and it's a story that might bore you but you don't have to listen, she told me, because she always knew it was going to be like that...

- Bret Easton Ellis, The Rules of Attraction

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Yo, dancing baby Jesus! What up, angels?

When the literature fiends and I get together, the world rejoices. We're talking singing angels, dancing baby Jesus {ha, I just reminded myself of Ricky Bobby}, and empty pastry displays - because, hey, even the greats have to eat.



Hadrian, Tanya, and myself. Our "distinguished writer" poses.
Mine has a god-awful background in which some wannabe hipster chick is probably on the phone with her fashion consultant or some shit {not to mention I look as dark as an eclipsed cave}, so we'll probably have to do a retake, guys, the next time we all get together. Not to mention do another round of self-taken group shots - and maybe Tanya should handle the camera this time, ey, Hadrian? ;)


A day of catching up at Cafe Velo Rouge in the outer Richmond, realizing that we should've collectively written this book, and taking in the new- and old-book smell at Green Apple. Right now I'm curling up with The Short Stories of Vladimir Nabokov {mostly because [and, Tanya, you'll be proud of me for this] I've decided it's about time I thoroughly tackled the Russians [and not in a BLUE 52! BLUE 52! HUT HUT! football way]} and I cannot get over the stark, rich texture of the language:



"I know you too are pining," his voice shimmered again, "but your pining, compared to mine, my tempestuous, turbulent pining, is but the even breathing of one who is asleep."
- The Wood-Sprite

...he kept a kind of sated silence, and a curious, joyous preoccupation, as if he carried a precious cargo within him, softened his every movement.
- Russian Spoken Here

Your love was a bit muted, as was your voice. One might say you loved askance, and you never spoke about love. You were one of those habitually untalkative women, to whose silence one immediately grows accustomed. But now and then something in you burst forth.
- Sounds

I knew what you needed: simple feelings, simple words. Your silence was effortless and windless, like the silence of clouds or plants. All silence is the recognition of a mystery. There was much about you that seemed mysterious.
- Sounds

I had once been splintered into a million beings and objects. Today I am one; tomorrow I shall splinter again. And thus everything in the world decants and modulates.
- Sounds

It was delicious losing you.
- Sounds


{as you can probably tell, "Sounds" is my favorite story in the collection thus far.}


And with that, I leave you all for the day!
Happy holidays!

...

I thought about calling this "Better Than Sex," but then I ended up not mentioning that at all, and also I realized that it kind of isn't...

Okay, wow, so I just had the best sneeze ever! EVER! One of the ones with all those tantalizing, teasing false starts and one gigantic, startling, oh-so-satisfying finish. Sigh.

I think, second to the feeling of having just peed after, like, two hours of holding it in {which I did during a movie once and decided immediately afterwards to never do again}, a good sneeze is one of the raddest spontaneous bodily functions we experience. It's also one of those things where you totally appreciate it and realize how good it is right after it happens {which is probably why I'm dedicating an entire blog to it right now}, and then you kind of forget, and then it happens again and you go, Man, that was good! just like you did the first time. It's like the first time, every time {which I just realized would kind of really suck in certain contexts, but in this one I mean it good}.

Soooo...this has been really pointless. I hope some of that served some vague purpose.



just so i don't feel like a complete nonsense rambler,
look at these awesome tissue boxes!
let's pretend this was my real intention for this post all along!
yay!

...


| image from vi.sualize.us |

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

No Offense, Joyce

So I know that Joyce Carol Oates is all legit and shit because she's written about as many novels and short stories as George Clooney's switched lovers, and I also know that as English major - especially one emphasizing in creative writing who's been writing short fiction since she was six years old and plans to pursue it like a war criminal - I'm supposed to have read a good chunk of her stuff and have some really interesting critiques to make about her work, but in all honesty, I just don't understand what the big deal is about her.

I read "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" and it was fantastic {Arnold Friend is the creepiest of creeps - and I bet he was a damn fun character to write}, but the other stories I've been fed by her just didn't do it for me. So I stopped looking into it. I love and appreciate the cannon and all, but I'm pretty free-spirited when it comes to my reading choices, and I figure that if I'm going to seriously spend my time on a book or a story in an attempt to learn from it, it might as well be something I thoroughly enjoy {like Aimee Bender or Robin Romm - my particular favorites}.

Anyway, I'm bringing her up because I hear she's got this insane writing regiment where she writes every morning for, like, 16 hours or something {and I am probably completely exaggerating because writing for 16 hours in the morning would make it not morning by the time one was done writing, unless one wakes up at, like, midnight to write - and not that I know Joyce, but that doesn't really seem like something she would do [or maybe it just doesn't seem like something I would do...hmmm...]} and has these set word counts she has to meet. Completely on her own volition. And it's not like I have anything against this - it definitely shows a hell of a lot of discipline and dedication, and above everything else it makes you prolific as hell. And because of those things, I can see it being a good approach to writing. If it works.

But that's the problem. I think it's very rare that it does.

Nothing against dear old Joyce, but I'm sort of convinced that this little boot-camp-style routine she has going on is probably why I haven't enjoyed a majority of what I've read from her. Of course they're all publishable {after all, they were published}, and of course they were well-crafted, well-written, and displayed a strong grasp of the necessary mechanics, but they were missing that x-factor, that umph that gives a story staying power in the minds of those who read it. Not to mention, a routine like that is bound to force at least writers like me into the frame of mind that I have to write something or else I haven't done my job, that I have be constantly producing new work, and who cares if it's interesting or up to par or a good representation of the kinds of things I want to write and be credited for writing, as long as it's got my name on it and a paycheck attached, right?

One thing I know for sure about myself as a writer, is the fact that I think of writing as more of a calling than a profession. I've always done it, and, more importantly, I've always loved doing it. It sounds totally cliche, but it's so natural, so instinctual, so intrinsic that I don't even have to think about it, really. It's like that line Whoopi Goldberg was quoting from Letters to a Young Poet in Sister Act 2 when she was telling a young Lauren Hill {whatever happened to Lauren Hill, anyway? She was a pretty awesome chick!} that if she wakes up in the morning and she can't think about anything but singing first, "then you're supposed to a singer, girl." When I wake up in the morning {and I'm pretty sure this is what that line in Letters to a Young Poet actually is}, the first thing I think about is what stories lie in wait for me today, what pieces of overheard conversations I can weave into the perfect scene for the perfect effect, what else {because there are so, so many things} I want to say; the first thing I think about is writing. It's an obvious answer to a daunting, "Why?" question, and for that I've always felt like I shouldn't have to bother explaining it. I've always seen it as something that happened to me first, and now I'm just actively striving to reach the zenith of its potential.

And just like you can't teach someone to write like Nabokov or, hell, Shakespeare, you can't force good writing to happen. It just does.

I guess I'm just more of the "inspiration" school of writing. My story ideas come to me when I'm lying around in bed ignoring my alarm for the zillionth time, or when I'm in line at the grocery store pretending that I'm not listening to the fighting couple in front of me even though I totally am, or when I'm snooping around in my kitchen cabinets and I find an entire box full of matches in vintage matchboxes because apparently my dad's stepfather collected matches from his travels all over the world and I never knew that and now they're just chilling on the top shelf of a cabinet and I'm thinking, Hey, that could make a really cool image or scene or metaphor or something. All the times I've made it a point to sit down in front of my computer and write something, nothing good has ever come out. It's a day spent hitting backspace, a day spent second-guessing - and so why don't I just calm down and wait for it to happen to me? Because in the past, it always has. And I've always been happy with what's come out.

So, I'm not sure if any of that made sense, and I'm pretty sure this is one of the most structurally disorganized posts I've ever written, but if I say it was stream of consciousness that makes it more legit so, yeah, let's call it that. And you know what, I'm sure plenty of writers benefit from set deadlines and the like; I'm sure there are many cases in which the process works. So let me open up the floor to you all and your writing process. I'm waiting, and I'm all ears!




so i know i said that i'd be giving up the leather wristband thing, but i just found this while shopping at the haight with the bestie and i couldn't resist because it is kind of all kinds of cute, so...i'm bringin it back, baby!

...

Monday, December 21, 2009

Rap: Bringing People Together for However-the-Hell Many Years

Totally reblogging this from mental_floss, but I just can't help myself.
Men - especially you sporty, beefy, what-do-you-mean-Sports-Illustrated-doesn't-count-as-legit-literature men - this makes me want to put in the effort to tolerate you. And, dare I say it, I love you a little...




how cute, another white guy trying to rap at about 1:17. earliest version of eminem?
also, "if you throw it my way it's gonna be rough / i like to ram it as you can see / nobody likes ramming any more than me"
wow, my mind just took that to so many different places it's not even funny. {except it totally is, HAHA! okay, anyway...}




aahhhhh meathead attack!
white guy at 0:47, you are my hero.


diversity, man.
it's a beautiful thing.

...


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