I want to be a better writer. I want to share the frenetic beauty that splashes and shakes all around me. I want to not falter. I want, I want, I want.
Have been thinking a lot about the novella Goodbye, Columbus. How perfect it is, how true, how dense in character description and plot. How even the fruit is a driving force between classes, personalities, lifestyles. How sex and tanned legs and bratty little sisters and little boys who are drawn to Gauguin are weaved perfectly together to create a simple story, with no major catastrophe.
When I began this new blog, a spin-off and clean-up of this blog, I intended it to be a place free of rambling thought. Only scribbled fiction and clean haiku would make the cut. I feel proud about a few of the pieces I’ve penned here. I feel rather blah about others. I’ve decided (at least for now) not to place restrictions on myself here anymore, as an impasse has been reached between my left brain and my right brain. I need to get it all out now. I am frustrated. I am determined. I have been rejected and I’m using the rejection as a charge to work harder, keep working, burn the laurels that I rested on, etc. I have several little acorns in my pocket and each represents something new that I want to work on. I love. I love. I love.
I am writing this currently with much distraction rolling around me in waves. My son is happily and tiredly playing with a Playmobil castle. We went to the Zoo today. He is worn out.
My husband sits next to me doing something on his fancy phone. I do not have one of those fancy phones. For some reason (forgive me, darling if you’re reading this), the clicking of his fingers and his motions are pissing me off. The backs of my legs are sweating on this thrift store goose-down couch that we bought for $40.00 plus tax (while we still have to make payments on a couch that we sold in Alaska – but payments on a couch that doesn’t exist for us anymore is better than the payments we had to pay on a house that didn’t exist for us anymore, which we had to do when we first moved from Knoxville to Alaska). I am irritated when the curtains of sleep try to descend and I’m not ready for it yet. This kid should have been asleep an hour ago. I need to work on something Editorial. I need to work on dialogue. Or do I? Should I just be free? Should I enroll in some expensive classes so I can hear twenty year olds talk about John Green (whom I like – but I do feel his characters and dialogue lay a little like flat sheets) and not about Salinger?
- Justine wants me to give her balls, less wisdom and more shake in her hips.
- Adam wants me to give him structure. He needs it. He wants lists and ledgers and descriptions of his walks through the commissary (inventory with the cooks). He thinks this is how the story will flow. Ledgers. Lists. A character in themselves. Cookies baking and scent whispers wafting and waking the men up. He is right.
- Blake wants me to take him off of his pedestal. He also wants to ask Adam to visit the caves. He wants to fuck his wife again.
- The men in caves don’t want to be stereotypes.
- The watchers want to be known.
- The children who live at the mine want to be heard, too.
- The bread wants to be baked.
- Justine wants to make casseroles and share her dreams more.
- Adam wants me to talk about his first days at the mine. He wants me to re-read what I’ve written and shut up.
This time I have. These full-frontal memories that are fading. Bring them back. Bring them forward. Learn to talk like you mean it.
These words, my words, are odd and fussy. I stood on top of mountains and I feared bears.
The need to let it all spill out is strong tonight – if you’re reading (and I hope you are, I hope you don’t think I’m crazy and I hope you don’t think you’re crazy) I appreciate your climbing in. I don’t know where we’re going. This is fluttering. This is a butterfly. I started another blog a while ago and while it served a purpose every time I felt like I should write something I got itchy, and posts took an hour and I struggled to be conversational. I am an odd conversationalist. In my waking life I say things like,
“If you’re prepared to be a fan of Oliver Reed, you must accept his neck and its shortness. You have to look past it or it will haunt you.” and…
“I could tell. He was one of us. He was a sister. It was acknowledged and I nodded at him. I wish I’d had a small rainbow flag to pull out of my pocket – but I don’t have any pockets usually, I don’t wear jeans usually or even shorts…there are lots of women who wear shorts well and I’m not one of them. Anyway, I wanted to have a little rainbow flag to pull out of my pocket and wave it at him, to let him know that I loved him and he could be himself with me.”
I say things like this and luckily most of the people in my little life are off the wall enough to get what I’m saying, otherwise I’d be one lonely lady. I have to tame myself and tamp myself down often. I also just realized where the brand name “Tampon” comes from. So yuck to that.
Where was I?