folds of time in a tesseract a few years ago without even realizing it, because I have been down this rabbit hole many times before, but I’ve really got to stop now.  It’s time to declare this rabbit hole officially closed for business until some future Saturday, when I don’t have real work to do.

The Eleventh Age won’t write itself.

Distractions: Day in the Life of Author


The Phone is ALWAYS ringing. Always.
The Phone is ALWAYS ringing. Always.  Always.  Always.


Once upon a time there was a phone that rang constantly, distracting Author from the most important story she had ever written.






I ask myself if I've fed the fish at least three times a day.
I ask myself at least three times a day if I have fed the fish yet.  Obviously, by the algae smudged glass you can tell that Nixon the snail is never in want of food.

It rang so often that Author had seriously considered dropping the phone into the fish tank on more than one occasion, but she thought perhaps phones weren’t very good for fish, and fish probably weren’t very good at taking messages.





Chickens have nightmares too.  True story.
This is Camilla (the red) and Simba (the gold).  One day they were sleeping on the porch right next to the sliding door, as they often do, and out of nowhere Simba jumped up in the air, flapping and squawking, looking around her as though someone had just tried to drop her into a vat of boiling oil.  So I had to stop working to look up whether or not chickens dream, which they do.  True story.

It wasn’t that she particularly liked the fish, in fact she regularly thought about feeding them to the chickens, but she worried that would make the chicken eggs taste fishy, and surely someone would complain about fishy eggs (and missing fish), and complaints were the last thing Author needed with all of the other distractions keeping her from her work.






Sometimes I distract myself.  The internet does not always lie.  Onions and leeks can be regrown from the root ends of grocery store produce.
Sometimes I distract myself. The internet does not always lie. Onions and leeks can be regrown from the root ends of grocery store produce.  And chickens also really like green onions, which is why I made this basket out of spare guinea pig cage parts

She didn’t particularly like the chickens or their eggs, either, because the chickens liked to eat the vegetables and dig for worms in the garden, requiring Author to come up with new and ingenious ways of keeping chickens from gobbling up all the green onions.






Guinea pig enclosures should not be kept too clean.  They must ingest certain kinds of their droppings in order to remain regular.  Furry piggy constipation is not fun.
Guinea pig enclosures should not be kept too clean. Apparently pigs must ingest certain kinds of their droppings in order to remain regular. Furry piggy constipation is not fun.  Trust me.

But she had to admit that chickens were far better than guinea pigs, because at least chickens stayed outside where chickens belong, and for some strange reason guinea pigs had to live indoors, which meant regularly dealing with guinea pig waste–not her favorite subject.

Even so, Author definitely liked guinea pigs and chickens far better than the phone that rang constantly.



One day, Author decided to make a list of all the things that distracted her most from her work, to try and put the constantly ringing phone into perspective and determine if there was anything that could be done to resolve her distractions, so that she could get back to the most important story she had ever written.

Oh, the cruel irony of the woodpile haphazardly stacked at the base of the dying tree.  These are just two of the many tasks that have been demanding my attention for weeks, along with a broken dryer, a leaky faucet, a dead icemaker...  The list is never-ending.
Oh, the cruel irony of the woodpile haphazardly stacked at the base of the dying tree. These are just two of the many tasks that have been demanding my attention for weeks, along with a broken dryer, a leaky faucet, a dead icemaker… The list is never-ending.

As it turned out, there were several things that were almost as distracting as the phone, like the tree that had barely survived the previous winter and was dying a slow death right before her eyes, along with countless other things around the house that needed fixing and just wouldn’t be fixed because there wasn’t time or money.







I can only read news on weekends, otherwise satirical art happens.
I can only read news on weekends, otherwise satirical art happens.

The news was almost as distracting as the phone, as well, often causing anxiety from the worry over foreign conflicts and incurable diseases, or worse yet, causing debates about everything from climate change to equal rights.

But those distractions could all be controlled by simply practicing avoidance and self-control.  The phone, which could not be turned off, in case of emergency, was an intrusion from the outside world, demanding at least a cursory glance at the Caller ID before being swiftly ignored, unless it required an answer.  And that tiny glance, however brief, and the quickest push of a button a dozen or more times a day had directly caused the loss of countless sentences, driven from Author’s brain with each shrill ring, ring. ring!  Surely, the most important story Author had ever written required sentences!

However, as Author made her list, she realized that the phone was not the worst distraction of all.

There were three things in this world that were far more distracting than any phone that ever rang constantly…

I'm always most afraid when they are acting sweet and innocent.
I’m always most afraid when they are acting sweet and innocent like this.

…and their names were Plava, Aziz and Rorschach.


Today is the day they will eat the postman.  They begin plotting his demise early in the day.
Today is the day the dogs will eat the postman. They begin plotting his demise early in the morning.

When they weren’t sitting in the front window, waiting for the next unassuming postman, car, cat, dog, bird, skunk, or ladybug to wander past, so that they could howl another rousing verse of “Bark!  Who Goes There!” a song which provided the two dogs with endless entertainment, Plava and Aziz made certain to keep things interesting by taking turns whining at the back door, coming inside and out, going outside and in, forcing Author up from her seat, away from her computer, at least fourteen times a day.

The instincts of dogs could not be silenced with the quick push of a button.  Author knew these dogs were definitely much more distracting than ringing phones.

But far worst of all–

Worse than Plava and Aziz,

Worse than the most terrible news and the endless lists of incomplete tasks, which only grew the more it was avoided,

Worse than guinea pig excrement and garden destroying chickens and fish that didn’t know how to answer constantly ringing telephones–

was that heinous,



Rorschach Schrödinger.

If he is not meowing for food, wrestling with one of the dogs, clawing furniture, or walking back and forth across the piano, he is walking back and forth across the keyboard or reaching around the computer playing attack the fingers.
House cats are the arch nemeses of authors everywhere.

Rorschach, with his sweet fuzzy cheeks and his entirely-too-innocent purr, was the biggest distraction.  Rorschach, with his swishing fat pouch and the charming way he wound himself around Author’s feet causing her to trip almost every morning before she was quite awake, was the greatest of menaces.

If he was not meowing to be picked up and sat on the counter so he could eat three nibbles of food before jumping down again, wrestling with Plava or chasing Aziz, clawing at furniture to sharpen his interior decorating skills or jumping on the piano to play his favorite horror film tune, “Cat Walks Up Piano, Cat Walks Down Piano”, trying to catch guinea pigs through the bars of their cage, eating houseplants, scratching at the back door hoping that he would be allowed outside to harass the chickens, the birds or the squirrels, or napping in some warm patch of sunshine, then he knew Author was writing, which meant he knew it was time to strike.  If Author was writing, Rorschach, with his big green, slightly off-kilter eyes and the curious way he licked his side whenever he was embarrassed for falling off the table unexpectedly, could be found walking back and forth across Author’s keyboard, rubbing his nose against her forehead, demanding attention while she uttered impatient curses.  If he knew Author was writing, he could be counted on for attempting to knock Author’s computer from its stand because that was when he just had to know how the stand was engineered even though he figured that out at least twice the day before.  If Author was busy trying to write the most important story she had ever written, then Rorschach was surely right there, having an exciting game of catch the typing fingers, which involved the cat hiding behind the computer and quickly reaching around to bat at Author’s hands as many times as possible before she finished typing a sentence–current record, 42!

After taking all of this into consideration, Author decided the phone wasn’t so bad, but she knew exactly what she would do with it the next time it rang, and the fish were going to love it.

The End.