Letters from NYC

I can't write

I don’t know why I ever thought that I could and should participate in this writing project because the truth of the matter is I can’t. It was the single biggest stumbling block in finishing my masters program. Since I could not write on command like the others, I edited other's work and I encouraged and inpired. I did that so well that I was hired by 3 different professors to edit their books for publishing. I didn’t get paid on those projects because my aim was to having some representative work for my portfolio when I applied to work in publishing. I can also claim to my credit 2 entries to an academic literary encyclopedia, but that's academic work. NOw, ask me to write fiction or poetry with a deadline or to put 1,666 words on paper per day over 30 days and I get jammed up so tight I cant find my way out of a document.

Of course it doesn't help that in the past year I have seen 12 bloggers who have managed to publish their blogs. Yes, that's write, including one of a woman who took a job as a cab driver because she wasn't motivated to do anything else to make money and needed something to write about. Another of those published bloggers is on their 3rd concept book.

I have to tell you though, I AM happy for them because I did enjoy their blogs (well, except the cab driver's) and in fact linked to them. Still, that doesn’t take away from my own frustration over seeing others writing away and managing to come up with something substantial to write about. For me, the writing experience is incredibly different. I have be drawn, almost compelled to write over everything else in order for me to produce something... even something decent. I have to be sent to the page from my inner being, otherwise I can just sit there and bat stuff around for hours.

In this case, if I continue to write about not being able to write I’ll only manage to implode the little writing esteem I have managed to develop since starting this blog, so I’ll stop while I have a few shreds of esteem left.

Believe me it’s not for lack of ideas… I have them. As proof I put the 3 best story ideas that I attempted today in the extended entry. The truth is I didn’t feel them. They felt so hollow. And since they lacked the emotional essence that drives my writing I just couldn’t continue. The last thing I want when I write is to feel that I’m forcing it. So to those of you participating in this novel writing project I wish you much passion and drive so you may complete your work.

Good luck!

As the first rays of sun slowly peaked out over the mountains, and the mist over the lake began retreating, there was a slight stirring among the bushes, that could easily make one think there was a rabbit or some other animal in the field. The serenity and innocence of the setting before them would certainly make them think so.

The fragrance of the early morning dew perfumed the air. The sweet scent that lingered in the air changed dramatically as the sun began to scorch the earth and grass with it's heat. Later that morning the sweet scent would be gone having been overpowered by the pungent air of crops, fertilized soil and rotting vegetables. With it's firm hand, the sun began to push back the mist from the lake, revealing a sleek mirror like glass that shimmered in the sunlinght. Somehow that made the morning elecric. You could almost feel as if tthere would be something happening later in the day.

The day had already started differently with all the early morning stirring in the bushes. On this morning, children were too busy to come out to play or skip to school. In fact there was no school even though it wasn't a holiday. Even so, adults were too busy and distracted to notice the goings on in the field. It seemed to those that hid beyond the horizon, that this day was the perfect day for mischief, and strange goings-on that would get much accomplished.

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The Dating Cycle - inspired by my babysitter

She had been trying not to stare at it for hours as she read her book or tried to. The words in front of her kept blurring from eyes that were filling up with tears every time she glanced at the phone for more than 10 seconds. He said he’d call, but he hadn’t. It was 3 days now, so she had begun doing what most girls do on day 3, after having gone on a great date: go into the cycle repeatedly. It no longer mattered that she tried to do other things, it happened automatically.

The cycle is a process a young girl's emotions go through after a date with a guy she has long been waiting for. It goes through several stages that begin immediately after a date and shift over time (with some variation depending on how young she is), as she waits for the guy to call after their first date.

Stage 1: Sighs repeatedly over the sweet recollections of the date. Mind you, the fact whether he’s a good prospect or not is not relevant here. When you’re 16 and have hormones fluctuating through your veins the emotional rollercoaster she undergoes is the only proof of her love for him.

Stage 2: (Usually occurs immediately after Stage 1) Drift off into fantasy land using elements of the real date as a spring board to imagine a future together. It doesn’t matter that he’s told you he’s excited about going away to Daytona with his parents & meeting girls on spring break, immediately after your date. In your mind he’s yours forever because you have proof, he wrote your name in his marble composition notebook. Who cares if you’re phone number is immediately after it. You’re the only name in his notebook, and to you the significance is that you have a claim on his affections.

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You're Just Weird - inspired by a phone conversation with my mother after learning I was reading essays on moral relativism and alternating that with Pride & Predjudice for the 117th time.

It didn’t matter to her that she was called weird. In fact, she was used to it. Her own mother had called her that when she built her own transistor radio at age 10. In high school she was the shy girl who didn’t talk much and always kept to herself, using a book as a shield as protection against girls wanting to engage in silly conversation. She was the girl that had transferred from the European convent and could be by herself for days on end without talking to anyone.

“She’s not exactly a mistfit” said Clara trying to explain to the popular girls she hung out with the "weird girl". "She's just bad at starting conversations." She was not only fighting for Millie's inclusion in the most elite click in school, she was fighting for her own social survival and the right explanation in the right tone and just the right aloofness could accomplish that.

Clara knew that as a source of entertainment, Millie was a goldmine. “She just comes up with these funny spur of the moment comments, they're observations really, that always make me laugh.” After a short pause she added, “and she does it with such a straight serious face too, which makes everything she says seem even funnier.” Clara giggled to herself as if Millie spirit had just made another of her self-deprecating comments, which if overheard by the popular girls would be used as a form of verbal torture against Millie until her dying day.

Posted by Michele at November 2, 2006 01:41 AM