i have found what you are like
the rain,
(Who feathers frightened fields
with superior dust-of-sleep. wields
easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike
the air in utterable coolness
deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned
newfragile yellows
lurch and.press
--in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Re: The Bad Idea, Once Again.
brain stuck on kb even though he is not going to call. brain won't stop making his face fade in behind eyelids, the set of his chin, the half smile of his mouth. brain keeps seeing that mouth and that half smile when he said, "you can use your words." yes, yes, kb, brain knows all about words, but brain turns into something like the consistency of oatmeal when your eyes are focused on face and then it is hard for brain to remember any word, even though it knows thousands. brain gets stupid around you, kb, especially when free drink tickets are involved. brain still hasn't recovered from the mixed messages, and brain gets all confused when eyes read your book because it keeps picturing you, kb, and the truth is your words all right there in a real published novel combined with brain's images of you and brain's thoughts about what it would like you to do to body make for a very toe-curling read. don't worry, kb. brain will get you out of our system in a couple days. unless you and body keep running into each other, in which case it might be a few weeks. but do not fret, kb, you will be just a hiccup in the long run. do not fret, kb, because brain is not anywhere near the word "love" or even "relationship." brain is in the same place hands were when we gave you our number: dinner, dinner and drinks, drinks and more drinks, drinks and kissing, kissing and fucking, fucking, fucking, fuckingfuckingfucking. brain is there, kb, not at "relationship." because we are no good at those. now that brain thinks about it, maybe we could get good at "relationship," but brain does not have a specific person in mind to practice with, so you still do not have to worry, kb. for a little, brain was worried that you said you probably would not all because of body (body feels fat a lot these days, especially when eyes see bad pictures of chin), but brain does not think you are that kind of guy. but, truly, how would brain know? we don't know you very well, kb, so you could indeed be the type of guy who would not call because body does not look like a toothpick and chin sometimes brings friends. but brain hopes you are not that kind of guy. brain admits to jumping the gun with the number thing, and would not have done it if there had not been so many free drink tickets, and if we were not so impatient (and horny, a little). brain would have made us bide our time and waited for you to make the first move, but brain must admit that we are not very good at waiting, especially when you are so damn cute and you make body heat up and skin get prickly. brain may decide to blame this on you, kb, but we will have to see.
The Benefits of Lying With Your Friends
When you’re confessing your undying love to your best friend, you probably should not do it while he is ten feet above you, cleaning his gutters on a rusting aluminum ladder.
You probably should not do it while he is elbow deep in slimy, phlegmy leaves and already scowling, and you have emptied half your flask and already smoked nine cigarettes and it’s only 10:00 in the morning.
You probably should be holding the ladder, like you said you would, not watching his black Labrador, Nemo, chew up one of your gloves, bright blue yarn coated in drool, unraveled and stuck between his teeth.
You probably should not have started the conversation with, “Sorry I’m late, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” because you knew he would ask you why and that you would have to tell him you were up all night fucking Justin again, but only because it took your mind off of how miserably in love you are with someone else. You should not have said that, because of course, he would ask, “Who?”
And because you are already at least five sheets to the wind, of course you will let it slip. Of course you will let go of the ladder and say, “You.”
And because your voice is loud, has always been loud, he will hear you, hear you perfectly, and jerk his body upright with surprise.
And because you are not holding the ladder, it will wobble and lean away from the house and before you can blink, you’re feeling cold, dripping leaves oozing down the back of your neck and the ladder is rattling on the driveway and your best friend is groaning from the depths of the holly bush in front of you, and Nemo is barking because he can’t get your bright blue glove out of his mouth and it’s so loud, your ears are stinging.
“Shut up shut up shut up!” you shout.
“Nemo! Shut up!” Your best friend yells, and the dog stops mid-yowl and stares into the holly bush, head cocked, bright blue yarn in tangles from his teeth to his paws.
Your best friend groans. “Get me OUT of here,” he wails in a very unmanly way only unleashed when extreme pain is involved (the unmanly kind of way he wailed when he jumped off the Jim Thorpe National Park Bridge and never stopped flailing his arms, so he dislocated his shoulder and tore his rotator cuff when he hit the water and you had to drive him to the hospital in your bathing suit and the whole time he just lay there in the back seat, gray-faced and moaning).
You can barely see him through all the holly branches, but if you squint hard enough and push that branch out of the way, there he is, dark hair sticking out in every direction with wet leaves clinging. And there’s his back, exposed, cold and scratched raw because there is his jacket, stuck in the branches above him, empty sleeves hanging limp as if they were wishing they had hands to point with. And there are his legs, tangled in branches, and his arms, tangled in other branches, and his big brown eyes looking out at you from all that tangled, up-side-down mess.
“Um,” you say. Um? UM? You probably should have said something a little more eloquent. Something comforting, maybe? But you definitely should not have said “um.”
“Justfuckinggetmeoutofthisfuckinghollybush!” He tries to move, but you probably should have told him not to do that, because it looks like it only hurts him more.
“How?” you want to ask. How do you reach in there, through all that prickly, pointy, nasty, mean holly and pull him out when you have just stupidly—so stupidly—told him that you love him and the only rational way he could find to respond was to FALL OFF A LADDER and land in said holly bush? HOW?
But because you are actively learning from your mistakes, you do not say everything that comes to mind. Instead, you take a step back and analyze the situation like the college-graduate you paid lots of money to become.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” comes streaming from inside the holly bush, mixed with grunts and groans and more swearing.
You reach into the bush and hand your flask to your best friend. If you can’t think of a way to get him out just yet, at least the whiskey will make him a bit more comfortable.
He grabs it from you and you hear metal swinging around metal as he unscrews the cap and he didn’t even say thank you.
HE DIDN’T EVEN SAY THANK YOU, the ungrateful sonofabitch. Maybe you WON’T help him out of there. Maybe you will just LEAVE him all tangled in pointy leaves and pokey branches because FUCK, you just confessed your love to him and he hasn’t said anything about whether or not he loves you, too. He probably should have said something already. AND he probably should have kissed you last month when you were drunk at Jared’s New Years party and it was midnight and you were standing there right in front of him in your silver sequin dress and everyone around you was leaning over and kissing each other but you two were just standing there frozen staring and he just hugged you instead. And you probably should have said something earlier and he probably should be in love with you. He should, because you KNOW him. You know that he likes hot peppers on his pizza and he gets nervous around ladies (but not you—he’s never been nervous around you) and you know that his favorite movie EVER is “The Outlaw Josey Wales,” and that he hasn’t read a whole book since he graduated college and that if he were stranded on a desert island with Nemo he would let himself starve to death so Nemo had something to eat and—STOP. Now you are starting to sound like a Best Friend Fan Club. Ew.
“Are you maybe gonna help me?” your best friend asks. The holly bush is shaking as he moves around, trying to un-stick himself, and you are still standing there frozen and drunk and pissed.
“No,” you say.
“What?” You hear him drop the flask, empty metal thudding on packed dirt and now you can see one of his eyes, wide and brown and looking right at you in disbelief.
“No,” you say again. “You can do it yourself.”
You probably should not do it while he is elbow deep in slimy, phlegmy leaves and already scowling, and you have emptied half your flask and already smoked nine cigarettes and it’s only 10:00 in the morning.
You probably should be holding the ladder, like you said you would, not watching his black Labrador, Nemo, chew up one of your gloves, bright blue yarn coated in drool, unraveled and stuck between his teeth.
You probably should not have started the conversation with, “Sorry I’m late, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” because you knew he would ask you why and that you would have to tell him you were up all night fucking Justin again, but only because it took your mind off of how miserably in love you are with someone else. You should not have said that, because of course, he would ask, “Who?”
And because you are already at least five sheets to the wind, of course you will let it slip. Of course you will let go of the ladder and say, “You.”
And because your voice is loud, has always been loud, he will hear you, hear you perfectly, and jerk his body upright with surprise.
And because you are not holding the ladder, it will wobble and lean away from the house and before you can blink, you’re feeling cold, dripping leaves oozing down the back of your neck and the ladder is rattling on the driveway and your best friend is groaning from the depths of the holly bush in front of you, and Nemo is barking because he can’t get your bright blue glove out of his mouth and it’s so loud, your ears are stinging.
“Shut up shut up shut up!” you shout.
“Nemo! Shut up!” Your best friend yells, and the dog stops mid-yowl and stares into the holly bush, head cocked, bright blue yarn in tangles from his teeth to his paws.
Your best friend groans. “Get me OUT of here,” he wails in a very unmanly way only unleashed when extreme pain is involved (the unmanly kind of way he wailed when he jumped off the Jim Thorpe National Park Bridge and never stopped flailing his arms, so he dislocated his shoulder and tore his rotator cuff when he hit the water and you had to drive him to the hospital in your bathing suit and the whole time he just lay there in the back seat, gray-faced and moaning).
You can barely see him through all the holly branches, but if you squint hard enough and push that branch out of the way, there he is, dark hair sticking out in every direction with wet leaves clinging. And there’s his back, exposed, cold and scratched raw because there is his jacket, stuck in the branches above him, empty sleeves hanging limp as if they were wishing they had hands to point with. And there are his legs, tangled in branches, and his arms, tangled in other branches, and his big brown eyes looking out at you from all that tangled, up-side-down mess.
“Um,” you say. Um? UM? You probably should have said something a little more eloquent. Something comforting, maybe? But you definitely should not have said “um.”
“Justfuckinggetmeoutofthisfuckinghollybush!” He tries to move, but you probably should have told him not to do that, because it looks like it only hurts him more.
“How?” you want to ask. How do you reach in there, through all that prickly, pointy, nasty, mean holly and pull him out when you have just stupidly—so stupidly—told him that you love him and the only rational way he could find to respond was to FALL OFF A LADDER and land in said holly bush? HOW?
But because you are actively learning from your mistakes, you do not say everything that comes to mind. Instead, you take a step back and analyze the situation like the college-graduate you paid lots of money to become.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” comes streaming from inside the holly bush, mixed with grunts and groans and more swearing.
You reach into the bush and hand your flask to your best friend. If you can’t think of a way to get him out just yet, at least the whiskey will make him a bit more comfortable.
He grabs it from you and you hear metal swinging around metal as he unscrews the cap and he didn’t even say thank you.
HE DIDN’T EVEN SAY THANK YOU, the ungrateful sonofabitch. Maybe you WON’T help him out of there. Maybe you will just LEAVE him all tangled in pointy leaves and pokey branches because FUCK, you just confessed your love to him and he hasn’t said anything about whether or not he loves you, too. He probably should have said something already. AND he probably should have kissed you last month when you were drunk at Jared’s New Years party and it was midnight and you were standing there right in front of him in your silver sequin dress and everyone around you was leaning over and kissing each other but you two were just standing there frozen staring and he just hugged you instead. And you probably should have said something earlier and he probably should be in love with you. He should, because you KNOW him. You know that he likes hot peppers on his pizza and he gets nervous around ladies (but not you—he’s never been nervous around you) and you know that his favorite movie EVER is “The Outlaw Josey Wales,” and that he hasn’t read a whole book since he graduated college and that if he were stranded on a desert island with Nemo he would let himself starve to death so Nemo had something to eat and—STOP. Now you are starting to sound like a Best Friend Fan Club. Ew.
“Are you maybe gonna help me?” your best friend asks. The holly bush is shaking as he moves around, trying to un-stick himself, and you are still standing there frozen and drunk and pissed.
“No,” you say.
“What?” You hear him drop the flask, empty metal thudding on packed dirt and now you can see one of his eyes, wide and brown and looking right at you in disbelief.
“No,” you say again. “You can do it yourself.”
Monday, February 16, 2009
Someday, maybe, you'll read it...
I spent so long trying to figure out how to fix this short story, and last night I did it without even thinking. I am incredibly proud of myself.
That is all.
That is all.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
This was a Bad Idea. A Very Bad Idea.
Against my better judgment and the advice of a very intelligent young lady, I am about to document here one of my (many) Very Bad Ideas.
Please note two things, before reading more.
1. This is meant to be funny. Read this and know that I am chuckling to myself, despite how frustrated it will sound. I really find myself, especially the things I do when alcohol is involved, absolutely hilarious most of the time, and this is certainly one of those times.
2. If you are the poor victim of my Very Bad Idea and have somehow ended up, through a series of links provided by myself in too many places, reading this, please; I invite you to continue. Seriously. There is no sarcasm here. Not even in the denial of the presence of sarcasm. You might be interested to find that I am (a) making a bigger mess of this than it deserves and (b) reflecting on this situation with intrigue and humor, AND I would, truly, love for you, Poor Victim of my Very Bad Idea, to reflect on this situation in the same light, so that, when we do (inevitably, according to you and then agreed upon by me) run into each other, we can clink our drinks together and laugh about this (because you do have a very nice smile and I would so like to laugh with you, as friends. Friends). And understand that, while all evidence contained herein points to the contrary, once I have finished this post and thus gotten my frustration out of my system, I will be done with it. Over it. And all the awkwardness that could potentially arise at our next meeting will not. At least, on my part. I promise you, Poor Recipient of my Very Bad Idea, that I will not be awkward when next we meet. I leave that up to you, if you so choose.
Now, I continue.
This Bad Idea was brilliant in theory, although theorized while halfway into a glass of whiskey and at the bottom of a PBR Tall Boy. This Bad Idea was discussed with at least three different people, all of whom told me it was a Bad Idea. This was also not the first time I have come up with a Bad Idea in this vein. I have tried things like this before, being up-front, putting myself out there, and it never gets me what I want.
What this Bad Idea, poorly executed and eloquently responded to by the unsuspecting recipient of said Bad Idea, has got me thinking about, though, is this:
1. Why haven't I learned? Why, after trying this method and failing so many times, do I continue to employ it?
2. Games. How I am terrible at playing them, how I don't understand them, and why they even need to be played in the first place.
3. Patience. I am relatively sure that I have none.
Let me elaborate.
1. Learning from my past mistakes should be a no-brainer, I imagine. I can understand trying a failed method again after the first time (Which, in my case, was Chad in 7th grade. I had just moved to his town and the first day of class I saw him and thought he was exactly what I wanted. So-- like any 7th grader whose previous relationship experience consisted of making out with a 13-year-old skater in a barn at summer camp when she was 11 and, in 6th grade, having a boyfriend who was too nervous to talk to her in real life so all they did was pass notes all year until she broke up with him because he was shorter than her and she liked Dustin Hollenberger better, anyway-- I asked him out right away. He responded, kindly, that he didn't know me yet, but that we should hang out and get to know each other and see what happened. So, we hung out. A lot. All over town. And nothing happened), but continuing to employ said method even after it has failed at least nine million times is simply POINTLESS. And I am tired of it. I am tired of failing. But, when I try to do it a different way, a way that is less aggressive, I get tired of waiting (see number three re: my patience). Someone, please, tell me how to fix this. Or, better yet, fix it for me. Instantly.
2. This not-knowing-how-to-play-games thing is, in addition to being rather self-explanatory, also due almost entirely to my complete and utter lack of patience. At least as far as I can surmise. Someone, please, tell me how to fix this. Or, better yet, fix it for me. Instantly.
3. Patience. I have none. Not any. Someone, please, tell me how to fix this. NOW. Thank you.
What was the Very Bad Idea, you ask?
- Jumping the gun
- Giving my number to a very cute, intelligent writer who is very good at writing, but who most likely did not want my number and who may have actually been interested in wanting my number if I had not jumped the gun and waited (again, see number three, re: my patience) (a) until he asked me for it, or (b) until I had at least spoken with him for an extended period of time more than once, or (c) until it wasn't his book release party and I wasn't pimping out his book to a bunch of half-drunk people while three-quarters drunk myself.
Anyhow. Learn from me. Hope that I learn from myself this time. And know that I apologize for this strange, strange post, but that I am also done apologizing for the stupid things I do, even to myself.
Now I am going outside into the cold to smoke 1 American Spirit, then I am coming back inside and reading until I fall asleep.
Anna needs...
I stole this idea from Megan Stielstra, and at first I followed the rules (which are to google "{Your Name} Needs" and enter the first ten things that show up), but then I just got carried away and now here's a wonderful treat for you.
1. Anna needs to be excused from class today
2. Anna needs sex
3. Anna needs to find a toilet
4. Anna needs him (and he needs her)
5. Anna needs more coffee
6. Anna needs whatever sense of humor works for her
7. Anna needs all the support she can get right now
8. Anna needs to have surgery
9. Anna needs verification
10. Anna needs new ones
11. Anna needs not to jump the gun every time
12. Anna needs to learn at least a little from the past
13. Anna needs to lighten up
14. Anna needs a job
15. Anna needs to break out of this black
16. Anna needs something something something she can't quite put her finger on but it involves writing
17. Anna needs you, yes, you
18. Anna needs to figure out, once and for all, who exactly she means when she says, "you, yes, you"
19. Anna needs to get a life
20. Anna needs to read every book on her list
22. Anna needs to decide where she really wants to be
23. Anna needs to decide what she really wants
1. Anna needs to be excused from class today
2. Anna needs sex
3. Anna needs to find a toilet
4. Anna needs him (and he needs her)
5. Anna needs more coffee
6. Anna needs whatever sense of humor works for her
7. Anna needs all the support she can get right now
8. Anna needs to have surgery
9. Anna needs verification
10. Anna needs new ones
11. Anna needs not to jump the gun every time
12. Anna needs to learn at least a little from the past
13. Anna needs to lighten up
14. Anna needs a job
15. Anna needs to break out of this black
16. Anna needs something something something she can't quite put her finger on but it involves writing
17. Anna needs you, yes, you
18. Anna needs to figure out, once and for all, who exactly she means when she says, "you, yes, you"
19. Anna needs to get a life
20. Anna needs to read every book on her list
22. Anna needs to decide where she really wants to be
23. Anna needs to decide what she really wants
I need to get better at remembering to take pictures after I've been drinking.
View from the back room at The Beat Kitchen, before we officially opened the doors for the Featherproof AWP After Party.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Purple Prose
Two of maybe the best lines I've ever written and they for sure are dripping with remembered angst and over romanticism. AND they are definitely about the same person, who exists and who I can't stop thinking about, which pretty much only makes this whole thing worse and in between those two lines is one of the best dreams I've ever had (woke up with a smile stuck to the corner of my mouth):
I dreamt last night that I loved you madly and you loved me fiercely and together we stopped the house from burning.
We lay in the back yard, looking up at the trees, listening to the grass click beneath us, letting our arms rub together like violins. We went on long journeys, sometimes you led me, sometimes I led you. When you were leader, I watched the back of your neck; the muscles and bones and tendons rippling under your skin and the triangular point your shaved hair came to at the nape. When I was leader, you held onto my hips and kissed my ears and we couldn't stop loving everything about the outside and around us and the feeling of our skin touching and the way the ground felt beneath us.
I hope I dream about you again tonight, because the shape of your head is one of the happiest things my pillows will ever know.
I dreamt last night that I loved you madly and you loved me fiercely and together we stopped the house from burning.
We lay in the back yard, looking up at the trees, listening to the grass click beneath us, letting our arms rub together like violins. We went on long journeys, sometimes you led me, sometimes I led you. When you were leader, I watched the back of your neck; the muscles and bones and tendons rippling under your skin and the triangular point your shaved hair came to at the nape. When I was leader, you held onto my hips and kissed my ears and we couldn't stop loving everything about the outside and around us and the feeling of our skin touching and the way the ground felt beneath us.
I hope I dream about you again tonight, because the shape of your head is one of the happiest things my pillows will ever know.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Peter Pan, Meet Alice. She's in Wonderland.
I've been thinking a lot about the stories that you love as a kid, and how they shape your imagination and creativity...just how they affect you in general. I mean, Ray Bradbury was inspired by Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland," and it's pretty clear the affect it had on him (incase you're wondering why I'm talking about Bradbury so much, it's because I'm taking a class on him at Columbia ♥ ).
The stories rhat I loved as a kid, I still love now. Which means I read a lot of children's books and watch the more than occasional Disney movie, but goshdarnit, I'm not ashamed!
This could get tedious, but I'm about to list all my favorite children's books, so batten down the hatches, lovers! (And yes, I happen to have a list of them, including copyright dates and publishers, in the back of one of my journals. Because they all belong to my mom, and I want to get them...for myself, since I have no babies)
- Peter Pan
- Alice in Wonderland
- Robinhood
- Chronicles of Prydain
- Sleeping Beauty
- Rapunzel
- Twelve Dancing Princesses
- The Black Horse (Marianna Mayer)
- The Maiden on the Moor
- The Rough-Faced Girl
- Nicholas Pipe
- East o' the Sun and West o' the Moon
- Saint George and the Dragon
- The Little Mermaid (Hans Christian Anderson, illustrated by Dorothy P. Lathrop)
- The Sign of the Seahorse (One of my favorite memories about this book: I was probably 7 or 8 and my family rented a big beach house in the Outerbanks, NC with 2 other families, so there were a bunch of kids and we were all running around on the beach all the time, but then this one day, it rained all day. So all those kids who would normally be running around on the beach were stuck in this beach house and the parents were too and we were all going a little crazy. So, my mom got us all sitting in the living room and read us this book [and my mom is AWESOME at reading books to kids--she's a children's librarian, after all] and then sat us around the dining room table and told us we were having a contest: who could draw the best picture of something they liked from the story. So we all spent hours drawing and coloring and then all the parents judged the pictures and we each got a different award so we all felt awesome and we weren't going crazy anymore).
- The Canary Prince
- Melisande
- The Enchanted Wood
- Beauty and the Beast
- The Thirteen Clocks
I still get really excited to read those stories, to experience them, even though my understanding of them has changed since I was 6. So how do those stories touch my writing all these years later?
My mom is writing her thesis paper on helping young children choose books that will help them love reading, and so their imagination and creativity will bloom... And since I've been helping her out with it, I've been thinking a lot about that subject. My mom was ALWAYS reading to me, helping me imagine the worlds in the stories, the characters, the sounds of their voices. My childhood was all about telling stories and sometimes, I can't even describe TO MYSELF how thankful I am for that, and how AWESOME it was. I think the omnipresence of books, reading and story telling in my childhood is the reason I wanted to become a writer. I've never wanted to be anything else.
And I'm not kidding when I say I've never wanted to be anything else (OK, OK, there's one exception--when I was 5 or 8 or whenever it was that I saw Star Wars for the first time, I wanted to be Princess Leia when I grew up. That lasted for a while, but underneath, I'm pretty sure I wanted to be a writer still).
When I was younger, I was always writing stories. I'd illustrate them myself-- terrible, disproportionate pencil drawings of mermaids, castles, horses that were barely distinguishable as such, big leafy flowers, handsome gentlemen with scraggly hair... But whatever the quality of the illustrations (POOR), the stories were what mattered, what I concentrated on, what I love, love, loved. And they still are.
So yeah, I like writing. Take THAT, other professions I could have pursued!
The stories rhat I loved as a kid, I still love now. Which means I read a lot of children's books and watch the more than occasional Disney movie, but goshdarnit, I'm not ashamed!
This could get tedious, but I'm about to list all my favorite children's books, so batten down the hatches, lovers! (And yes, I happen to have a list of them, including copyright dates and publishers, in the back of one of my journals. Because they all belong to my mom, and I want to get them...for myself, since I have no babies)
- Peter Pan
- Alice in Wonderland
- Robinhood
- Chronicles of Prydain
- Sleeping Beauty
- Rapunzel
- Twelve Dancing Princesses
- The Black Horse (Marianna Mayer)
- The Maiden on the Moor
- The Rough-Faced Girl
- Nicholas Pipe
- East o' the Sun and West o' the Moon
- Saint George and the Dragon
- The Little Mermaid (Hans Christian Anderson, illustrated by Dorothy P. Lathrop)
- The Sign of the Seahorse (One of my favorite memories about this book: I was probably 7 or 8 and my family rented a big beach house in the Outerbanks, NC with 2 other families, so there were a bunch of kids and we were all running around on the beach all the time, but then this one day, it rained all day. So all those kids who would normally be running around on the beach were stuck in this beach house and the parents were too and we were all going a little crazy. So, my mom got us all sitting in the living room and read us this book [and my mom is AWESOME at reading books to kids--she's a children's librarian, after all] and then sat us around the dining room table and told us we were having a contest: who could draw the best picture of something they liked from the story. So we all spent hours drawing and coloring and then all the parents judged the pictures and we each got a different award so we all felt awesome and we weren't going crazy anymore).
- The Canary Prince
- Melisande
- The Enchanted Wood
- Beauty and the Beast
- The Thirteen Clocks
I still get really excited to read those stories, to experience them, even though my understanding of them has changed since I was 6. So how do those stories touch my writing all these years later?
My mom is writing her thesis paper on helping young children choose books that will help them love reading, and so their imagination and creativity will bloom... And since I've been helping her out with it, I've been thinking a lot about that subject. My mom was ALWAYS reading to me, helping me imagine the worlds in the stories, the characters, the sounds of their voices. My childhood was all about telling stories and sometimes, I can't even describe TO MYSELF how thankful I am for that, and how AWESOME it was. I think the omnipresence of books, reading and story telling in my childhood is the reason I wanted to become a writer. I've never wanted to be anything else.
And I'm not kidding when I say I've never wanted to be anything else (OK, OK, there's one exception--when I was 5 or 8 or whenever it was that I saw Star Wars for the first time, I wanted to be Princess Leia when I grew up. That lasted for a while, but underneath, I'm pretty sure I wanted to be a writer still).
When I was younger, I was always writing stories. I'd illustrate them myself-- terrible, disproportionate pencil drawings of mermaids, castles, horses that were barely distinguishable as such, big leafy flowers, handsome gentlemen with scraggly hair... But whatever the quality of the illustrations (POOR), the stories were what mattered, what I concentrated on, what I love, love, loved. And they still are.
So yeah, I like writing. Take THAT, other professions I could have pursued!
Smell
In response to reading Ray Bradbury's "The Emissary," I found it necessary to write this.
This (or a version of it) will also be posted on Sam Weller's Ray Bradbury blog, once it's up!
Well hello, smell. Where have you been in all my stories? Because here you are in Mr. Bradbury's story, all perfectly described so I can actually smell the words. But you haven't been hanging out with my writing lately, or maybe ever. (Oh, smell, meet Logan, my writing. He's incredibly sexually frustrated at the moment, so please don't tease him.)
So smell, what's the deal here? Because I'm kind of pissed. Why? Why am I pissed? Do you really need to ask? It's it obvious that I'm pissed because clearly you've been ignoring me for much more accomplished writers, like Mr. Bradbury, and that is so not cool. I thought we were friends, smell! Isn't it you who triggers basically all my memories with nary a word? Isn't it you who clues me into the coming changes of season? And isn't it you who reminds me a boy has been in my bed when I put my face in the pillow at night? I thought we were pals, smell, but if we really were, wouldn't you have shown up in at least one of my stories? Pretty much all my friends have, but noooooooo, smell, not you.
What's wrong, smell? Are you too good for me? Is that it? You don't want people to know we hang out? You wouldn't call what you did "ditching me for better writers" per se, more like "taking a breather from my claustrophobic co-dependency issues"? So not cool, smell. You know I'm sensitive about my issues!
Fine, smell. Fuck you! Just go! Go hang out with Mr.Bradbury and be all perfectly described. Go be The sense in "The Emissary." See if I care! Me and Logan my writing won't miss you.
OK, maybe we will, but like hell if I'll let you know it!
This (or a version of it) will also be posted on Sam Weller's Ray Bradbury blog, once it's up!
Well hello, smell. Where have you been in all my stories? Because here you are in Mr. Bradbury's story, all perfectly described so I can actually smell the words. But you haven't been hanging out with my writing lately, or maybe ever. (Oh, smell, meet Logan, my writing. He's incredibly sexually frustrated at the moment, so please don't tease him.)
So smell, what's the deal here? Because I'm kind of pissed. Why? Why am I pissed? Do you really need to ask? It's it obvious that I'm pissed because clearly you've been ignoring me for much more accomplished writers, like Mr. Bradbury, and that is so not cool. I thought we were friends, smell! Isn't it you who triggers basically all my memories with nary a word? Isn't it you who clues me into the coming changes of season? And isn't it you who reminds me a boy has been in my bed when I put my face in the pillow at night? I thought we were pals, smell, but if we really were, wouldn't you have shown up in at least one of my stories? Pretty much all my friends have, but noooooooo, smell, not you.
What's wrong, smell? Are you too good for me? Is that it? You don't want people to know we hang out? You wouldn't call what you did "ditching me for better writers" per se, more like "taking a breather from my claustrophobic co-dependency issues"? So not cool, smell. You know I'm sensitive about my issues!
Fine, smell. Fuck you! Just go! Go hang out with Mr.Bradbury and be all perfectly described. Go be The sense in "The Emissary." See if I care! Me and Logan my writing won't miss you.
OK, maybe we will, but like hell if I'll let you know it!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Disaster Strikes Unit 3
We seriously need to do our dishes. Let it be known, though, that less than one third of those are mine. Maybe two mugs from all the tea I drink, and a POM glass, but definitely not any of the other dishes, since I'm too broke to buy food right now. And yes, I'm starving.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Things About Me That Are True
-- I want to live in a house on a lake (or the ocean) in the woods with a boat and a lover.
-- My dream car: 1967 Chevy Chevelle
-- I want a garden. Mostly for vegetables and herbs. but I wouldn't object to a flower or two.
-- When I move to Asheville, I would like to get a dog. I will name him Atticus Finch.
-- I want a whole room to write in with big windows and walls and walls of books. I want it to be in an attic, under the eaves.
-- If I could be outside all the time, I would. I would sleep on a porch and write under a tree and kiss in the long grass.
-- Pentel R.S.V.P = my pens of choice. I love, love, love them.
-- Tea is my favorite drink; cold or hot, doesn't matter.
-- I did some painting in high school and I liked it, but I'd much rather take photographs than paint pictures.
-- I like breakfast, but I hardly ever eat it.
-- I like watching old movies with people, and new ones by myself.
-- My dream car: 1967 Chevy Chevelle
-- I want a garden. Mostly for vegetables and herbs. but I wouldn't object to a flower or two.
-- When I move to Asheville, I would like to get a dog. I will name him Atticus Finch.
-- I want a whole room to write in with big windows and walls and walls of books. I want it to be in an attic, under the eaves.
-- If I could be outside all the time, I would. I would sleep on a porch and write under a tree and kiss in the long grass.
-- Pentel R.S.V.P = my pens of choice. I love, love, love them.
-- Tea is my favorite drink; cold or hot, doesn't matter.
-- I did some painting in high school and I liked it, but I'd much rather take photographs than paint pictures.
-- I like breakfast, but I hardly ever eat it.
-- I like watching old movies with people, and new ones by myself.
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