Recently, I made the terribly poor health decision of following the postings on a Facebook group called the MFA 2013 Draft. Basically, it's a place for MFA applicants to virtually congregate and share advice and developments about the process and, unfortunately, reading the comments is sometimes like watching the scenes from a Shakespearean comedy when Shit Goes Down. There's a slight bit of miscommunication and suddenly everyone who applied to some school has a sympathetic heart attack... like me just now.
Within moments, you can watch a discussion explode into micro-analysis of what these tell-tale signs -- like an auto-reply message burped up from the submission system -- Means. Deep down, you know it's ridiculous, but when you rest your hopes on something it's hard not to divine secrets from bureaucracy.
I promised myself I wouldn't look and every day I break it. I have a problem, I know.
It is, however, interesting to see how my thought process and behavior has changed under such anxiety. For some reason I'll find myself playing video games instead of writing and think to myself, "Ah, but if I write more, maybe that will tip the Karmic scales in my favor and while I am writing some professor from X university will feel compelled to call me at that moment to inform me that I've been accepted." This seems irrationally reasonable.
But it gets worse. Now I've started to feel bad about not writing thank you notes or not starting to do my taxes and an itchy suspicion begins to take hold that my slacking off is diminishing my chances of getting into grad school. This, I believe, is why people believe in magic. I'm starting to develop the equivalent mental ticks of the baseball coach who rattles the bats to shake out a home run. People wonder why I carry a notebook around with me everywhere -- I should just start telling them I'm bewitched.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Short Short Stories
After work, the three of us stood around in the office while the sun went down, talking about politics, past jobs, and sickness. C noted that there were many more sick teachers and administrators this year. They're dropping like flies, he said. It's the long summer, he said, bacteria needs cold damp weather. But the cold brings other problems.
A kid died after playing in the leaves when when I was superintendent, D said. He was the son of one of our principals. They were out playing in the leaves and the next day he was in the hospital. They didn't know what it was for days. They even brought down the CDC from Atlanta. It turned out that it was some rare genetic trait that both he and his brother had inherited. They both died. It was so tragic. It destroyed their marriage and drove them both crazy. It was so tragic.
In five minutes, D told a story that claimed four lives. It's so easy to sum up days and years and lifetimes. Given a few minutes and enough creativity, we could probably cover just about everything in the time it takes to microwave dinner.
#
I'm fascinated by the way people tell stories. IB once said she saw this come up again and again in my writing, that I zone in on anecdotes. It's how we get by and through life, breaking the slow march of days and years into manageable, meaningful things. But, whenever you stop to think about it, write it down, stories somehow seem to callous and almost Kafkaesque. Pick up Etgar Keret or Alex Epstein sometime. Short short stories are spooky.
#
In other news, my good friend Colleen Morrissey's story, "Good Faith," was just published in The Cincinnati Review. Check it out.
A kid died after playing in the leaves when when I was superintendent, D said. He was the son of one of our principals. They were out playing in the leaves and the next day he was in the hospital. They didn't know what it was for days. They even brought down the CDC from Atlanta. It turned out that it was some rare genetic trait that both he and his brother had inherited. They both died. It was so tragic. It destroyed their marriage and drove them both crazy. It was so tragic.
In five minutes, D told a story that claimed four lives. It's so easy to sum up days and years and lifetimes. Given a few minutes and enough creativity, we could probably cover just about everything in the time it takes to microwave dinner.
#
I'm fascinated by the way people tell stories. IB once said she saw this come up again and again in my writing, that I zone in on anecdotes. It's how we get by and through life, breaking the slow march of days and years into manageable, meaningful things. But, whenever you stop to think about it, write it down, stories somehow seem to callous and almost Kafkaesque. Pick up Etgar Keret or Alex Epstein sometime. Short short stories are spooky.
#
In other news, my good friend Colleen Morrissey's story, "Good Faith," was just published in The Cincinnati Review. Check it out.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Suffering
During my first nonfiction class, my teacher told us a story. When she was eighteen she entered and won a place in a one-time workshop with a prestigious author whose name I don't remember. When it was her turn before the firing squad, the distinguished author ripped her and her work to shreds. The way she described it this was not at all in keeping with normal workshop decorum of constructive criticism. He made her cry.
After the class, the distinguished writer took my teacher aside and told her, "For the next three years, don't write a word. Go to Terrell County, Texas and get a job as a waitress. After three years, you'll have enough material to be a good writer."
Then she said, "Bull. Shit." Writing is about craft. And no one has the right to tell you what to do with your life or make a value judgement on your experience. That's why Lee Gutkind's article "The MFA in Creative Nonfiction: What to Consider Before Applying" in the most recent edition of Poets and Writers pissed me off.
In the article, Gutkind writes that the most important criterion a potential applicant should consider is "How much have you suffered--or experienced?" He elaborates, "I'm not contending here that young people can't write with power and beauty or that they haven't suffered. But it's often better to join the Peace Corps, take a job driving a taxi, or interact with a different culture before studying writing on a master's degree level."
Flannery O'Conner said something to the effect that if you make it through childhood then you've got enough material to write. All of our experiences, everything, is inherently interesting.
There's a scene from Charlie Kaufman's Adaptation that I particularly love, when Kaufman's meta-character sits in a screen writing class and asks the instructor, Robert McKee, how you write about the everyday world since it's mostly boring and nothing happens. McKee responds, "Are you out of your fucking mind? People are murdered every day... Every fucking day somewhere in the world somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else. Every fucking day someone somewhere makes a conscious decision to destroy someone else. People find love. People lose it..."
Our everyday experience is a plenitude of bizarre wonders and miracles.
But this isn't what irks me about the "you need to suffer" philosophy of nonfiction writing. For one, this fetishizes and glorifies trauma. I think this can lead artists, young artists especially, to make stupid decisions -- I've met many who did. At worst, I think this devalues thoughts and experiences that aren't about this sexy suffering.
Chuck Palahniuk has a great essay in Stranger Than Fiction called "You Are Here" which criticizes the popular tendency to write about personal trauma. It's an ineffective and perverse form of exorcism. I'm not sure I agree with Chuck -- there's nothing wrong with writing as therapy -- but when you rest your life on life as story, trying to strong arm your memories into a thing that gives meaning to your suffering, you may need reevaluate your methods. Everyone has suffered. Telling the world is not a universal cure-all.
And that, I think, is what really bothers me about Gutkind's criterion of suffering. We're all filled with a wealth of material and memories, but not everyone who wants to attend a nonfiction writing program wants to write about themselves. There are whole galaxies of writing that fall under the category of "nonfiction." Just because the memoir and the personal essay are popular right now doesn't mean everyone wants to write them. What about those of us who want to write journalism, criticism, science articles, and social commentary and want to come at it from a different angle than the traditional disciplines?
What about those of us who just want to learn how to write more effectively about the facts? What if you just want to know how to best tell a true story, regardless if it's about suffering or not?
After the class, the distinguished writer took my teacher aside and told her, "For the next three years, don't write a word. Go to Terrell County, Texas and get a job as a waitress. After three years, you'll have enough material to be a good writer."
Then she said, "Bull. Shit." Writing is about craft. And no one has the right to tell you what to do with your life or make a value judgement on your experience. That's why Lee Gutkind's article "The MFA in Creative Nonfiction: What to Consider Before Applying" in the most recent edition of Poets and Writers pissed me off.
In the article, Gutkind writes that the most important criterion a potential applicant should consider is "How much have you suffered--or experienced?" He elaborates, "I'm not contending here that young people can't write with power and beauty or that they haven't suffered. But it's often better to join the Peace Corps, take a job driving a taxi, or interact with a different culture before studying writing on a master's degree level."
Flannery O'Conner said something to the effect that if you make it through childhood then you've got enough material to write. All of our experiences, everything, is inherently interesting.
There's a scene from Charlie Kaufman's Adaptation that I particularly love, when Kaufman's meta-character sits in a screen writing class and asks the instructor, Robert McKee, how you write about the everyday world since it's mostly boring and nothing happens. McKee responds, "Are you out of your fucking mind? People are murdered every day... Every fucking day somewhere in the world somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else. Every fucking day someone somewhere makes a conscious decision to destroy someone else. People find love. People lose it..."
Our everyday experience is a plenitude of bizarre wonders and miracles.
But this isn't what irks me about the "you need to suffer" philosophy of nonfiction writing. For one, this fetishizes and glorifies trauma. I think this can lead artists, young artists especially, to make stupid decisions -- I've met many who did. At worst, I think this devalues thoughts and experiences that aren't about this sexy suffering.
Chuck Palahniuk has a great essay in Stranger Than Fiction called "You Are Here" which criticizes the popular tendency to write about personal trauma. It's an ineffective and perverse form of exorcism. I'm not sure I agree with Chuck -- there's nothing wrong with writing as therapy -- but when you rest your life on life as story, trying to strong arm your memories into a thing that gives meaning to your suffering, you may need reevaluate your methods. Everyone has suffered. Telling the world is not a universal cure-all.
And that, I think, is what really bothers me about Gutkind's criterion of suffering. We're all filled with a wealth of material and memories, but not everyone who wants to attend a nonfiction writing program wants to write about themselves. There are whole galaxies of writing that fall under the category of "nonfiction." Just because the memoir and the personal essay are popular right now doesn't mean everyone wants to write them. What about those of us who want to write journalism, criticism, science articles, and social commentary and want to come at it from a different angle than the traditional disciplines?
What about those of us who just want to learn how to write more effectively about the facts? What if you just want to know how to best tell a true story, regardless if it's about suffering or not?
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Cover Letters (Tribute: Joey Comeau)
Notes from the Road: Currently in Oklahoma to witness my dear friends S's wedding (the Forbidden Union). Though the hotel is a lot nicer than we all expected for the price, this isn't ideal conditions for blog post composition. Yet, I'm with old friends and, after ten hours on the road, I'm still glad to see them every moment.
And then there's other things. Truth be told, I haven't been able to give SDR as much attention as I would have liked these past few months. I've been reusing material that I wrote months or years ago for exactly situations such as these. I'm very glad to share these pieces with you, but it's not necessarily by choice.
Since June, I've traveled from Louisiana to Minneapolis, four times back and forth between Iowa City and Minneapolis, and now from Minneapolis back and forth to Oklahoma. I've applied for more jobs than I care to share. Before I left New Orleans, I told AC that the job search was already weighing heavy on me and, in an uncharacteristic demonstration of disgust, he said, "Yeah, I know. Job searching is just so physically, mentally, emotionally exhausting..." It's that last point that resonates with me, and it took a few weeks for me to decide why.
Job searching, writing cover letters in particular, is a process of sharing with strangers your personal and professional triumphs and aspirations and then being told, more often than not, that "It's not a good fit," or, that they've found "a better qualified candidate." It's a horrifying, humiliating, scarring process if you stop to think about it.
IB told me that after writing so many cover letters she got to the point where she wasn't really writing cover letters anymore. They had devolved into weird, personal missives. One, which told the brief story of her odyssey to become a community organizer, landed her a job. After meeting her coworkers, I understand why this was attractive to them -- they are an emotionally involved lot, but nonprofit folk tend to be.
This all reminded me of a project and book by Joey Comeau, poet and author of A Softer World, called Overqualified. It's a series of fake cover letters he wrote channeling some of the more absurd points of job searching. You can read some of the letters here -- or buy the book and support indie authors.
Anyway, a tribute. This in response to my favorite job posting for a position I Really didn't want:
Dear Sir or Madam:
I am very glad to apply for the Private Investigator position with Walker and Ritter Investigators. With my qualifications, vastly superior to all the other candidates, I would make a terrific contribution to the company. What are those excellent credentials, you may ask? Well, being professional investigators, I leave that for you to discover (good luck). If you haven't been able to find substantial evidence supporting my claim in one month's time, then I guess we'll just have to both consider my craft and acumen proven. In the meantime, I have most of a page left, and I'd like to tell you a story.
There is a small bar/cafe in the Lichtenberg borough of Berlin that I visited with my classmates and friends. It was a cold day in January and we had just finished a long day of touring museums, including the infamous Hohenschoenhausen prison, the Stasi headquarters. It was a beautiful cafe. We sat crowded around a small, rectangular table drinking scotch and beer and talking idly about the city. I was taking notes, St. looked at me strangely and said, "Sam, stop writing." I asked him why, and he replied, "Because we just went to the Stasi museum. I'm German. Writing makes me nervous."
Indeed, the prison made us all nervous, especially the final stretch of the tour. All twenty of us Americans and two Germans stood huddled in a small, concrete, frigid enclosure with two impregnable metal doors on either side of us, wire mesh above, while the tour guide spoke.
I'll paraphrase: "There's a joke: Bush, Gorgachev, and Honecker are being chased by cannibals. Bush turns around and shouts, 'Spare me and I'll take you to a capitalist paradise.' And the cannibals eat him. Gorbachev turns around and shouts, 'Spare me and I'll take you to a worker's paradise!' And the cannibals eat him. Honecker keeps running and shouts over his shoulder, 'Keep following me and you'll be in East Germany in ten meters.' He looks back and the cannibals are gone."
We all laughed, and then the guide said, "It's funny, isn't it? But that joke was told by a twenty year-old man to his friends at a gathering after church. He was arrested and taken here." The guide gestured around him. "This is where prisoners in the later years were allowed to stand outside for fresh air. It was the only time any prisoner was allowed to be outside. You couldn't see the city or hear it -- you didn't even know you were in the city. But, at night you could see the stars in this tiny, concrete enclosure. And if you could see the sky, there was hope."
Chilling and uplifting, didn't you think? We come from very different backgrounds, Valerie Ritter, but I'm sure that you and I had a moment of empathy when you went on the same tour two weeks ago on vacation. The "rest chambers" are really unnerving, I found. But, I'm sure that you also felt some twinge of professional respect, just as I did.
You're probably wondering how I knew that you were at the Stasi prison two weeks ago. Furiously wondering. Probably wondering how I know you didn't have anything but an Americano from Cafe Envie for breakfast because you hit the snooze too many times, very uncharacteristic. You order Caesar Salad with Ranch dressing on the side. You're left handed, but try to pretend to be ambidextrous. Last month you memorized the Salic Law speech from Henry V just to see if you could. You're obsessed with puzzles and logic games. Every evening you play Go, Chess, or Scrabble against opponents all over the world and typically win. Sometimes it's just Sudoku.
For the reasons stated above, and those credentials I'm sure you will never find, I believe I would make an exceptional member of your team. I very much look forward to hearing back from you and wish you all the best in discovering my contact information.
Best,
SF
Saturday, January 14, 2012
The Lonely Art
A few months ago I wrote a post, "Thoughts on the Iowa City Book Festival" and spent a while talking about a panel discussion about teaching writing. The panelists were Camille T. Dungy and Ibtisam Barakat. There was a tangential point that Barakat made that I didn't write about because I wasn't entirely sure what to Do with it.
Writing is a lonely art, she said, but it's essentially a means to an end. She elaborated that sharing ones writing and participating in a community of writers is one way to do what we're essentially all trying to do, the Human Endeavor: to not be Lonely.
I have been finding it difficult to write, lately. Working in AmeriCorps in a city far from home, living and working with people who are far from home, I am a captive participant in an ad hoc community. It's not a bad thing. The real problem is that saying "No" is treason and you begin to think of everything in absolutes. If I don't go out this evening, this opportunity may never come again.
A former writing teacher, Sean Christopher Lewis, said that one of the greatest challenges for a writer is to say to your friends, "Sorry, guys, I can't go out tonight. I'm going to hang out with these people I made up."
I agree with Barakat, though. Everything we do is to somehow weave our lives in and around Others and some of us find that the act of locking ourselves up with a computer or a notebook is the most expedient way of doing so. One of the most honest answer's I've ever heard to the question, "Why do you write?" was from Eric "Pogi" Sumangil who said, "I write for the same reason I do everything -- to impress women."
This observation doesn't really boil down to writing advice. Or, if it does, I suppose it helps put this habit in the context of Human Endeavors. I stay in and write because, in the end, writing will help me bridge a gap, which is the whole point of communication: to commune with other people.
Anyway, enough of this. How about a prompt?
Prompt: Write an Ad
Introducing: Nothing.
The average American is exposed to Want over 5,000 times a month. We literally spend our lives bombarded with Inadequacy and pulled down by the desire for Things and Stuff. Don't you think you deserve better? We do.
We think you're perfect the way you are. That's why we're giving you Nothing.
With the scientifically proven power of Nothing, you'll lead a happier, more successful life. You'll earn more money, get that job you always wanted, have a great sex life, see the number of friends you have quintuple, never have a dull night, and find that Everything is just that easy.
We guarantee that Nothing is your solution.
Go to your local Big Box, give the manger the balance in your savings account, and get Nothing today!
Writing is a lonely art, she said, but it's essentially a means to an end. She elaborated that sharing ones writing and participating in a community of writers is one way to do what we're essentially all trying to do, the Human Endeavor: to not be Lonely.
I have been finding it difficult to write, lately. Working in AmeriCorps in a city far from home, living and working with people who are far from home, I am a captive participant in an ad hoc community. It's not a bad thing. The real problem is that saying "No" is treason and you begin to think of everything in absolutes. If I don't go out this evening, this opportunity may never come again.
A former writing teacher, Sean Christopher Lewis, said that one of the greatest challenges for a writer is to say to your friends, "Sorry, guys, I can't go out tonight. I'm going to hang out with these people I made up."
I agree with Barakat, though. Everything we do is to somehow weave our lives in and around Others and some of us find that the act of locking ourselves up with a computer or a notebook is the most expedient way of doing so. One of the most honest answer's I've ever heard to the question, "Why do you write?" was from Eric "Pogi" Sumangil who said, "I write for the same reason I do everything -- to impress women."
This observation doesn't really boil down to writing advice. Or, if it does, I suppose it helps put this habit in the context of Human Endeavors. I stay in and write because, in the end, writing will help me bridge a gap, which is the whole point of communication: to commune with other people.
Anyway, enough of this. How about a prompt?
Prompt: Write an Ad
Introducing: Nothing.
The average American is exposed to Want over 5,000 times a month. We literally spend our lives bombarded with Inadequacy and pulled down by the desire for Things and Stuff. Don't you think you deserve better? We do.
We think you're perfect the way you are. That's why we're giving you Nothing.
With the scientifically proven power of Nothing, you'll lead a happier, more successful life. You'll earn more money, get that job you always wanted, have a great sex life, see the number of friends you have quintuple, never have a dull night, and find that Everything is just that easy.
We guarantee that Nothing is your solution.
Go to your local Big Box, give the manger the balance in your savings account, and get Nothing today!
Saturday, January 7, 2012
No! I Refuse! I… I… I’m Going to Grad School!
Honestly, I never quite understood the Urgency of the desire to go to grad school is until I got an eight-to-five Job.
Maybe I just haven’t learned the knack of living with such intractable constraints. But, I honestly can’t figure out how other people balance work and family and hobbies all in 24 hours.
That is the greatest obstacle to Resolutions.
Usually, resolving to do things is easy. I could promise to do anything. But suddenly I have limitations. And my job has brought out the cynic and pessimist in me. Suddenly, I rarely think about aspirations and dreams so much as processes and the clearly attainable.
Since becoming a grant writer, I have become obsessed with budgets and strategic plans.
But, I will not let that stop me now. I shall make promises and keep them this year because, really, it’s the End of the World, and so I need to make this one count.
Anyway, the aspirations are divided up into writing goals and life goals, because that’s the only distinction I make on a day-to-day basis.
Writing Goals:
1. Keep writing at least once a week in Scribbler’s Doorless Room. Make at least one post every month about writing. Do a book review every two months. That sounds manageable.
2. At some point, write a story/essay/play/poem every day for a week and post it in Scribbler’s Doorless Room. If that works, go for a month. If that works, keep going until exhaustion takes hold.
3. Write one new story/essay/play/poem and revise one old story/essay/play/poem every month.
4. Submit my “finished” plays to more competitions.
5. Film “The Fear of”.
Life Goals:
1. Be a better grant writer and copywriter. … And figure out what that means. Getting more money, I suppose. That works for me.
2. Get into grad school. Or reapply.
3. Or get a Fulbright. Or reapply.
4. Or get a job teaching English abroad. Or reapply.
5. Or get a salaried job writing copy or grants. Or reapply.
6. Or get a job with AmeriCorps and do good work.
7. Read at least a book a week.
8. Laugh and smile more often, so as to confuse my enemies.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Getting Started: Part 1
This was supposed to be a literary blog.
A couple years ago my sister roped me into a gchat while I was viscously hungover. She told me that she wanted to start writing again and needed advice on how to Begin. In high school she was a prose writer and poet, but then life got in the way and when you drop a habit like that it’s difficult to pick it back up. Writing is wily.
Anyway, I gave her an answer that seemed to satisfy her. My intention was to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible and I succeeded. What do I really Know about Writing?
Well, I thought about the question a lot and realized that I do have many Opinions on Writing. The purpose of this blog was to discuss those opinions, but I got side tracked and, ultimately, lazy.
And so, like Counting Crows, I’m getting back to Basics: Getting Started.
It seems appropriate for this last day of the Year 2011, before the Beginning of the Year of the Apocalypse, 2012. Everyone I know despises New Year’s and loathes Resolutions, but every year I get suckered in to the ritual by bizarre faith in opposition to empirical evidence. I will write more often in Scribbler’s Doorless Room about Writing. I will write more often, to combat laziness and boredom. I feel compelled to make great promises and keep them since, you know, the End is nigh.
Notice that this is “Getting Started: Part 1.” I will revisit this topic at a later date.
Without further ado, an Opinion:
Shortly before I moved to New Orleans, I read Ann Lamott’s Bird by Bird. If you’ve ever taken a writing class, you have probably read excerpts or the whole book. If you haven’t, you should. You’ll be happier. Even if you’re not a writer, this book will exponentially improve your Quality of Life. Reading Bird by Bird feels like a meaningful hug.
In her chapter about Getting Stared, Ann Lamott advises one do Small Things or Small Exercises – I forgot her exact words, but that’s the gist of it. In other words, do not set out to write a Book, or, God forbid, a Novel or a Tome. Instead, write something manageable, like a very short blog post about getting started writing.
Since my sister asked, several friends have asked me: How do you start? How do you actually begin writing? I really wish that I had a snappy response, one that would enlighten and advise you for years to come, but I’m not Ann Lamott. And my personal strategy is not universally applicable.
I write compulsively. The other day, I went to Iowa City for two days, forgetting my notebooks in Des Moines and was in a state of restless frustration every time I realized that I didn’t have something to write on. I carry pocket-sized notebooks with me Everywhere and make regular use of them. Whenever I don’t take notes, I write in my journal. I have a separate notebook at home for writing plays and stories. With few exceptions, I’ve written every day for the past five years.
Occasionally, my writing gets me in trouble. A few people, knowing my Bad Habit, have ordered me to never write about them or to omit certain details from my Record. I have always adhered to these wishes. But, invariably, most things end up in my Scribblings. Most of it isn’t stories, or plays, or essays, or even blog entries, but all of it is Useful and fair game for future projects.
If I did not write, I would not know what to do with myself. Probably I would have a lot more free time. Probably I would have a better social life and I would play more video games and I would be less anxious and maybe I would be a happier person. But at least there’s a paper trail.
My secret – and the reason why my method is not universally applicable - is that I’ve driven myself crazy. I have managed to make myself obsessed with and compelled to write. Sure, sometimes sanity wins out and I take breaks, but mostly I can’t help but scribble things down and make stories out of things that happen to me.
So, manhandle that into something resembling instruction and it looks like this: carry a medium around with you everywhere and make use of it.
Luckily, most of us – particularly those of my generation – are pretty good about this already. We all have Twitter and Facebook accounts and most of us have some sort of online journal. We are all obsessed. Well done. You write every day. Now do it consciously.
But, even if you have the ability and the tools, how do you Start? My advice is just Write.
Whenever the opportunity presents itself, take advantage. If you don’t, you will hunt for incantations and rituals and create superstitions ad nauseum trying to find that Special Rite that makes the magic Work. Write and, sooner or later, you will discover what works for you.
Many of my friends cannot write unless they listen to music. Some need to write long hand, others on a computer. Some people can write in the morning and others couldn’t write a word to save their lives unless it’s after midnight. Some require coffee, others liquor. For a long time, I was convinced that I couldn’t write unless I had ingested some legal drug - Java House’s St. Louis Blues or Gilby’s Gin - and was writing on a Moleskine notebook – plane, 9x14cm, item number 9788883701030 – with a Zebra F-301, fine-tipped pen in the dead of night. Now I know that these are all crutches. I can write well whenever I need to under whatever circumstance. The other things just make life easier.
But, how do you Start?
Okay, let’s do that right now. It’s the last day of 2011, but it’s still a day in your life and something interesting has happened to you already, I guarantee it. Think back on the last conversation you had. Someone told a story. Maybe you did. We all tell stories. Or maybe when you woke up you thought about all of those Resolutions you haven’t made yet or all those that you didn’t keep. It can be banal or fantastic. What did you eat? When did you start eating that breakfast every day? Did your parents make it for you and you never stopped? Was that loud sound you just heard now a car crash?
Here’s something a friend told me that I just realized was a story:
No one knew who invited him. Wearing a leather, bomber jacket over neat, business casual and a dark, unreadable look, almost blank. She could smell him from across the room. Axe, like he never grew out of Middle School, which seemed at odds with his deliberate calm, spacy courtesy. Lilly hated strangers at her apartment, especially big strangers. At four eleven, the world was filled with giants to her, but this guy was at the far end of six feet tall and so was something of a monstrosity to her.
“Who is that guy?” Lilly asked Pat when she cornered him in the kitchen.
Pat shrugged, pouring water into glasses from a filter in the fridge. It was a weekday and, though Lilly had stocked up on beer just in case, no one was in the mood. After pizza, water. After film, go home. After that, work again. Where had that routine come from?
“Andrea’s cousin. He’s in town for the week. Think he’s in marketing, but he just got into that. Andrea says he sort of changes and moves on a whim. Think his name is Jason,” Pat said. She managed to carry the six glasses out to the living room by herself. A former bartender. Lilly had seen her carry five steins in each hand on multiple occasions - the requisite strength and coordination appalled her.
Andrea was talking to his cousin on the couch. Andrea was talking. The cousin looked like he was listening. Lilly wasn’t even sure if Andrea was listening to herself since she appeared to be playing a game on her smart phone. Lilly and Pat sat down and the conversation quickly turned toward what movie they should watch.
“Serenity?” Lilly asked.
“She don’t like Firefly,” Andrea joked, gesturing at Andrea.
“The Sound of Music,” said Jason in a surprisingly soft voice, almost a whisper. Everyone looked at him. “It’s my favorite film.”
“Jason’s fucking around.” Andrea rolled his eyes. “How about The Dark Knight?”
“We always watch Dark Knight,” Lilly moaned.
“It’s been months at least,” Andrea countered.
“We’ve watched everything on your shelf once,” Pat said.
“Right. Why don’t we go out. Why don’t we try doing something different?” Lilly said. “Let’s go bowling. Or skiing.”
“There’s no snow,” said Andrea. “And we all have to work tomorrow.”
“I’ve never seen The Dark Knight,” Jason said. Lilly followed his gaze. He was looking out the window at the apartment building across the street. A man and woman were silhouetted against the shade. She only caught a glimpse of one figure raising the arm to reach for the others face, or maybe throat, before the light extinguished.
“Settled,” Andrea said, triumphantly.
They watched the movie in silence, sipping water. The smell of pizza went stale and mixed with that peculiar brick and dust smell that had probably hung around the apartment for the past century. Lilly stopped paying attention after the opening credits. She thought about sitting at her desk tomorrow, writing more letters and more letters to customers and partners and when had that become her job? Tomorrow was probably going to be like yesterday and this seemed to be the trajectory of life. A disjointed, disingenuous dialogue interrupted by sleep and eating and movies that she’s watched too many times.
The movie finished and Andrea and Pat helped Lilly clean up. It was not until they began shuffling, one conversation at a time about the next holiday or where they hell they could go skiing if there were snow, that Andrea asked, “Where’s Jason?”
It took ten seconds to double check the living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and bathroom to ascertain that Jason was not in the apartment. The front door’s deadbolt was fastened. No keys were missing. A glance at the open window and a mental leap took Lilly to the conclusion that he was on the fire escape.
“Is your cousin…” Lilly searched for an inoffensive word. “Well?”
“Well…” Andrea said, looking out the window.
“I’ll be back,” Lilly said. It was her guest and her fire escape. She’d find the wayward cousin and bring him back from the exit or the brink or whatever or wherever he may be.
He was on the roof, five stories up. She almost never went to the roof except on the 4th of July and whenever she really needed to get away from that brick and dust smell, which was more often, lately. He was standing on the ledge, something that Lilly had never been brave enough to do. She wondered what he was looking at. The wind was cold and smelled of trash and grease from all the fast food restaurants so nearby. People were shouting below.
“Jason…?” Lilly began. She stood a few feet behind him. He was silhouetted against the sodium orange light on the building next so that, she supposed, it might not have been Jason. It could be some other behemoth standing on her ledge and Jason was somewhere below, having made a clandestine escape while she and the girls were talking. Yet he responded.
“There’s a lot crime in this town…” Jason whispered. Lilly stepped closer, despite his observation.
“Yes… there is. Why don’t you come inside? And then leave?”
“No. There’s a lot of crime in this town,” Jason insisted.
“Yes…” Lilly agreed.
“Someone’s gotta do something about it,” Jason said. He turned around and walked briskly past her to the fire escape and took them three at a time on his way down. Lilly ran over to watch his descent. She watched as he threw on his helmet, jumped on his motorcycle, and drove off into the urban night that now seemed to be filled with more crying and screaming than usual.
As she made her way back down to her second floor apartment, Lilly entertained the idea that tomorrow she would wake up and Jason would be waiting for her at her breakfast table. You can never share my identity, he would tell her. You could be in danger, he would tell her, but I’ll protect you. But then what? She would just go to work again with more confusing elements to her life that she could never tell anyone. Protected. Safe.
Andrea and Pat waited by her front door. Pat was saying, “… weirdest things. You know. You should try it. But only if you’re in a good place. Floating on salt water, your brain gets so bored that it starts making whole worlds.”
“I’m not really into – Lilly? Where’s Jason?” Andrea asked. They both turned to her, something between malaise and interest. It was a look that she saw every day, the look that greeted her in the mirror every morning.
She considered telling them. It would have taken too long, she decided. Lilly walked past them, grabbing her keys and jacket.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, closing the door, leaving Andrea and Pat at the threshold to return to their conversation and decide what to do in her absence.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Oh, Let Me Tell You a Story
Today Betsy Lerner made me feel inadequate. In her post, "You shouldn't let other people get their kicks for you," she candidly answered the question what she was doing when she was college age and shortly after. What's worse than her own adventures, and almost as funny, is the one-upmanship that ensued in the 49 (and counting) responses. It does hurt a little that many now-editors led far more interesting lives than I am currently. But I guess that when you're job is to correct other people's mistakes and be a personal fact checker for all the asshole writers who want to be edgy with drugs, sex, and alcohol, you've got to have a substantial cache of spectacular fuck-ups that you can later brag about to make other people wonder what the hell they're doing with their time.
Just submitted a story to Clarkesworld. The first time I sent them a story, the editor sent me a rejection the same evening. The last time I sent them a piece, it took over a week for them to throw me a form letter. Every hour that passes before the inevitable is a triumph. Yes, Clarkesworld is teaching me to live in the moment. I'm going to go get a fifth of whiskey and spend some time sledding with the penguins at the zoo.
Just submitted a story to Clarkesworld. The first time I sent them a story, the editor sent me a rejection the same evening. The last time I sent them a piece, it took over a week for them to throw me a form letter. Every hour that passes before the inevitable is a triumph. Yes, Clarkesworld is teaching me to live in the moment. I'm going to go get a fifth of whiskey and spend some time sledding with the penguins at the zoo.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Scars
There's a scar on my head from where my sister hit me with a rock. When I was three and she was five we were camping and she decided that she wanted to throw a rock just as I was running in front of her. I've never seen this scar, but people Tell me it's there.
Two years ago I got "remember" tattooed to my left wrist and the first "r" healed into a tiny, raised scar like braille. I can read "r" by touch.
A few months ago, Reflex made me catch a broken pint glass. If I open my hand wide I can see a thin white line, like a Smile. It arcs upward to the first joint of my thumb where I can still see a raised scar from when my sister closed the metal joint of a reclining chair on it. That's the first time I can remember Bleeding.
In a creative writing class I sat between two women and we were on friendly terms. They were good writers. It wasn't until spring warmed up and both started wearing t-shirts that I saw the woman on my right had scars all along her left wrist "the right way." The woman on my left had raised, horizontal scars all up and down each arm.
After that day in class I went and met K at Aspekt Cafe. I told her about creative writing. She nodded and said, "Sometimes those last your whole life."
Today C drove me to deliver a grant to the Catholic Charities Archdiocese of New Orleans. The text was well over a hundred pages long and I spent 10AM to 11AM meticulously putting together all three copies from about twenty individual documents. My heart raced so badly I was afraid someone might hear. After we delivered the grant we drove back over the industrial canal, left Orleans and entered St. Bernard. C indicated a scar on her right hand that she got in Haiti.
"I hope it doesn't fade," she said. "I'm proud of my scars."
"I have one on the back of my head," I said.
"How'd you get that?" she asked.
"My sister tried to kill me."
"Oh?"
"It's a joke. We were camping and she threw a rock and it hit my head. I nearly died that trip. Not from the rock, but from drowning." I said, "I've nearly drowned a lot and that's probably why I don't like to swim."
Two years ago I got "remember" tattooed to my left wrist and the first "r" healed into a tiny, raised scar like braille. I can read "r" by touch.
A few months ago, Reflex made me catch a broken pint glass. If I open my hand wide I can see a thin white line, like a Smile. It arcs upward to the first joint of my thumb where I can still see a raised scar from when my sister closed the metal joint of a reclining chair on it. That's the first time I can remember Bleeding.
In a creative writing class I sat between two women and we were on friendly terms. They were good writers. It wasn't until spring warmed up and both started wearing t-shirts that I saw the woman on my right had scars all along her left wrist "the right way." The woman on my left had raised, horizontal scars all up and down each arm.
After that day in class I went and met K at Aspekt Cafe. I told her about creative writing. She nodded and said, "Sometimes those last your whole life."
Today C drove me to deliver a grant to the Catholic Charities Archdiocese of New Orleans. The text was well over a hundred pages long and I spent 10AM to 11AM meticulously putting together all three copies from about twenty individual documents. My heart raced so badly I was afraid someone might hear. After we delivered the grant we drove back over the industrial canal, left Orleans and entered St. Bernard. C indicated a scar on her right hand that she got in Haiti.
"I hope it doesn't fade," she said. "I'm proud of my scars."
"I have one on the back of my head," I said.
"How'd you get that?" she asked.
"My sister tried to kill me."
"Oh?"
"It's a joke. We were camping and she threw a rock and it hit my head. I nearly died that trip. Not from the rock, but from drowning." I said, "I've nearly drowned a lot and that's probably why I don't like to swim."
Saturday, September 3, 2011
To Be Called By Noon Is to Be Called Too Soon
Life in no particular order:
Finally, partially moved into the new House. Everyone who visit's first comment is, "You've got to be shitting me." I never expected to live in a house like this until I earned $100k. The front porch is the kind from which one can look down on mere mortals and judge them or perhaps rule an estate like a feudal lord.
The landlord is too good to us. He left furniture, books, glassware, and a significant liquor collection. Such wealth unsettles me.
#
The deluge hit New Orleans. It hasn't stopped raining since yesterday morning. My sloth is now justified.
This all reminds me of A. She would probably be running around in this storm and dragging me along with. The streets are rivers and the air is pleasantly cool for the first time since I arrived.
#
Last night at a party, one commented about my compulsive scribbling. "What are you writing in there? Are there things about me in there? That's creepy. I'm going to call the police on you." I don't think I've ever met anyone so openly hostile towards me personally. It's disconcerting to be loathed.
Reminded me of Berlin. Out drinking with my history teacher. He looked at my notebook and told me to stop. "Why?" I wanted to know. "Sam," he said, "I just gave you a lesson about the Stasi. These things make a German nervous."
And another friend on another rainy day who told me about his family. "Never, ever write this down," he told me. Never did.
#
Crashing on a friend and colleague's hardwood floor. My job gives me a reputation. When another one in the room tried to interrupt me, Friend-Colleague shouted, "Shut up! The money-man is talking."
#
On Wednesday I asked the Baptists for $350k. My life is dictated by much larger numbers now.
#
Last night I decided that dance clubs do not suit me. Life is a series of things to be endured. A fantastically loud band at Tipitina's insisted that they loved New Orleans. A shouted reply right into your ear was a fairly intimate gesture requiring coordination and effort. Tried to navigate the crowd and for my efforts got a Wild Turkey-soaked hand.
#
My exercise aspirations are shot. Biked 20 minutes through New Orleans and was not winded. This city is so flat it feels like everywhere is down hill.
#
I'm half-convinced that my work-superiors do not sleep.
#
This morning I woke up outrageously hung over. There were still conversations unfinished in my head. A ride home with C, muttering "Thank you," and her laughing, "You've said that three times already." "And I'll probably say it three more."
Sitting around a table alternating between conversations about Steinbeck and bad habits. A fantastically uncomfortable couch on the smoking porch and an audible assault of people shouting, "I love you!" No one there wasn't AmeriCorps or former AmeriCorps. This town is sick with us. And the Friend-Colleague saying, "I can't remember your name... fuck... I'm drunk... fucking... Don't you understand my fucking point? I.. fuck." I still want to know what he was trying to say.
In the kitchen, a Portlander asked me what I thought of New Orleans. "Haven't decided yet," I said. He nodded. "I've been here three years and I'm the same. That's what this place does to outsiders."
#
My life feels uncomfortable and strange. Like wet cotton. Or Joan Didion's The White Album.
#
Today shall be a lazy day. I will sit here, listen to the Band, watch movies, and then maybe check out the Decadence. But I could probably sleep forever.
Finally, partially moved into the new House. Everyone who visit's first comment is, "You've got to be shitting me." I never expected to live in a house like this until I earned $100k. The front porch is the kind from which one can look down on mere mortals and judge them or perhaps rule an estate like a feudal lord.
The landlord is too good to us. He left furniture, books, glassware, and a significant liquor collection. Such wealth unsettles me.
#
The deluge hit New Orleans. It hasn't stopped raining since yesterday morning. My sloth is now justified.
This all reminds me of A. She would probably be running around in this storm and dragging me along with. The streets are rivers and the air is pleasantly cool for the first time since I arrived.
#
Last night at a party, one commented about my compulsive scribbling. "What are you writing in there? Are there things about me in there? That's creepy. I'm going to call the police on you." I don't think I've ever met anyone so openly hostile towards me personally. It's disconcerting to be loathed.
Reminded me of Berlin. Out drinking with my history teacher. He looked at my notebook and told me to stop. "Why?" I wanted to know. "Sam," he said, "I just gave you a lesson about the Stasi. These things make a German nervous."
And another friend on another rainy day who told me about his family. "Never, ever write this down," he told me. Never did.
#
Crashing on a friend and colleague's hardwood floor. My job gives me a reputation. When another one in the room tried to interrupt me, Friend-Colleague shouted, "Shut up! The money-man is talking."
#
On Wednesday I asked the Baptists for $350k. My life is dictated by much larger numbers now.
#
Last night I decided that dance clubs do not suit me. Life is a series of things to be endured. A fantastically loud band at Tipitina's insisted that they loved New Orleans. A shouted reply right into your ear was a fairly intimate gesture requiring coordination and effort. Tried to navigate the crowd and for my efforts got a Wild Turkey-soaked hand.
#
My exercise aspirations are shot. Biked 20 minutes through New Orleans and was not winded. This city is so flat it feels like everywhere is down hill.
#
I'm half-convinced that my work-superiors do not sleep.
#
This morning I woke up outrageously hung over. There were still conversations unfinished in my head. A ride home with C, muttering "Thank you," and her laughing, "You've said that three times already." "And I'll probably say it three more."
Sitting around a table alternating between conversations about Steinbeck and bad habits. A fantastically uncomfortable couch on the smoking porch and an audible assault of people shouting, "I love you!" No one there wasn't AmeriCorps or former AmeriCorps. This town is sick with us. And the Friend-Colleague saying, "I can't remember your name... fuck... I'm drunk... fucking... Don't you understand my fucking point? I.. fuck." I still want to know what he was trying to say.
In the kitchen, a Portlander asked me what I thought of New Orleans. "Haven't decided yet," I said. He nodded. "I've been here three years and I'm the same. That's what this place does to outsiders."
#
My life feels uncomfortable and strange. Like wet cotton. Or Joan Didion's The White Album.
#
Today shall be a lazy day. I will sit here, listen to the Band, watch movies, and then maybe check out the Decadence. But I could probably sleep forever.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Scared Shitless
This isn't a real post, but I've been breaking promises.
Have you ever had one of those experiences where you worked very hard for something and by some miracle you actually got it and instead of feeling exuberant you just sat there thinking, "Well, shit.... I hadn't planned on that happening." Well, that's how I feel right now.
A few days ago I was offered a grant writing job with the St. Bernard Project in New Orleans, a nonprofit rebuilds and renovates houses for people affected by Katrina who do not have the money to help themselves. I accepted the job and have not stopped running since. Probably, I won't be out of panic mode until this time next year.
I want to live in New Orleans and do good work. Above all, I want to have an adventure and do something that scares me. The trouble with the last item is actually getting your wish.
In a week and a half I will be in New Orleans. Today I got housing squared away. This week has been a blur of planning, taking leaps of faith, and trying desperately not to forget anything. I'm sad that I'll be missing two weddings and won't be able to visit a friend from Germany. Most of all, I'm very sad I'll have to leave my love, A.
But, then, what's the point of going through life comfortable? One just arrives at death asleep.
A week and a half from now I'll be in one of the oldest cities in North America. One of the meccas of music and performing arts. A reputable hedonist capital. And I'll be there doing what I do best: writing. I'll be persuading people to help support people who have had a much harder, scarier time than me. I'm going to leave my home to convince others that we all want and deserve to go home. Doesn't sound like a bad way to spend a year.
Have you ever had one of those experiences where you worked very hard for something and by some miracle you actually got it and instead of feeling exuberant you just sat there thinking, "Well, shit.... I hadn't planned on that happening." Well, that's how I feel right now.
A few days ago I was offered a grant writing job with the St. Bernard Project in New Orleans, a nonprofit rebuilds and renovates houses for people affected by Katrina who do not have the money to help themselves. I accepted the job and have not stopped running since. Probably, I won't be out of panic mode until this time next year.
I want to live in New Orleans and do good work. Above all, I want to have an adventure and do something that scares me. The trouble with the last item is actually getting your wish.
In a week and a half I will be in New Orleans. Today I got housing squared away. This week has been a blur of planning, taking leaps of faith, and trying desperately not to forget anything. I'm sad that I'll be missing two weddings and won't be able to visit a friend from Germany. Most of all, I'm very sad I'll have to leave my love, A.
But, then, what's the point of going through life comfortable? One just arrives at death asleep.
A week and a half from now I'll be in one of the oldest cities in North America. One of the meccas of music and performing arts. A reputable hedonist capital. And I'll be there doing what I do best: writing. I'll be persuading people to help support people who have had a much harder, scarier time than me. I'm going to leave my home to convince others that we all want and deserve to go home. Doesn't sound like a bad way to spend a year.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Thoughts on the Iowa City Book Festival
Last weekend I attended the Iowa City Book Festival. Despite an apparently incompetent and corrupt organizing committee, I managed to have a good time. I acquired a copy of a book on writing for my collection, got to see A having a good time with customers visiting the Haunted Book Shop stand, and attended a couple panels.
The first panel was Really Early in the morning (10:30) and consisted of Camille T. Dungy and Ibtisam Barakat talking about the art of teaching creative writing. It was better attended than I expected. I didn't know either of panelists, but that didn't stop me from being impressed with them. Some bullet points that I liked:
This is particularly intriguing since there is a socio-political angle to her humanitarian philosophy. As a Palestinian woman, she grew up in a conservative society where she was not allowed to express herself. Furthrmore, during the occupation, she was told by authorities that she and her people essentially didn't exist and should be quiet. Writing, therefore, is an act of rebellion. Saying Something is as important as the content of her writing.
Barakat also went on to describe, at great length, why education as a institution was so vitally important to women in particular. She believes it is her, and every educator's duty, to encourage female students in particular. Education has traditionally been a white male privilege and if we're really all dedicated to a humanitarian, egalitarian endeavor then we must ensure that women have equal access.
Things went downhill when the audience was allowed to speak and ask questions. Most of the people in the room were educators, I gathered. One man said (paraphrasing), "You said that one third of people on earth are denied an education. But don't you think that in their own societies and cultures they are getting just as valuable an education from those around them rather than being brought into the patriarchal institution? That's not my question, but I want you to think about that. My real question is..." and I don't remember what it was. Needless to say, the panelists were not interested in his Real Question either.
What I find interesting about his comment is that it's a pretty old criticism and was Supposed to be on the side of the two panelists. About thirty years ago (I'm ball parking him), somebody needed to point out that the Institution was patriarchal and doctrinal. In this context, though, it seemed like an antiquated and arrogant point of view. Barakat and Dungy's response was essentially that institutional education can and must always be improved, but it's really our best hope.
Anyway, I could go on, but I'd like to gloss over the second panel and this post is already too long.
The second panel was "Young Writers Talk about Writing" and included five kids, four of them 18 and the last was 13. Barakat moderated and I have to say that as enamored as I was with her earlier that morning, she can't interview kids worth a damn. Barakat has a very rigid opinion of what a writer is and does, which is primarily social advocacy. The Writer does a great service to society and must approach the craft with an appropriate gravity. That seemed to be true of two of the writers. One Kid, though, was having none of this.
At one point, Barakat asked how the panelists found their Voice, commenting, "I often feel like when I'm looking for my voice have to fight with so many other voices. I'm holding them down with one hand and writing with the other... I'm lost in the wilderness." The One Kid replied, "I'd say stay lost." Later on the One Kid said, "Writing is my favorite toy," which didn't seem to jive with the others' view that writing is a solitary and painful act.
Anyway, that was Saturday. It was hot and god awful and this post is beginning to resemble a mutant baby. I think I'm going to go read Dances with Dragons now.
The first panel was Really Early in the morning (10:30) and consisted of Camille T. Dungy and Ibtisam Barakat talking about the art of teaching creative writing. It was better attended than I expected. I didn't know either of panelists, but that didn't stop me from being impressed with them. Some bullet points that I liked:
- Teaching and writing can be mutually beneficial crafts.
- Teaching is a way of cultivating empathy, a quality necessary for writing.
- Teaching and the desire to share are and ought to be generous and enthusiastic acts.
This is particularly intriguing since there is a socio-political angle to her humanitarian philosophy. As a Palestinian woman, she grew up in a conservative society where she was not allowed to express herself. Furthrmore, during the occupation, she was told by authorities that she and her people essentially didn't exist and should be quiet. Writing, therefore, is an act of rebellion. Saying Something is as important as the content of her writing.
Barakat also went on to describe, at great length, why education as a institution was so vitally important to women in particular. She believes it is her, and every educator's duty, to encourage female students in particular. Education has traditionally been a white male privilege and if we're really all dedicated to a humanitarian, egalitarian endeavor then we must ensure that women have equal access.
Things went downhill when the audience was allowed to speak and ask questions. Most of the people in the room were educators, I gathered. One man said (paraphrasing), "You said that one third of people on earth are denied an education. But don't you think that in their own societies and cultures they are getting just as valuable an education from those around them rather than being brought into the patriarchal institution? That's not my question, but I want you to think about that. My real question is..." and I don't remember what it was. Needless to say, the panelists were not interested in his Real Question either.
What I find interesting about his comment is that it's a pretty old criticism and was Supposed to be on the side of the two panelists. About thirty years ago (I'm ball parking him), somebody needed to point out that the Institution was patriarchal and doctrinal. In this context, though, it seemed like an antiquated and arrogant point of view. Barakat and Dungy's response was essentially that institutional education can and must always be improved, but it's really our best hope.
Anyway, I could go on, but I'd like to gloss over the second panel and this post is already too long.
The second panel was "Young Writers Talk about Writing" and included five kids, four of them 18 and the last was 13. Barakat moderated and I have to say that as enamored as I was with her earlier that morning, she can't interview kids worth a damn. Barakat has a very rigid opinion of what a writer is and does, which is primarily social advocacy. The Writer does a great service to society and must approach the craft with an appropriate gravity. That seemed to be true of two of the writers. One Kid, though, was having none of this.
At one point, Barakat asked how the panelists found their Voice, commenting, "I often feel like when I'm looking for my voice have to fight with so many other voices. I'm holding them down with one hand and writing with the other... I'm lost in the wilderness." The One Kid replied, "I'd say stay lost." Later on the One Kid said, "Writing is my favorite toy," which didn't seem to jive with the others' view that writing is a solitary and painful act.
Anyway, that was Saturday. It was hot and god awful and this post is beginning to resemble a mutant baby. I think I'm going to go read Dances with Dragons now.
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