I'm a Winner!

Jumping back to the present for a moment...

I just had to stop and give myself a huge pat on the back, because, what else are blogs for except self-promotion?

I've talked a bit about wanting to be a writer on this blog and have even received a few emails from strangers suggesting I get off my duff and do just that. I took a great class in NYC, practiced on my blog, read books on writing, done some preliminary research, but like the majority of us who say, "Someday I'm going to write a book..." it's always been just that for me. Some. Day.

Well, NOW is the time! In fact, it couldn't possibly be a better time. I'm unemployed with little chance of employment due to our super remote location. I'm living across the road from the ocean which is inspiring even when I wash dishes. My husband actually supports me in doing this. Now!

So, to jump start myself, I entered this year's National Novel Writing Month competition. It's an annual thing where every November you try to write an entire novel, yes a whole novel, between November 1st and 30th. Basically, it's supposed to work as that catalyst to get you to actually DO it. No one expects a Gore Vidal novel to be produced in that month, but what is expected that at the end, is that a) You will have done it! You will have actually written a book! The feeling is incredible. It's a sense of accomplishment that makes a big impact on you. And lesser so b) you may not have a publishable novel as yet, but you have something to work with. Something to edit, and even if a lot of it was rushed, you'll find a lot of really good pieces in it that you can use.

So, I signed up for it. I joined the New Zealand group and my inbox was pummeled with very friendly, supportive emails of meet-ups, parties, and general encouragement. But after a day or so, I couldn't read them anymore. They suck too much time away.

The goal is 1,667 words a day. It sounds like a lot, but it's really not. Well, on a good day. There were times when I could sit at my computer for a few hours and only get out a few hundred. Other times, I could do over a thousand in less than an hour. It depends.

I write historical fiction. To me, it makes writing even more fun, because I get to do all the fascinating research of some fantastic person and/or time and/or place. Then, I take what is essentially a real story and I get to fill in all the dirty details as if I was writing history myself. I really enjoy it, even the research part. I feel like a detective hunting down a rather diverse group of resources -- a new book at the bookstore, an obscure book off of ebay or trademe, articles or letters from museum archives, or a totally forgotten book in some dusty library. And even though I make a true effort to be as authentic as possible, since it's a fiction work, well, I don't have to.

Anyway, I did it! I had to write about 9,000 words over the last two days to make the 50,000 mark, but I did it! And they're right, it's an INCREDIBLE feeling. I had to put the book aside and take a break from it. You get so isolated during the month of November, that you almost forget how to write...it's like you're the only person in the world and you have nothing to compare your work to. So, I'm going to take the next couple of weeks to read some GOOD books to get more inspiration, and then I'll come back and do the worst part of all....edit. Ugh.

And a big thanks goes to Beau since I basically ignored all but the very basics in terms of housework or other "duties" I usually take care of since I'm the unemployed slug of the family. But now that this is over, I'm back to washing dishes and mopping up dog wee. Great.

Wasted Tales from Hickville

It's really a shame I've fallen off the blog map, AGAIN. My five months in rural Missouri may not have been a roller coaster of excitement and adventure, but it certainly was worth about 10 blogs of giggles. Now I think I don't have enough motivation to catch up. See, I'd love to be a writer, and yet, my self-motivation is that of a three-toed sloth, which is why I'll:
- never be thin, just "not fat"
- always apply for jobs that are slightly too easy for me
- have started 10 oil paintings and only completed two (one only because it was literally "commissioned" and i was pressured to do so).
- always think I'll exercise when i get home from work and almost never do
- Am not now packing for New Zealand

And that's my fantastic news of the moment -- I'm moving to New Zealand!!!!!, for REAL this time. It's no longer a dream or a long-range goal, or 12 months of paperwork away. It's really happening. In fact, Beau is already there and has been for what has been an excrutiating four weeks. I stayed behind to take care of the monumental task of trashing, shipping, and selling all of our worldly possessions which is an incredible pain in the ass. Not to mention the ridiculous hoops of fire I have to jump through to get my cat to NZ (6 months of preparation and a couple thousand dollars in bills). In fact, I need to stop this writing and go pack now!

Bugger.

Fucked Up My Chance at Eternal Happiness…Again!

Last night was my first night of my expensive, though (I believe), highly-regarded writing class here in NYC. Maybe I can finally learn something and fine-tune this playing around on this internet blog. We’ll see, maybe I’m just an old dog!

So anyway, I left work early, and arrived with time to spare on the correct street, before realizing that I had forgotten to bring the exact address with me. Knowing it was on this particular street and that it was held in a school, I figured it couldn’t be too difficult to find the place. Well, it was. After walking up the street and then self-consciously back again, I realized that there were a few options. There was something labeled a “seminary” which seemed to have some aspects of a school, though the people hanging outside its front doors were not children and honestly, a bit rough looking. The other option was a large and beautiful church, with a door flung wide open, making me think it was welcoming us in. I chose the church, thinking perhaps it was some sort of religious school the classes would be held in.

I walked up the stairs into a gorgeous foyer of marble-tiled floors, stained glass walls, and hanging down from the ceiling was some very large and unique chandelier, shaped somewhat like a teardrop and beautifully decorated in a rich orange-colored glass. A doorman, and another very hot man were standing there chatting. I approached slowly and asked them if the place was a school as well. “Have you come to confess your sins?” asked the cute guy. I smiled and faked offense, replying that I certainly had not. I explained to them how I was trying to find this class, and the cute guy asked if they had a website, then offered to go up to his apartment and look up the address. So, I waited down in the lobby with the chatty doorman and we talked. I should have been focused on getting more info on cute guy, but I was so enthralled with the possibility of living in a place like this (not to mention the continual opportunity to cause all sorts of horrible sins while living in a converted church). The doorman told me the apartments were gorgeous and gigantic, and a one bedroom ran $8000/month. My eyes nearly leaped out of my head in shock. I’m still wondering if that was true.

Soon, cute guy returned with the address in hand. But he didn’t stop there. Cute guy also walked me to the school, which actually turned out to be the place labeled “Seminary.” Though there were only seconds in that short walk, I was secretly screaming in my head, “Ask me out, please!” He was very kind, and definitely went out of his way (something I seem to see so seldom), and of course he was easy on the eyes. After making a comment that he would like to do something like this himself (take a writing class) sometime, my flustered and hyperbolic thank you’s, he patted me on the arm and took off back to his apartment. Nooooooo!

I know. You’re asking yourself, “Why didn’t she say anything? Do anything? Ask him out for coffee, etc.?” I know I know I know I’m an idiot. Why? Do you really want to dig into that neurotic mess? That, “I’m feeling really fat and bloated today, there’s no possible way he could be interested!” or the “Just because someone is being kind doesn’t mean they want to get into your pants.” or “I’m fooling myself/being arrogant if I think he’s interested in me,” ETC!!!!!

I’ve got issues.

Most of it has to do with my weight, which I previously have mentioned is at its all-time peak of my life. I have joined a gym and have started to go on a semi-regular basis, but the results are not quite in yet. I need about three months. In the meantime, I occasionally catch myself in the mirror and feel a slight shock at seeing myself look older/fatter than I picture myself looking during the day. Thailand gave me wrinkles and returning to America gave me fat. I’ve been ecstatically eating all this great food I haven’t seen for three years and LOTS of candy (I was a big candy eater before, now it’s worse since I’ve missed it all so much). This will all change given time. I hope.

Of course, spinning out this yarn to a small group of enthralled, female colleagues this morning, I was repeatedly told I was an idiot, had missed my chance, and, “You should’ve said ________” over and over. It’s a good way to make you feel even worse about the situation. Don’t give up on my female friends yet, they are also a great source of inspiration, and each person had their own unique way to give it another try. I think the one best suited to me in the end consists of leaving a business card (err, though I don’t technically HAVE any business cards), with the doorman who will hopefully remember me and not laugh at me (though I am dying my hair from dark brown to blonde this weekend and that may put a few kinks in the “Remember me?” approach). Let’s see if I can have an iota of courage to do this. I am hoping to do it before my next class (same time next Thursday), but if not, I was thinking, same time-same place may be the appropriate setting of action. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Obsess! Stop!

So, I haven't written here in awhile. I was gone for a bit, but that's just an excuse. I guess like everything in my life, I become consumed by it, rabidly passionate, and then, I just...stop. It's not that I lose my steam, or .. well I guess it is. I don't exactly lose interest, I just get sick of stuff. This runs the gamut from things like pomelos to painting. For instance, I'll buy pomelos from the market. I'll eat them every day, for every meal. I'll become an EXPERT on them. Know how to pick 'em, how to peel 'em, the right way to eat 'em. And then, it starts to get to be too much. And I just, stop. I stop eating them. As mentioned, this happens with activities too, like painting. I'll be suddenly seized with inspiration and be maniacally focused. Sometimes I finish the painting, but often, I don't. Often I get to about 90% done before I quit. Well, it never feels like quitting, it always feels like a break, but I still have 2 unfinished paintings on the easel (and a new one drying near the air conditioner). You could blame it on my annoying ADD, but that's a cop-out too, because that's something I've learned to deal with, at least as best I can. It's a very annoying habit of mine, this finding things fantastically boring after being so totally consumed by it. I don't really know how to control it or stop it. Eventually, I am able to come back to the discarded thing anyway, though it usually takes some time.

The reason I'm talking about this is 1) to explain why I haven't come back to this for a bit, and 2) to give a fatalistic premonition to my declaration of wanting to be a writer. "Being a writer" is one of those things I've always wanted, just like "being an artist" or "being an actress" or "being a marine biologist." Things I always thought I had the ability to do, but couldn't really get around to it. Not to mention, any desire I ever had for the first two professions was muted by the promise of being a starving artist. If there was anything I wanted to avoid in my adult love, it was the prospect of eternal poverty. I don't need to be a millionaire, but fuck, by the time I graduated from high school I was sure as hell sick as living at or below the poverty level. Of course it shouldn't be like that, but it's hard to be the keeper of dreams when you've got no money and no prospects. So, others can take their self-righteousness and shove it.

Anyway, now I AM at a point in my life where I can pursue these previously suppressed passions. A writer? How fucking cliché. Who doesn't want to be a writer? ESPECIALLY of novels. You're supposed to start small, right? From your school newspaper to small articles to short stories, and so on. I suppose so, though I WAS an editor on my school newspaper and I have never liked short stories. For some reason, I love novels, but find short stories test my patience. I read them and feel like I'm back in grad school in one of my long and tedious seminars where I drew pie graphs on my notes and colored in a slice for every 5-10 minutes that ticked by. But marathon novels still interest me, though I find dense writing makes me want to puke.

Anyway (again), saying 'I want to be a writer' means nothing. And as mentioned above, I don't know if I have the self-discipline to finish a novel once it's started. I lack a great deal of self-motivation for long run. I have bought a few books -- the typical "Writer's Handbook," as well as "The Writing Life" and "How to Write Historical Fiction." We'll see if they really help. Historical fiction is my favorite. I'd like to do that, but it'd take a great deal of research and time. I love research, but I'd hate to get SO involved and fail. Rather write about something more familiar to me and fail.

The funny thing about "deciding" to become a writer is that suddenly every word you write (that the public sees, from a friend to the whole internet), feels 10x more vulnerable than before. I've only told two people (and since no one reads this, this doesn't matter), but even a simple email to them makes me hyper-aware of the words I write. Are there any misspellings? Do the words match, make sense, are consistent? Are there any antecedents? Yeah yeah, I know it's ridiculous. Give me some time, and I won't give a shit.

60 Second Poetry

Sometimes, even when I don't intend it, I find it impossible not to write and write and write. But no, I won't do it now! Instead I'm inserting another one of my "60-second poems." These are, obviously, poems I write in 60 seconds or less and usually adore. Ahhh love.....

Love comes in creeping
*bite chomp slurp*
You are nothing....
but...
a snack...a hors d'oeuvres..
wrapped in the embrace of its lips
The agony of its teeth
The sliding trauma of its throat
Until you are digested...
like all the others..
into the abyss of the intenstines.