October 20, 2011: The day I workshopped my novel coincided with National Writers Day (or some holiday to that effect). Bloggers were encouraged to post on why they write. I had blogged before finding out about NWD, only to delete my post after considering it too melodramatic and pessimistic, even for me. At the time I deleted the post, I thought it depressing. Afterwards, I found my response framed in the context of answering the question of why i write to be rather humorous. Read below:
Doomsday
Doomsday. I'm sick at heart. I just emptied my wallet on ingredients for PB&J's and rice crispy treats (it's a cruel mandate that says the person being workshopped should bring snacks for the class). Who knew that cereal these days was so expensive?
I handed out my novel last week. As soon as I did I realized everything I wrote was melodramatic and overwritten (nonsense, says the reader. You're overreacting. See? I reply. That's exactly my point!)
The week before handing it in I spent leisurely with family and friends. I didn't worry about my novel; didn't pull all nighters whipping it into some sort of shape. Up until now I felt frivolous for idling my time away, for thinking myself wise to not go into panic mode. Now I realize I was completely off my rocker. I should have panicked. I should have fought the good fight for the good fight's sake.
I need to make these rice crispy treats before too long. I'm going to Chicago tomorrow and so writing will be limited. But I think this blog will experience a revival, after the slaughter of my ego and the necessary rebirth, so stay posted!
Hmmm. My dark mood was unnecessary. The workshop went very well. It was greatly invigorating, and I left class with plenty of advice and ideas on how to progress.
A weekend in Chicago also helped to rejuvenate the juices. I've spent most of today getting small but important things done, like spending 20 minutes on hold to ask one small but very important question, standing in line for 45 min to get the last piece to my Halloween costume, etc.
I'm having a bit of trouble writing this blog post, as a matter of fact, so I think that I will just start to work on my novel. Maybe I can post again afterwards after I've attempted to get work done--
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
On Poetry and 2011
Ugh, is it 2012 yet? I've recently confirmed that my pattern holds true: that odd years are the worst for me, and now that I've admitted that to myself I essentially want to give up on 2011. I've lost all will to see this year through. 2011 has sucked. I'm ready to be done with it. I usually refrain from being so bad-mood and absolute, but if I'm going to have bad luck for three more months I might as well not waste time mincing words.
On a positive note I have my Halloween costume taken care of. This is of great comfort to me.
On a contemplative note I had to write a fictional short about an anti-hero. I think I was the only person in the class who didn't know what an anti-hero is. I conflated the term with antagonist. When the teacher asked if everyone was clear, I thought no, not really, and out loud said what's an anti-hero, like Iago? And she said Iago was a good example, and I thought uhhh don't know why I said that but I guess I get the gist, when I didn't. So I walked away with some very muddled notion of anti-hero. Later, my boyfriend led me to believe that anti-heroes are people like Woody Allen and Holden Caufield. Still unclear. So I wrote a piece in which every character is some personification of one of my notions of antihero. It's about a quasi-miserable college student who fancies herself as a poet. She is in love with her best friend who is dating someone else who is pretty full of herself. The quasi-miserable poet has an annoying poet rival and in the end the miserable poet's rival writes a pretty good villanelle about jealousy, which is supposed to be ironic because the poet is so miserable she can't even realize she's jealous of everything.
Of course the entire assignment is too damn long, with four different manifestations of anti-heroes, so I'm going to have to combine them all into one character. The villanelle's supposed to be good and I'm not going to pretend my poetry is excellent, so I won't use the villanelle in the story, but I'll copy it here for you.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
Her sash bled red intention and her hands were yellowed lace.
She shushed me with her lips while humming our sad tune.
The singer was a wine bottle and the drummer a black balloon.
The guitarist wore a tablecloth and a coatrack played the bass.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
I wore my best sombrero and a borrowed green festoon.
I forgot upon arrival how to leave her place.
She shushed me with her lips while humming our sad tune.
She put her finger down my throat and I coughed up a silver spoon.
She pulled the death card from my hand and replaced it with an ace.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
She serenaded me sober and led me down the back staircase.
She twirled me twice around before I realized she had your face.
I danced with Jealousy lat night under a black tar moon.
She shushed my questions with her lips while humming our sad tune.
I like poetry alright. I used to write it a lot. I've tried a couple times to publish with no luck. For the most part I find writing poetry to be good for me and no one else. To be honest I don't get most poetry. No, I take that back—I could probably read a poem and give you a fairly intelligent evaluation of its significance. That last sentence was mostly my $45,000 a year education speaking. But I read poems in the New Yorker, and I'm just like what? Though to be fair I think the New Yorker's poetry...well, I know it's not my style, let's put it that way. Ugh.
Being 24 is hard. It never gets any easier. Except for in 2012.
To a brighter future!
On a positive note I have my Halloween costume taken care of. This is of great comfort to me.
On a contemplative note I had to write a fictional short about an anti-hero. I think I was the only person in the class who didn't know what an anti-hero is. I conflated the term with antagonist. When the teacher asked if everyone was clear, I thought no, not really, and out loud said what's an anti-hero, like Iago? And she said Iago was a good example, and I thought uhhh don't know why I said that but I guess I get the gist, when I didn't. So I walked away with some very muddled notion of anti-hero. Later, my boyfriend led me to believe that anti-heroes are people like Woody Allen and Holden Caufield. Still unclear. So I wrote a piece in which every character is some personification of one of my notions of antihero. It's about a quasi-miserable college student who fancies herself as a poet. She is in love with her best friend who is dating someone else who is pretty full of herself. The quasi-miserable poet has an annoying poet rival and in the end the miserable poet's rival writes a pretty good villanelle about jealousy, which is supposed to be ironic because the poet is so miserable she can't even realize she's jealous of everything.
Of course the entire assignment is too damn long, with four different manifestations of anti-heroes, so I'm going to have to combine them all into one character. The villanelle's supposed to be good and I'm not going to pretend my poetry is excellent, so I won't use the villanelle in the story, but I'll copy it here for you.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
Her sash bled red intention and her hands were yellowed lace.
She shushed me with her lips while humming our sad tune.
The singer was a wine bottle and the drummer a black balloon.
The guitarist wore a tablecloth and a coatrack played the bass.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
I wore my best sombrero and a borrowed green festoon.
I forgot upon arrival how to leave her place.
She shushed me with her lips while humming our sad tune.
She put her finger down my throat and I coughed up a silver spoon.
She pulled the death card from my hand and replaced it with an ace.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
She serenaded me sober and led me down the back staircase.
She twirled me twice around before I realized she had your face.
I danced with Jealousy lat night under a black tar moon.
She shushed my questions with her lips while humming our sad tune.
I like poetry alright. I used to write it a lot. I've tried a couple times to publish with no luck. For the most part I find writing poetry to be good for me and no one else. To be honest I don't get most poetry. No, I take that back—I could probably read a poem and give you a fairly intelligent evaluation of its significance. That last sentence was mostly my $45,000 a year education speaking. But I read poems in the New Yorker, and I'm just like what? Though to be fair I think the New Yorker's poetry...well, I know it's not my style, let's put it that way. Ugh.
Being 24 is hard. It never gets any easier. Except for in 2012.
To a brighter future!
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