Fiction, Writespo

Fuck it, I’m Participating in NaNoWriMo!

I had a nice little blogging streak going, and then I fell off the wagon. There are a ton of things I could blame: work, family, travel, friends in town, blah, blah, blah, blah. But the truth is, I just don’t care about what I’m writing, so it’s all disposable. Offline, I’ve been working on short stories, and those aren’t working out either. It all feels so dissatisfying, and who wants to set time aside for writing when it’s not enjoyable?

Enter National Novel Writing Month, an opportunity to join a community of people blasting through what’ll become the first draft of their novels. I’ve heard about it before, friends have recommended it, and I’d always thought about doing it, but there was always some reason not to. The idea is simple; write a 50,000-word novel. Making it a quantitative vs. qualitative goal makes the process more accessible and attainable for me, a first-time novel-writer. I mean, I’m pretty sure I get through way more than 50K words in just a week’s worth of work emails. This will be a cinch.

Continue reading

Advertisements
Standard
Essays

Tales of a Tween Nothing

I’m not a hoarder, but I have hoarding tendencies. For years I dragged around the debris of my former life from apartment to apartment. I packed the detritus into closets and garages, boxes and bags. Occasionally, I’d dip into the memories and laugh or cry myself to sleep. The junk brought me comfort somehow, it was the only witness to the things I had lived through or the people I ‘d met in my life.

That all began to change when I met my now husband. We’ve been together almost ten years now, and he’s taught me to simplify and live a more minimalist lifestyle. I’ve learned that you can appreciate the past without having to drag around a bunch of stuff. Subsequently, I’ve managed to pare down my mementos from closetfuls to a single box. That means I’ve had to be selective about what I kept and what I tossed.

The most notable item to make the cut was the only diary I’ve ever kept in my whole entire life. The notebook was part of an Easter basket my sister had given to me. The journal covers the span of five years from March 31, 1991, to September 9, 1996; I went from a nine-year-old to a fourteen-year-old. The entries begin pretty tamely, describing what I ate that day or what I watched, but then things heat up with my detailed descriptions of who I was crushing on at the moment. Even then I was a creature of habit, and after reading hundreds of pages of adolescent angst, a few themes arose as I read.

Continue reading

Standard
Essays

A Note on a Windshield

I was walking my two dogs this afternoon when I caught a glance of a note on the windshield of a parked car. The note was written on yellow-lined notepad paper, the kind I used to scribble call notes on when I worked in sales. It was folded so that the writing was visible, so I saw that it was handwritten in blue ink. I deduced that it was written with a ballpoint pen because it didn’t have the inkiness of a fountain pen. I didn’t get close enough to read it, but I prefer it that way. Reading a note meant for someone else is a grievous validation in my book. Best not to know, I had my ideas anyway.

Continue reading

Standard
Bookworm, Writespo

Ray Bradbury On Finding His Voice

“It was as if a light came on in a green room.

The ocean burned. A white phosphorescence stirred like a breath of steam through the autumn morning sea, rising. Bubbles rose from the throat of some hidden sea ravine.

Like lightning in the reversed green sky of the sea it was aware. It was old and beautiful. Out of the deeps it came, indolently. A shell, a wisp, a bubble, a weed, a glitter, a whisper, a gill. Suspended in its depths were brainlike trees of frosted coral, eyelike pips of yellow kelp, hairlike fluids of weed. Growing with the tides, growing with ages, collecting and hoarding and saving unto itself identities and ancient dusts, octopus-inks and all trivia of the sea.

Until now—it was aware.

It was a shining green intelligence, breathing in the autumn sea. Eyeless but seeing, earless but hearing, bodyless but feeling. It was of the sea. And being of the sea it was—feminine.”

Continue reading

Standard