my last day at my old job was Tuesday, the one before Thanksgiving. the first day of the new one is next Monday. I'm taking a week off to write.
And here I am, blogging at 11 am on Tuesday, hoping i have enough to say to get me through the week. hoping i have enough to say to keep my hope alive that maybe someday i could do this, really do this, like, do this all the time, not just in the evenings or the mornings or the rare weeks between jobs.
Natalie Goldberg says, "It was important to give myself permission to fail. It is the only way to write. We can't live up to anyone's high standards, including our own...Kindness. It stemmed from kindness. I have always been kind to myself in the area of writing. I know if I'm not kind, if I get too tough, I'll get scared, close up, freeze."
I have never been kind to myself in the area of writing. I have been frozen; I am trying to unthaw. Yesterday, as I wrote, I felt light, free, weightless as a helium balloon climbing high, higher above the brownstones and the leafless trees. Today, I awoke terrified. Yesterday, all I cared about was getting the sludge out of my system. Today, there is pressure to Write. Capital W Write. I am trying to be kind, but kindness does not come easily. I haven't yet learned it.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Saturday, September 12, 2009
When all else fails...
April?! My last post was in April? Sweet Lord, I had no idea it had been that long.
My apologies, my sweet little crumb muffins. I lost track of time. I was busy soaking in as much sun as I could to delay the winter doldrums that are always just around the corner. I was driving through the night over the east-midwest and spending saturdays lolling around deciding whether or not I would get dressed. I was being in love, and going to work, and writing in Tudor City Park as many lunch hours as possible, and cursing the ever-present rain in June, and fighting mice to the death in the wee hours of the night. Really, there's no excuse. I was somewhere else. But I'm here now.
And I haven't got much to say, really.
I've made the decision, once again, to apply for MFA programs for creative writing this fall. This, of course, has had a seriously devastating effect on my writing, which has screeched to a nasty and frustrating halt. I sent the boy off this afternoon (which was particularly suited to writing--cool, rainy, not much going on) so I could write, and then spent the next 4 hours reading essays on writing, writing about how frustrated i was about writing, writing a paragraph or two on the story i'm working on, hating it, writing some more about my writing frustrations, getting a snack, doing some pushups, checking the scores of all the college football games...all to end up with 10 frustratingly scratched pages in my journal and loads of frustration.
And now, here I am. When all else fails, there is still blogging.
I'm trying to trick myself into finishing the story I'm working on, the story I'd like to submit to MFA programs, the story that now HAS TO BE PERFECT, by telling myself that I'm just writing, no big deal, it doesn't matter, I'm just getting ideas on paper. But inside, I'm wrung tight like a wet dishtowel, I can't let go and just let it flow through me, it's like when you're deep breathing through an injury--it doesn't take the pain away, it just distracts you a little.
Basically, I'm fucked.
My apologies, my sweet little crumb muffins. I lost track of time. I was busy soaking in as much sun as I could to delay the winter doldrums that are always just around the corner. I was driving through the night over the east-midwest and spending saturdays lolling around deciding whether or not I would get dressed. I was being in love, and going to work, and writing in Tudor City Park as many lunch hours as possible, and cursing the ever-present rain in June, and fighting mice to the death in the wee hours of the night. Really, there's no excuse. I was somewhere else. But I'm here now.
And I haven't got much to say, really.
I've made the decision, once again, to apply for MFA programs for creative writing this fall. This, of course, has had a seriously devastating effect on my writing, which has screeched to a nasty and frustrating halt. I sent the boy off this afternoon (which was particularly suited to writing--cool, rainy, not much going on) so I could write, and then spent the next 4 hours reading essays on writing, writing about how frustrated i was about writing, writing a paragraph or two on the story i'm working on, hating it, writing some more about my writing frustrations, getting a snack, doing some pushups, checking the scores of all the college football games...all to end up with 10 frustratingly scratched pages in my journal and loads of frustration.
And now, here I am. When all else fails, there is still blogging.
I'm trying to trick myself into finishing the story I'm working on, the story I'd like to submit to MFA programs, the story that now HAS TO BE PERFECT, by telling myself that I'm just writing, no big deal, it doesn't matter, I'm just getting ideas on paper. But inside, I'm wrung tight like a wet dishtowel, I can't let go and just let it flow through me, it's like when you're deep breathing through an injury--it doesn't take the pain away, it just distracts you a little.
Basically, I'm fucked.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The problem with adventures...
The problem with adventures is that while you're busy having them, you don't have time to write.
Hence the silence of late.
So much is going on right now that a short post feels necessary, yet I have so much to say. Maybe once my life dust settles, again, a little, I can tell you more, but for now, a quick update.
1. My novel in a month has morphed into a novel in however long it takes me to finish. I'm excited about the 22,000 or so words I've written. I love my stories and the characters and the themes I've seemed to fall into--tragedy, love, sadness, loss, the strength of the human spirit, relationships, faith. I'm excited to get back to it, as I've been busy the past two weeks, what with
2. MOVING INTO MY VERY OWN APARTMENT!!!!! Those of you who have been listening to me complain about my current living "situation" can now rest easy that I will no longer have an evil roommate to complain about, as I have found the most adorable, sun-filled, cozy little one bedroom there ever was, all to myself. Thanks to the new job, I am finally able to afford to live on my own, and God or fate or what (or who) have you sent this lovely gift my way. I can't wait to move on Friday and finally have some dedicated space for writing, and a quiet street outside my window, and freedom to come and go as i please without someone looking over my shoulder. The commute is longer, and I'm moving out of Manhattan into Brooklyn, but I'm excited to have more time to read on the train to and from work every day, and I can't wait to explore a part of New York that I'm so unfamiliar with.
3. My new job has been verrry busy lately, and I'm still learning the ropes, but my good friend Okie is just a few desks away, and he makes sure to keep me grounded with a morning reading of Rilke or a fun fact about Thomas Jefferson or to just check on me when he hears me screetching "Oh my God, you want WHAT? WHEN?" into my telephone. I'm also getting over the awkward "new girl" hump and am getting to know my coworkers, who, for the most part, are awesome. Especially the socially awkward editors. I feel right at home.
Did I mention that my new apartment will be within walking distance of at least 4 of my friends?!? How lucky am I?
Remind me to tell you about riding the Coney Island float in the Village Halloween Parade with Leslie and dressing as Bristol Palin for my friend Holly's Halloween party.
All my love and Autumn bliss,
Lizzie
Hence the silence of late.
So much is going on right now that a short post feels necessary, yet I have so much to say. Maybe once my life dust settles, again, a little, I can tell you more, but for now, a quick update.
1. My novel in a month has morphed into a novel in however long it takes me to finish. I'm excited about the 22,000 or so words I've written. I love my stories and the characters and the themes I've seemed to fall into--tragedy, love, sadness, loss, the strength of the human spirit, relationships, faith. I'm excited to get back to it, as I've been busy the past two weeks, what with
2. MOVING INTO MY VERY OWN APARTMENT!!!!! Those of you who have been listening to me complain about my current living "situation" can now rest easy that I will no longer have an evil roommate to complain about, as I have found the most adorable, sun-filled, cozy little one bedroom there ever was, all to myself. Thanks to the new job, I am finally able to afford to live on my own, and God or fate or what (or who) have you sent this lovely gift my way. I can't wait to move on Friday and finally have some dedicated space for writing, and a quiet street outside my window, and freedom to come and go as i please without someone looking over my shoulder. The commute is longer, and I'm moving out of Manhattan into Brooklyn, but I'm excited to have more time to read on the train to and from work every day, and I can't wait to explore a part of New York that I'm so unfamiliar with.
3. My new job has been verrry busy lately, and I'm still learning the ropes, but my good friend Okie is just a few desks away, and he makes sure to keep me grounded with a morning reading of Rilke or a fun fact about Thomas Jefferson or to just check on me when he hears me screetching "Oh my God, you want WHAT? WHEN?" into my telephone. I'm also getting over the awkward "new girl" hump and am getting to know my coworkers, who, for the most part, are awesome. Especially the socially awkward editors. I feel right at home.
Did I mention that my new apartment will be within walking distance of at least 4 of my friends?!? How lucky am I?
Remind me to tell you about riding the Coney Island float in the Village Halloween Parade with Leslie and dressing as Bristol Palin for my friend Holly's Halloween party.
All my love and Autumn bliss,
Lizzie
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
NaNoWriMo 2
Last year, I wrote a novel in a month. You probably know that already. But in case you missed last year's crazy ridiculousness (on my part), it's all blogged on my "writing blog" which I've since kind of abandoned because everyone knows it and i didn't really want my grandma reading about who I fucked last night. Which was no one, btw, in case she's somehow honed her grandma skills to finding this blog. ANYWHO, all promiscuity aside, I am again going to be joining several friends in the National Novel Writing Month challenge, which is to write 50,000 words in 31 days. MOST people do NaNoWriMo in November, but we all think that's silly because it only has 30 days AND we most of us travel for Thanksgiving and can't write when we're in a turkey coma. Also, we are not most people, are we? No. I think not.
So, as this is the second time I've done this, I gotta admit, I'm going in a little cocky. I know this is not a good thing. I know that I'm going to crash and burn at some point. But I can't help it. I'm all like "Whatever, I did this last year. I can do it again." Ahhh, the mighty (me) are about to fall. I know it, and yet I'm doing nothing about it.
So, basically, me and 5 of my friends are all going to begin our own 50,000 word novel beginning at midnight tonight and ending at midnight on October 31. That boils down to about 1,667 words per day. We have all modified the original "rules" somewhat to fit our own goals, etc, but I'm a purist and a type-A anal retentive, so I'm basically doing it the way it was originally set up to be done. I'm starting with a new story, I'm going to write at least 50,000 words.
So, I may not have much to say here for the next month. If you want to follow my novel-writing progress, I will again be posting on my writing blog, The Naked Writer.
ONWARD!
So, as this is the second time I've done this, I gotta admit, I'm going in a little cocky. I know this is not a good thing. I know that I'm going to crash and burn at some point. But I can't help it. I'm all like "Whatever, I did this last year. I can do it again." Ahhh, the mighty (me) are about to fall. I know it, and yet I'm doing nothing about it.
So, basically, me and 5 of my friends are all going to begin our own 50,000 word novel beginning at midnight tonight and ending at midnight on October 31. That boils down to about 1,667 words per day. We have all modified the original "rules" somewhat to fit our own goals, etc, but I'm a purist and a type-A anal retentive, so I'm basically doing it the way it was originally set up to be done. I'm starting with a new story, I'm going to write at least 50,000 words.
So, I may not have much to say here for the next month. If you want to follow my novel-writing progress, I will again be posting on my writing blog, The Naked Writer.
ONWARD!
WHAAAAA!
I'm reading "Brideshead Revisited" right now, by Evelyn Waugh (which I always pronounce in my head WHAAAAAAAA!, think the noise someone doing karate might make), and anyway, I came across a particularly beautiful sentence that I don't want to lose.
"That was the change in her from ten years ago; that, indeed, was her reward, this haunting, magical sadness which spoke straight to the heart and struck silence; it was the completion of her beauty."
WWWHHHHAAAAAAA!
"That was the change in her from ten years ago; that, indeed, was her reward, this haunting, magical sadness which spoke straight to the heart and struck silence; it was the completion of her beauty."
WWWHHHHAAAAAAA!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
this is my brain on drugs
Hello my darling farphenugens! (yeah, that's how you spell that) (no, i don't know what a farphenugen is) (stop asking fucking questions)
It has been so long since we've communicated via blogoverse (yup, just made it up. like universe, only with blog at the beginning. and yes, i've copyrighted it, so don't even think about it) (yes, even though I just made it up) (shut your mouth! I'm talking!)
hummm, right. So, didja miss me? Because I missed you. Terribly. While i was frolicking amongst the radioactive waste in Lake Michigan and ducking from pretend gangsters in Chicago's south side and hitting on hot artists with families [shameless, i know, but i was on vacation...free pass!] at jazz festivals. oh, also ripping the tails off of boiled crawfish and sucking the sweet spicy creole-seasoned succulent flesh out of them while i stared into their lifeless beady black eyes. and picking their antennae out of my teeth. and THEN, i missed you even more whilst jazz-fingering my toes into the sweet moist north carolina sand while the dictator, king prince nephew Kole directed my sand-castle construction and water carrying duties ("Get more water!" he cried. And so I did.) and then watching my sister be obliterated by waves that were at least 4 feet above her 6 foot high head (awesome. seriously. awesome.) and riding waves via boogie board and learning (the hard way) just which bikini bottoms were conducive to wave riding. and which, unfortunately, were not.
henceforth, i will always recommend a one-piece for wave riding, though i feel that the one-piece interferes with one's ability to catch the eye of passing adult married males with children (the only kind available, apparently, during the first week of September in the OUter Banks).
As you can see, I barely managed without you.
OH, hai! Do you know what time it is?? It's time for me to take some more sinus infection medication! Hold up...one sec...ahhh, very nice. Congestion, begone! Right, and those were the nighttime kind, so i probably should wrap this up before i pass out in a pool of my own slobber and mucus.
and i still don't understand why noone wants to date me. hum.
on the bright side, i'm 3 for 3 on getting my used tissues in the garbage can from across the room.
so, to conclude, i had a lovely time on my vacation, and i really did miss you (even if i pretend to be strong and say that i didn't), and i just started a new job yesterday, and I'm getting a new roommate next week, AND I'm planning on doing the National Novel Writing Month with a few writer friends again in October. So, lots going on! oh, AND i have a sinus infection! (i forgot that part) but hopefully that'll go away soon.
And now, to fall into a drug-induced stupor, but not a pseudoephedrine-induced stupor. because the meth people ruined it for all of us.
assholes.
It has been so long since we've communicated via blogoverse (yup, just made it up. like universe, only with blog at the beginning. and yes, i've copyrighted it, so don't even think about it) (yes, even though I just made it up) (shut your mouth! I'm talking!)
hummm, right. So, didja miss me? Because I missed you. Terribly. While i was frolicking amongst the radioactive waste in Lake Michigan and ducking from pretend gangsters in Chicago's south side and hitting on hot artists with families [shameless, i know, but i was on vacation...free pass!] at jazz festivals. oh, also ripping the tails off of boiled crawfish and sucking the sweet spicy creole-seasoned succulent flesh out of them while i stared into their lifeless beady black eyes. and picking their antennae out of my teeth. and THEN, i missed you even more whilst jazz-fingering my toes into the sweet moist north carolina sand while the dictator, king prince nephew Kole directed my sand-castle construction and water carrying duties ("Get more water!" he cried. And so I did.) and then watching my sister be obliterated by waves that were at least 4 feet above her 6 foot high head (awesome. seriously. awesome.) and riding waves via boogie board and learning (the hard way) just which bikini bottoms were conducive to wave riding. and which, unfortunately, were not.
henceforth, i will always recommend a one-piece for wave riding, though i feel that the one-piece interferes with one's ability to catch the eye of passing adult married males with children (the only kind available, apparently, during the first week of September in the OUter Banks).
As you can see, I barely managed without you.
OH, hai! Do you know what time it is?? It's time for me to take some more sinus infection medication! Hold up...one sec...ahhh, very nice. Congestion, begone! Right, and those were the nighttime kind, so i probably should wrap this up before i pass out in a pool of my own slobber and mucus.
and i still don't understand why noone wants to date me. hum.
on the bright side, i'm 3 for 3 on getting my used tissues in the garbage can from across the room.
so, to conclude, i had a lovely time on my vacation, and i really did miss you (even if i pretend to be strong and say that i didn't), and i just started a new job yesterday, and I'm getting a new roommate next week, AND I'm planning on doing the National Novel Writing Month with a few writer friends again in October. So, lots going on! oh, AND i have a sinus infection! (i forgot that part) but hopefully that'll go away soon.
And now, to fall into a drug-induced stupor, but not a pseudoephedrine-induced stupor. because the meth people ruined it for all of us.
assholes.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Flexible Structure
I just realized that that terrible picture was the first thing anyone was going to see when they came to my blog, so instead of taking it down, I'm going to post over it. And besides, the only thing I'm doing at work today is giving blood, even though (as a coworker asked yesterday) I won't be getting an extra day off. At my company, they bribe people to give blood. If you give blood during 2 of the 3 blood drives during the year, you get an extra day off. I was surprised when she asked if I was still going to give blood, even though my last day here is next Wednesday. It's nice motivation, sure, but if you weren't going to give blood in the first place, would it really be enough? Anywho, I am still, indeed, giving blood, because I think it's a good thing to do and if I ever need it, I hope other people will have given it. Karma, you know. And I really don't mind needles.
That and the free orange juice and cookies. Okay, I admit it. That's the real reason I do it. All the guilt-free oreos I can eat.
The point of this post is not, regardless of what you may think, about my personal blood-giving philosophy. It is primarily about getting that terrible picture off the top of my page, and also about talking a little about writing.
So, as you probably know, I like to write. A lot. I went to college for it. I've been doing it for a long time. Someday, I would like to make a career of it. Lately, I've been thinking about taking the GRE and going back to school so that I can teach English to college kids. I figured that would be a good next step out of the corporate world (I'm a medical editor now), and it would give me entire summers off to write. But I'm not sure if I would like teaching, or if it would really give me more time to write. And as I thought about all of the time, energy, and money that i would need to spend to get a master's degree and possibly a PhD, the question I had was "Am I doing this because this is what I want to do or because I'm avoiding writing?"
The fact of the matter is my ultimate goal is to be a writer. I don't know if I can make any money at it. Right now I'm not making money at it; thus, my day job. But is getting a new degree to start a new career going to help or hurt my writing? Certainly, while i'm in school and working full time, i will have little time for writing. BUT, if I love to teach AND I write, then it would be worth it. Also, I'm a huge nerd and I love school. I kind of want to go back just to learn. It's a tough decision, because I genuinely want to go back, but at the same time, I don't know if I will enjoy teaching. Also, what if i don't go to school and instead write and write and write while I continue to work as an editor? It's possible for me to transition directly from editor to writer without making a pit stop at teaching along the way. So, what it comes down to is this: What do I want to spend my energy on? What are my priorities? I already know what my goals are and where I want to go. What I'm trying to do right now is find the best path.
I still haven't decided, though the answer seems like it should be clear enough. What I have decided is that I'm going to make writing a higher priority in my life. I made a list of things that I love, and writing was right there at the top. Running is another priority for me. And I've always loved volunteering, though I haven't done much of it since high school. So here's what I have decided. I have decided to volunteer at the library teaching reading and writing to adults. It's not college, but I think it will give me a good idea about the kind of teacher I could be and how well I would like it. And I have come up with a weekday schedule that I'm going to try to stick to "most" days. By that I mean I will be flexible with myself, but will do it as much as I can. This kind of flexible structure works really well for me. If I'm too rigid, I get frustrated with myself and quit. Without structure, I don't do much of anything. So, here it is:
6 am: wake up, make coffee, shower
6:30-7:30 am: write
7:30-9 am: get ready and go to work
9 am - 5 pm: at work
5-6 pm: commute
6-7 pm: run
7-10 pm: eat dinner, run errands, relax
10 pm: get in bed, read, sleep
The only problem I forsee with this schedule is that I'm not a morning person. The problem with scheduling writing at night instead of the morning, though, is that I just don't do it. So, if I'm going to write consistenly, morning is best. The hardest part of the schedule is going to sleep early. I am a night person. I hit a point in the evening where I am simply just not sleepy. I'm hoping that my body will slowly adjust. I already was getting up around 7 am, so I'm hoping it will be a relatively easy adjustment to 6.
This is something I decided on Monday. I woke up Tuesday and wrote for an hour, skipped yesterday after being out late with friends the night before, and woke up this morning around 6:30, only writing for 45 minutes. I figure 1.75 out of 3 is pretty good. As always, the test is going to be keeping it up until or unless I find a better system.
That and the free orange juice and cookies. Okay, I admit it. That's the real reason I do it. All the guilt-free oreos I can eat.
The point of this post is not, regardless of what you may think, about my personal blood-giving philosophy. It is primarily about getting that terrible picture off the top of my page, and also about talking a little about writing.
So, as you probably know, I like to write. A lot. I went to college for it. I've been doing it for a long time. Someday, I would like to make a career of it. Lately, I've been thinking about taking the GRE and going back to school so that I can teach English to college kids. I figured that would be a good next step out of the corporate world (I'm a medical editor now), and it would give me entire summers off to write. But I'm not sure if I would like teaching, or if it would really give me more time to write. And as I thought about all of the time, energy, and money that i would need to spend to get a master's degree and possibly a PhD, the question I had was "Am I doing this because this is what I want to do or because I'm avoiding writing?"
The fact of the matter is my ultimate goal is to be a writer. I don't know if I can make any money at it. Right now I'm not making money at it; thus, my day job. But is getting a new degree to start a new career going to help or hurt my writing? Certainly, while i'm in school and working full time, i will have little time for writing. BUT, if I love to teach AND I write, then it would be worth it. Also, I'm a huge nerd and I love school. I kind of want to go back just to learn. It's a tough decision, because I genuinely want to go back, but at the same time, I don't know if I will enjoy teaching. Also, what if i don't go to school and instead write and write and write while I continue to work as an editor? It's possible for me to transition directly from editor to writer without making a pit stop at teaching along the way. So, what it comes down to is this: What do I want to spend my energy on? What are my priorities? I already know what my goals are and where I want to go. What I'm trying to do right now is find the best path.
I still haven't decided, though the answer seems like it should be clear enough. What I have decided is that I'm going to make writing a higher priority in my life. I made a list of things that I love, and writing was right there at the top. Running is another priority for me. And I've always loved volunteering, though I haven't done much of it since high school. So here's what I have decided. I have decided to volunteer at the library teaching reading and writing to adults. It's not college, but I think it will give me a good idea about the kind of teacher I could be and how well I would like it. And I have come up with a weekday schedule that I'm going to try to stick to "most" days. By that I mean I will be flexible with myself, but will do it as much as I can. This kind of flexible structure works really well for me. If I'm too rigid, I get frustrated with myself and quit. Without structure, I don't do much of anything. So, here it is:
6 am: wake up, make coffee, shower
6:30-7:30 am: write
7:30-9 am: get ready and go to work
9 am - 5 pm: at work
5-6 pm: commute
6-7 pm: run
7-10 pm: eat dinner, run errands, relax
10 pm: get in bed, read, sleep
The only problem I forsee with this schedule is that I'm not a morning person. The problem with scheduling writing at night instead of the morning, though, is that I just don't do it. So, if I'm going to write consistenly, morning is best. The hardest part of the schedule is going to sleep early. I am a night person. I hit a point in the evening where I am simply just not sleepy. I'm hoping that my body will slowly adjust. I already was getting up around 7 am, so I'm hoping it will be a relatively easy adjustment to 6.
This is something I decided on Monday. I woke up Tuesday and wrote for an hour, skipped yesterday after being out late with friends the night before, and woke up this morning around 6:30, only writing for 45 minutes. I figure 1.75 out of 3 is pretty good. As always, the test is going to be keeping it up until or unless I find a better system.
Friday, June 27, 2008
'Spection
Reading:
"V." by Thomas Pynchon (sometimes a little complicated, sometimes a little mumbled, sometimes beautiful, always earthy. my approach: hang on, don't let go)
"What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver (sweet, slow, and thick like molasses. perfect for on the train or bus or between people-watching at the park)
"Cast the First Stone" by Gwendolyn DeRosa (a tangy, bittersweet, and raw reminder of what it's like to grow up, and the kind of teenager I wish I'd been but never had the balls to be)
"Of Human Bondage" by M. Somerset Maugham (it's Maugham, what can I say? Pithy, perfect, rending, complete with adolescent humiliation, spiritual browbeating, and unrequited love)
Writing:
Short stories that may someday become a semi-autobiographical collection (theme: love, as always)
Novel editing will commence as soon as I work up the nerve
Some bad poetry
And I need to go back to the story i started in January about a child and mother who don't want, yet need, each other.
Doing:
Running, a lot. I logged 24 miles last week, 10 of which was actual running.
Eating, a lot. Due to running a lot, I can't seem to stay full (great side effect of running!)
Practices for Rollercon (a roller derby convention in Vegas at which the Jeerleaders will compete in the second annual Rollercon Cheerleading Competition)
Trying to find people to do all of the amazing free cultural things in NYC with me, and failing mostly
Thinking about:
School. The new idea is to take the GRE this fall and apply for MA/PhD programs in English and become a professor (while the current, or a new, company pays for it)
Road trip. I am in desperate need of some fresh country air and some time with the people who know and love me best. Chicago, Cincinnati, Atlanta, and Pittsburgh are calling me. I think I might rent a car and visit all four places over a couple of weeks in August/September.
Loneliness. I miss companionship. I miss being around people who really "get" me. I love New York, but I haven't really found that here.
Jobs. I may start looking for a new one that will pay me better so that I can accomplish some long-term financial goals a little quicker.
"V." by Thomas Pynchon (sometimes a little complicated, sometimes a little mumbled, sometimes beautiful, always earthy. my approach: hang on, don't let go)
"What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver (sweet, slow, and thick like molasses. perfect for on the train or bus or between people-watching at the park)
"Cast the First Stone" by Gwendolyn DeRosa (a tangy, bittersweet, and raw reminder of what it's like to grow up, and the kind of teenager I wish I'd been but never had the balls to be)
"Of Human Bondage" by M. Somerset Maugham (it's Maugham, what can I say? Pithy, perfect, rending, complete with adolescent humiliation, spiritual browbeating, and unrequited love)
Writing:
Short stories that may someday become a semi-autobiographical collection (theme: love, as always)
Novel editing will commence as soon as I work up the nerve
Some bad poetry
And I need to go back to the story i started in January about a child and mother who don't want, yet need, each other.
Doing:
Running, a lot. I logged 24 miles last week, 10 of which was actual running.
Eating, a lot. Due to running a lot, I can't seem to stay full (great side effect of running!)
Practices for Rollercon (a roller derby convention in Vegas at which the Jeerleaders will compete in the second annual Rollercon Cheerleading Competition)
Trying to find people to do all of the amazing free cultural things in NYC with me, and failing mostly
Thinking about:
School. The new idea is to take the GRE this fall and apply for MA/PhD programs in English and become a professor (while the current, or a new, company pays for it)
Road trip. I am in desperate need of some fresh country air and some time with the people who know and love me best. Chicago, Cincinnati, Atlanta, and Pittsburgh are calling me. I think I might rent a car and visit all four places over a couple of weeks in August/September.
Loneliness. I miss companionship. I miss being around people who really "get" me. I love New York, but I haven't really found that here.
Jobs. I may start looking for a new one that will pay me better so that I can accomplish some long-term financial goals a little quicker.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Bad News Bears
Bad news, kids.
I've just had my very first ever rejection from an institution of higher learning. Rejection from men? That I am well versed in, friends. I've been learning how to navigate the subtle underpinnings of potential-romantic-partner rejection since my first crush on one Jonathan Gardner circa 1988 (we were in kindergarten. I was in love.) when I decided to make known my romantic intentions by strategically placing my mat next to his during naptime and kissing him when he wasn't looking. To which he replied by yelling "Ech!" and wiping his mouth furiously. (or something. I don't remember. It was 1988.) I got a good talking to from Mrs. Foster about how "nice girls don't kiss boys." But I've never been a nice girl, have I? And it was totally worth it.
Back to 2008. Educational rejection. Now this is a completely different animal. For once, it has nothing to do with the way my face is shaped, or how much fat i happen to be wearing, or whether or not my clothes are fashionable, things i don't generally put much stock in anyway. No, no, this rejection is based instead on the baring of my innermost soul and desire, my utmost creative effort, WHO I AM AT THE VERY FOUNDATION OF MY BEING, and all of the things that are inside, all of the things i generally rely on for my self-esteem, hooking of romantic partners, general advancement in life, purpose, goals, dreams, etc, etc, etc...well, with one piece of paper, SLC took one giant, hot, steamy shit all over it.
Thankfully, though, I learned a very valuable lesson this week from a little show called One Tree Hill. It was this quote: Blessed are those whose hearts bend, for they will never be broken. My heart is bent, friends, it is. But thankfully, it's not broken. *tear*
I've just had my very first ever rejection from an institution of higher learning. Rejection from men? That I am well versed in, friends. I've been learning how to navigate the subtle underpinnings of potential-romantic-partner rejection since my first crush on one Jonathan Gardner circa 1988 (we were in kindergarten. I was in love.) when I decided to make known my romantic intentions by strategically placing my mat next to his during naptime and kissing him when he wasn't looking. To which he replied by yelling "Ech!" and wiping his mouth furiously. (or something. I don't remember. It was 1988.) I got a good talking to from Mrs. Foster about how "nice girls don't kiss boys." But I've never been a nice girl, have I? And it was totally worth it.
Back to 2008. Educational rejection. Now this is a completely different animal. For once, it has nothing to do with the way my face is shaped, or how much fat i happen to be wearing, or whether or not my clothes are fashionable, things i don't generally put much stock in anyway. No, no, this rejection is based instead on the baring of my innermost soul and desire, my utmost creative effort, WHO I AM AT THE VERY FOUNDATION OF MY BEING, and all of the things that are inside, all of the things i generally rely on for my self-esteem, hooking of romantic partners, general advancement in life, purpose, goals, dreams, etc, etc, etc...well, with one piece of paper, SLC took one giant, hot, steamy shit all over it.
Thankfully, though, I learned a very valuable lesson this week from a little show called One Tree Hill. It was this quote: Blessed are those whose hearts bend, for they will never be broken. My heart is bent, friends, it is. But thankfully, it's not broken. *tear*
Monday, March 3, 2008
The Woods With the Fallen Alive Trees*
There were these woods, when I was a child, that seemed magical. They were the woods behind my best friend Erin’s house—the parish house—the woods where the trees, the kind with a million long, thin branches, had fallen on their sides, offering us canopied boughs of small, richly green leaves. Erin and I would run out of that small house, with the old, stained carpet and the musty smell, our skinny, soft-hairy legs and big feet carrying us with abandon to the place where we were sure no adults had ever been, weren’t sure could even find. We yelled “C’mon!” and “This way!” as the ferns lapped at our ankles and the briars tried to grab us (but we were running too fast), the late afternoon sun landing in dappled spots on the fertile brown earth. And then we would stop, our thin chests heaving, laughing, at the place where the trees were on their sides. They weren’t dead, or didn’t look it, yet, at least. Their leaves were still green, their million fingers still supple. When I think about it now, it all has a soft pink glow, and even though I know that is impossible, it’s how I like to remember it. Erin with her honey hair and freckles and big round brown eyes and me with my wild untamed curls and flashing blue eyes. She was the pastor’s daughter. I was…well, I was just one of the poor kids. Where we went to school, there were the rich kids and the pastors’ kids. I was neither, but the pastors’ kids didn’t mind that I was poor. They were, too.
We had things in common, the pastors’ kids and I. Our clothes never fit right. Our pencils were the yellow kind from the dollar store, you know, the ones with the erasers that just scratch at the paper, leaving a pink smudge. Our moms drove station wagons that were as old as we were. And we never got out of school for a week to go to the Caribbean.
Not that we understood at the time what all of it meant, really. We knew we were less, the rich kids made sure of that. Some of the poor kids tried to befriend the rich kids, to see what they could get. If you were friends with a rich kid, you could go to her big house, drink soda from a glass bottle, play with her American Girl dolls. But you never wanted her to come play at your house. No, you made sure you always went to hers.
I always hated it when the rich kids gloated about the nice things they had, because I knew it wasn’t my fault I was poor any more than it was their fault they were rich. I knew it didn’t make me less or them more, but I could never explain that to them. I got angry instead. And because I had no way to express that anger, I hid myself in books, because books couldn’t tell me that my pants were too short.
Erin and I met on the first day of third grade. She wore a sherbet-colored taffeta dress and a bow in her hair. I don’t remember what I wore: I’ve tried to forget everything I’ve ever worn. Our assigned seats were the two front ones in row three and row four. That was the first time I spent a year in that classroom. The second time would be sixth grade, when Abby Staibel had breasts before everyone else, and would proclaim in the locker room after gym class, “I am a woman now!” Boy, was I glad when her family moved to Utah.
Erin was shy, and I guess I was, too. I hadn’t really had many friends before that; I wouldn’t have many after either. But we became friends in the way that children can, before they are hurt too much and know better. And so, on sunny, warm afternoons after school, her mom would drive us home in one of their secondhand Subarus (they had two) and we would drop our backpacks and run full tilt into the woods, along the skinny footpath, arms in front of our faces to push away cobwebs and branches, until we got to the place with the sleeping trees, the ones that beckoned to us with their countless shimmering leaves. We crawled through the maze of their arms, climbing to the top of their bough-mountains, and lay on our backs, splayed across the branches, staring up at the willowy trees that still stood and the way the sun looked like a disco ball, shimmering above their long, dancing arms. We would talk about whatever it is 12-year-olds talk about, and we would forget that our shoes were too tight and that our sweaters itched. We forgot that we were supposed to feel inferior. Because at that moment, we were the queens of our green-branched castles, warding off dragons and being rescued by knights. We were the wives preparing dinner for late-working husbands (the only kind we knew of) and caring for the babies sleeping by the fire. We were the Indians in our tee pees, shooting arrows at the attacking cowboys. (Or was it the other way around?) We transformed those woods, and I guess you could say that they transformed us, too. Because when we were in the woods, with the fallen alive trees, we alone determined our fate.
*A little bit of fiction for those of you who have asked.
We had things in common, the pastors’ kids and I. Our clothes never fit right. Our pencils were the yellow kind from the dollar store, you know, the ones with the erasers that just scratch at the paper, leaving a pink smudge. Our moms drove station wagons that were as old as we were. And we never got out of school for a week to go to the Caribbean.
Not that we understood at the time what all of it meant, really. We knew we were less, the rich kids made sure of that. Some of the poor kids tried to befriend the rich kids, to see what they could get. If you were friends with a rich kid, you could go to her big house, drink soda from a glass bottle, play with her American Girl dolls. But you never wanted her to come play at your house. No, you made sure you always went to hers.
I always hated it when the rich kids gloated about the nice things they had, because I knew it wasn’t my fault I was poor any more than it was their fault they were rich. I knew it didn’t make me less or them more, but I could never explain that to them. I got angry instead. And because I had no way to express that anger, I hid myself in books, because books couldn’t tell me that my pants were too short.
Erin and I met on the first day of third grade. She wore a sherbet-colored taffeta dress and a bow in her hair. I don’t remember what I wore: I’ve tried to forget everything I’ve ever worn. Our assigned seats were the two front ones in row three and row four. That was the first time I spent a year in that classroom. The second time would be sixth grade, when Abby Staibel had breasts before everyone else, and would proclaim in the locker room after gym class, “I am a woman now!” Boy, was I glad when her family moved to Utah.
Erin was shy, and I guess I was, too. I hadn’t really had many friends before that; I wouldn’t have many after either. But we became friends in the way that children can, before they are hurt too much and know better. And so, on sunny, warm afternoons after school, her mom would drive us home in one of their secondhand Subarus (they had two) and we would drop our backpacks and run full tilt into the woods, along the skinny footpath, arms in front of our faces to push away cobwebs and branches, until we got to the place with the sleeping trees, the ones that beckoned to us with their countless shimmering leaves. We crawled through the maze of their arms, climbing to the top of their bough-mountains, and lay on our backs, splayed across the branches, staring up at the willowy trees that still stood and the way the sun looked like a disco ball, shimmering above their long, dancing arms. We would talk about whatever it is 12-year-olds talk about, and we would forget that our shoes were too tight and that our sweaters itched. We forgot that we were supposed to feel inferior. Because at that moment, we were the queens of our green-branched castles, warding off dragons and being rescued by knights. We were the wives preparing dinner for late-working husbands (the only kind we knew of) and caring for the babies sleeping by the fire. We were the Indians in our tee pees, shooting arrows at the attacking cowboys. (Or was it the other way around?) We transformed those woods, and I guess you could say that they transformed us, too. Because when we were in the woods, with the fallen alive trees, we alone determined our fate.
*A little bit of fiction for those of you who have asked.
Friday, February 29, 2008
blah
So, I'm deep in what i've finally come to realize (after several subsequent years of wanting to kill myself come mid-to-late February) as my "winter depression." I feel like crap, i'm frustrated, i'm bored, i'm tired of being inside all the time, i'm tired of having to wear long sleeves that are NEVER long enough because of my freakishly long arms, i feel like everyone hates me, and i'm stressed about school, work, life, friends, and where i'm going to live. i'm also seriously considering deleting my blog, as i feel like i can't write what i want to without making people angry, which makes me feel like i need to censor myself, which completely paralyzes my writing. when, in fact, most of what i write has nothing to do with anyone specifically and has a lot more to do with my own personal psychoses and frustrations over large, general things in my life and personal hangups that have been honed for YEARS. in all likelihood, anything i write has nothing whatsoever to do with you. so please don't take it personally. just because i express frustration that all my friends are married does NOT mean that i dislike you, married friend. just because i write about my frustration with ungrateful men does NOT mean that i am angry at you, sir, or that i think you are ungrateful. also, i am almost always willing to discuss any of my views and listen to yours. if you disagree with me, say something. it's not going to offend me.
i want to go to sleep and not wake up until May.
i want to go to sleep and not wake up until May.
Monday, February 4, 2008
a writing update
i haven't written much in the last several weeks, most probably because of the frenzy of writing i did leading up to my application to grad school, which was due January 15. unless you count this blog, which is more writing than i've done in a long time, not counting the October novel. or the fact that even though i fancy myself a "writer" i do much much less writing than i would like. or like to admit.
so, imagine my surprise when, last evening, i oddly found myself in front of my computer, web browser closed, with just a blank Word document open. Oh! I thought to myself. I suppose I should write something, then. I began writing, as i always do when i sit down with little purpose or direction, about writing. Then, as i sometimes do, i decided i should try writing something that didn't sound like a diary entry.
so, i wrote a poem. and remembered why i don't write poems. i'm terrible at poetry. but hey, i wrote something, right? i would insert an excerpt here, but it really is terrible, and i'm on my work computer, so i can't.
I'm not sure why I'm avoiding my current story, which is about a mother and daughter who don't want each other but end up needing each other (or some variation on that theme). I think it's because i feel like i started really strong and the more i write on it, the worse it gets.
I also had another idea that i haven't started on yet, about a mortician. That's all you get on that one, for now anyway.
And i have yet to read through or edit the novel i wrote in October. Though I'm tempted to trash it and call it what i suspect it was...an extended exercise in getting the cobwebs out of my system and showing myself that i do, in fact, have the discipline to write 50,000 words in 31 days.
i think my next goal will be writing something worth reading.
which is how i end up not writing anything for extended periods of time.
ugh.
so, imagine my surprise when, last evening, i oddly found myself in front of my computer, web browser closed, with just a blank Word document open. Oh! I thought to myself. I suppose I should write something, then. I began writing, as i always do when i sit down with little purpose or direction, about writing. Then, as i sometimes do, i decided i should try writing something that didn't sound like a diary entry.
so, i wrote a poem. and remembered why i don't write poems. i'm terrible at poetry. but hey, i wrote something, right? i would insert an excerpt here, but it really is terrible, and i'm on my work computer, so i can't.
I'm not sure why I'm avoiding my current story, which is about a mother and daughter who don't want each other but end up needing each other (or some variation on that theme). I think it's because i feel like i started really strong and the more i write on it, the worse it gets.
I also had another idea that i haven't started on yet, about a mortician. That's all you get on that one, for now anyway.
And i have yet to read through or edit the novel i wrote in October. Though I'm tempted to trash it and call it what i suspect it was...an extended exercise in getting the cobwebs out of my system and showing myself that i do, in fact, have the discipline to write 50,000 words in 31 days.
i think my next goal will be writing something worth reading.
which is how i end up not writing anything for extended periods of time.
ugh.
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