(I didn't do the assignment, again, so I'll write about an event in class instead)
The method by which professors and teachers handle this strangely unyielding issue is different per mentor, and of the many I've witnessed there is not one that is inextricablly solid in stunting the crude act.
But this blog is not on my own philosophic inquiry toward the phenomena of cyber-reliance, but on the account of the act that occured in the most-recent class.
A cellphone polluted happiness.
"Could you put the phone on my desk?"
"No."
These exchanges of words bore with them the very blade that severed the unspoked gospel of 12.30 creative writing class. It was these words that vaccumed, inhaled, the unspoken-positivity that lingered upon each course since the initial-class. It was strange, so very strange.
The request was something that most people would respond "negatively" to, meaning they'd probably not obey on-command and instead try and snuggle around. It was a request that demands the surrender of an item one owns, and thus the surrendering of one's self (mildly). The primitive, genetic even, reaction to this is essentially "no," except now how in the way that it was delivered.
It was so very, very rude.
The intended means by which a mentor should handle cell-phone rudeness is, should it be affecting in a negative whatever, however, is to deal with it in a very quick manner, to avoid tension, to not allow any sort of discussion on the alien, ugly action of text-messaging whores and A.D.D. morons whom truly can't comprehend one action of sitting for a set-amount of time, which is what they paid for by enrolling to university. There is no reason the cell-phone need be so destructive and thickly present once a mentor has called out the proprieter of actions; tell them, quickly, put the phone away/on my desk/get out, and no more. Either comply or, should they not, then get out. The whole point is to make it brief, so that the action of mentor-to-single-student via negative and authoritive-like doesn't spoil the entire atmosphere and organization of that current class.
This theory on handling it didn't happen. In fact, the exact opposite happened.
"No."
When she said "no," it was a rude, smug, entirely-unnessecary "no." It was a "no" that didn't simply linger, it devoured.
I watched the silent, pleasent shade of glee above our glass ignite, and then watched as my many peers, each pacted with the silent-vow of excitement for 12.30 Creative Writing, drop.
One student stuck out primarilly, and we'll call him Mot. Mot is a low-sound, near-mumbling, very enthusiastic student and, whenever he does speak in this class, it holds this subtle, and suple, layer of ecstasy, of pure reveal, of honest intellectual-esque stigma. Mot is not the most "enlightening" in regards to creative writing, but his words are spoken with utmost-faith in the idea that this class, should he be wrong, will alert him and nurture him. To Mot, and to everybody whom enjoys this class like Mot, the real happiness that awaits at 12.30 creative writing is in the peers, in the discussions, in the readings. It is not the lesson, not so much the professor (anymore, for now that her roots are established the students will, like normal, claim ownership of a class not theirs if it is, indeed, a "good" class. *I'm saying that in a positive note*) and most certainly not so much the creative homework as learned last friday.
No, it is the unity of peers, of the equality that has, somehow, slid within us all as we sit down at our 12.30 course, that truly establishes Mot and other's enjoyment.
"No."
The color of Mot's face dropped at the word. He sat and waited for the next action of the professor's, sat and breathed the last of the fleeing-sense of home that class delivered. I watched as he turned upwards, away from the rude woman and the stumbling-thoughts of the professor and looked at nothing, his eyes and face focused on the top left corner of the room, above the door. I saw the color fade in his cheeks, the tints of red, of growing happiness, collapse, swelling chaotically back into the pit of his heart, leaving only many pale streaks darting beneath his ears and through his facial hairs.
I noticed this not only with Mot, though Mot's was vivid, real, the most pure reaction of having this hour and fiteen minute treat be suddenly crunched, coughed upon, and licked by an unwanted mouth, then handed back to him.
It was a shame how miserable it was, how truly dissapointed the girl presenting workshop must have felt knowing that today she was not going to get her peers best intentions of critique, to deliver both compliments of certain-obligation though certainly felt and of course critical-analysis well-pampered though still delivered. And the professor, how miserable one must be after being heckled so many times at your job by the sudden illusions of student's lost in their cell-phones.
It was a horrible class, all because some dumb woman whom is of the two that do not participate decided to be unnessecarilly rude. What was she truly defending by being such a pigeon? Her telephone? Her pride? Her strength? So misguided, so bloated within her own shell of existence, is this woman that she enacted by being, quite simply, a bitch, that she stole away the altruistic, and of such quality is this altruism, I may mention, vibe of the class, if only to stand on her sunken soap-box of lacking-intelligence and dispassionate sex of fifteen years and running.
"No," ruined the day. One can't help but ponder how long it's stink will float...
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Ephiphany Glee to Decaying Alcoholic
To swap from one extreme to another is strange, and absurdly uncomfortable.
I didn't want to work tonight. I knew all week that I didn't want to work tonight. I'm tired of always sleeping, of looking at texts saying, "drink tonight," meaning with someone other than myself, and knowing that I can't. Still, though, I drove to K Mart and parked in the distance, my Dunkin cup fresh and warm, my cigarettes plentiful even by frugal methods.
The moment I parked, I couldn't imagine getting out of the car so instead I sat and watched my co-workers mingle outside, smoking and laughing bemidst the obligatory pre-work complaints. It was nice, even as they stood and took the heavy steps inside, to see them without my presense, to know that I could listen without ears to their lives actual noise.
Still, the moment the last person walked inside, and my supervisor came to the door and peaked about for any stragglers before locking it, I knew that there was no way I was going in. So I sat and watched everyone walk from behind the window, their bodies dissapearing momentarily between shelving, the frowns and apathy slowly forming per interference to my view. As they all dissapeared, I put on "Reelin' in the Years" by Steely Dan, got out of the car and smoked a cigarette, burdenless and smiling.
Content with the situation, I got back in the car and decided to come home, grab beer and go do whatever.
"Click click click."
The battery died, except Steely Dan kept playing.
Not that big of a stint, except my friends, all stoners, tend to feed the stereotype of lazy. Because I don't smoke, my alienation from the old crew is rather concrete and, sure enough, everybody I called didn't answer.
An hour and twenty minutes later, with my phone dead, my cigarettes empty and my smile evaporated, I found somebody to jump my car and came home.
To go from "No work!" with the full understanding that I completely should not be skipping work and be so very happy, to a spoiled, angry, bored man-child is not something I dig. It's embarrassing, to be honest. I wasn't rude, but to know that for the last hour and twenty minutes the only thing I did was mentally complain about the "incompetance" of my friends was just bad behaviour, even if it was only in my mind, and it was on no level progressive.
Just stressed and drinking alone once more. The phone, of course, rings now, except I still don't have it in me to pretend I have compassion towards our time-worn, decrepid replationships.
Just so very childish.
Was this even worth skipping work for?
I didn't want to work tonight. I knew all week that I didn't want to work tonight. I'm tired of always sleeping, of looking at texts saying, "drink tonight," meaning with someone other than myself, and knowing that I can't. Still, though, I drove to K Mart and parked in the distance, my Dunkin cup fresh and warm, my cigarettes plentiful even by frugal methods.
The moment I parked, I couldn't imagine getting out of the car so instead I sat and watched my co-workers mingle outside, smoking and laughing bemidst the obligatory pre-work complaints. It was nice, even as they stood and took the heavy steps inside, to see them without my presense, to know that I could listen without ears to their lives actual noise.
Still, the moment the last person walked inside, and my supervisor came to the door and peaked about for any stragglers before locking it, I knew that there was no way I was going in. So I sat and watched everyone walk from behind the window, their bodies dissapearing momentarily between shelving, the frowns and apathy slowly forming per interference to my view. As they all dissapeared, I put on "Reelin' in the Years" by Steely Dan, got out of the car and smoked a cigarette, burdenless and smiling.
Content with the situation, I got back in the car and decided to come home, grab beer and go do whatever.
"Click click click."
The battery died, except Steely Dan kept playing.
Not that big of a stint, except my friends, all stoners, tend to feed the stereotype of lazy. Because I don't smoke, my alienation from the old crew is rather concrete and, sure enough, everybody I called didn't answer.
An hour and twenty minutes later, with my phone dead, my cigarettes empty and my smile evaporated, I found somebody to jump my car and came home.
To go from "No work!" with the full understanding that I completely should not be skipping work and be so very happy, to a spoiled, angry, bored man-child is not something I dig. It's embarrassing, to be honest. I wasn't rude, but to know that for the last hour and twenty minutes the only thing I did was mentally complain about the "incompetance" of my friends was just bad behaviour, even if it was only in my mind, and it was on no level progressive.
Just stressed and drinking alone once more. The phone, of course, rings now, except I still don't have it in me to pretend I have compassion towards our time-worn, decrepid replationships.
Just so very childish.
Was this even worth skipping work for?
Inability to Write this Assignment
This is by far the most troubling assignment I've had. It's not so much as the transition of POV, but the actual assignment.
I can't explain, too frustrated to actually "articulate" (I hate that word) upon.
Basically, I ignored the concept of POV transition and focused instead on the five-points feature of this. I started writing a story involving orange trees, rowdy boys and a theoretical Tree of Knowledge from the bible. It came off cute, and was fun, and I liked writing on something, however mildly, religious. That said, the story evolved into this thirteen page and going strong project and suddenly I realized that not only was it going to be a hassle to re-do, but that first person was going to destroy the story. The only character of the three within it that could have taken the role of narrator was, like most of my horrible stories, holding a secret. The way I presented the 3rd person was that the secret wasn't on his mind, that him and his mate were just going on a rowdy adventure where the actual, unknown climax suddenly occurs. To write this in first person, I couldn't think of anything that wouldn't totally destroy the boy-character that I actually liked.
It wasn't happening, so I stopped working on that and tried writing a story about dancers and the idea that "good dancing" was gained through a drug.
It wasn't interesting, and I didn't care for it, though I spent two hours writing it only to drop it.
Then I started writing a story about two politicians whom are basically angry. It was garbage also.
Three ideas followed and I found I was stuck in a "couple" trap, that I couldn't even contemplate writing a story without having it focus on two characters. Twelve beers and six hours of sleep later, I woke up at 4 am panicing and wrote the story I handed in.
That story has actually been on my mind for a while, except in no way, shape, or form like it was told in what I submitted. Again, I was stuck on couples and focused entirely on the girl.
Actually, I don't want to talk about this. It's depressing, and I fucking hate the story I submitted and despite this being "just for school" I don't like having something so crudely written represent whatever the hell it is I'm trying to present (badly).
I'm writing another story and handing it in tuesday. Doesn't matter if it is read or not, for my own damn sanity I'm writing it.
....horrible horrible story. It really is. Regret handing it in for the partial grade entirely.
...I'm yelling on a blog.
I can't explain, too frustrated to actually "articulate" (I hate that word) upon.
Basically, I ignored the concept of POV transition and focused instead on the five-points feature of this. I started writing a story involving orange trees, rowdy boys and a theoretical Tree of Knowledge from the bible. It came off cute, and was fun, and I liked writing on something, however mildly, religious. That said, the story evolved into this thirteen page and going strong project and suddenly I realized that not only was it going to be a hassle to re-do, but that first person was going to destroy the story. The only character of the three within it that could have taken the role of narrator was, like most of my horrible stories, holding a secret. The way I presented the 3rd person was that the secret wasn't on his mind, that him and his mate were just going on a rowdy adventure where the actual, unknown climax suddenly occurs. To write this in first person, I couldn't think of anything that wouldn't totally destroy the boy-character that I actually liked.
It wasn't happening, so I stopped working on that and tried writing a story about dancers and the idea that "good dancing" was gained through a drug.
It wasn't interesting, and I didn't care for it, though I spent two hours writing it only to drop it.
Then I started writing a story about two politicians whom are basically angry. It was garbage also.
Three ideas followed and I found I was stuck in a "couple" trap, that I couldn't even contemplate writing a story without having it focus on two characters. Twelve beers and six hours of sleep later, I woke up at 4 am panicing and wrote the story I handed in.
That story has actually been on my mind for a while, except in no way, shape, or form like it was told in what I submitted. Again, I was stuck on couples and focused entirely on the girl.
Actually, I don't want to talk about this. It's depressing, and I fucking hate the story I submitted and despite this being "just for school" I don't like having something so crudely written represent whatever the hell it is I'm trying to present (badly).
I'm writing another story and handing it in tuesday. Doesn't matter if it is read or not, for my own damn sanity I'm writing it.
....horrible horrible story. It really is. Regret handing it in for the partial grade entirely.
...I'm yelling on a blog.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Re-done Carver Mimic
Turns out I couldn't sleep thinking that I'd be handing in the piece of garbage I wrote earlier. So now, it's six am and I have school in two hours and I just finished my new story.
I ponder that you, professor, will look at this blog in regards to why I wrote something so obviously dark and crude, so I'll explain.
The story I wrote before this one was garbage, literally plotless. I didn't like it, so I reread the Carver story and called a friend to come walk with me. I understand that the Carver story isn't supposed to be "dark," except I couldn't get over the part where the girl takes a hit of weed. She takes one hit, and that's all. I believe that she doesn't even like pot, but smokes it because her mate does, which is terrifically sad. Because of that, I started thinking of all the strange submissive habits people whom are together do for each other.
I walked to a bridge with my friend and, being there, started to think of another story. I was rather infatuated with the water and liked the idea of using dark, colorless water via minimalist style so the bridge next to Marina Grill is the early setting for my story. I originally thought the story would be about murder, about throwing somebody off a bridge, but decided against it. The person I was with is someone potentially interested in me, and I to them. Except, the former is in actual, intimate interest, while mine is something primitive. I don't enact upon it, because I understand it's wrong and there is no neutrality in regards to actions such as the one I desired.
Because of that thought, and the one I got from "Cathedral," I thought of rape between lovers, between married couples. It seemed strange, and the action of it something unacknowledgable and quite different.
So I wrote it as so. I know it's partially crude, and far more negative than Carver's story, except that's what I came up with. I did my best to match his narrative style and that's about it.
Trust me, it's better than the story previous to it.
I ponder that you, professor, will look at this blog in regards to why I wrote something so obviously dark and crude, so I'll explain.
The story I wrote before this one was garbage, literally plotless. I didn't like it, so I reread the Carver story and called a friend to come walk with me. I understand that the Carver story isn't supposed to be "dark," except I couldn't get over the part where the girl takes a hit of weed. She takes one hit, and that's all. I believe that she doesn't even like pot, but smokes it because her mate does, which is terrifically sad. Because of that, I started thinking of all the strange submissive habits people whom are together do for each other.
I walked to a bridge with my friend and, being there, started to think of another story. I was rather infatuated with the water and liked the idea of using dark, colorless water via minimalist style so the bridge next to Marina Grill is the early setting for my story. I originally thought the story would be about murder, about throwing somebody off a bridge, but decided against it. The person I was with is someone potentially interested in me, and I to them. Except, the former is in actual, intimate interest, while mine is something primitive. I don't enact upon it, because I understand it's wrong and there is no neutrality in regards to actions such as the one I desired.
Because of that thought, and the one I got from "Cathedral," I thought of rape between lovers, between married couples. It seemed strange, and the action of it something unacknowledgable and quite different.
So I wrote it as so. I know it's partially crude, and far more negative than Carver's story, except that's what I came up with. I did my best to match his narrative style and that's about it.
Trust me, it's better than the story previous to it.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Carver Mimic
This is the first thing I think that I have ever written that can be described as "plotless." I literally have no inspiration towards this, nor intimacy. I read "Cathedral" and was outstandingly unamused and without interest towards it.
I'm assuming that the only actual difference between Carver and Hemingway is theme and format. Carver favors narration while Hemingway adored dialouge. Yes, they are completely different but seeing as how they were both minimalists, the only real difference in regards to my approach was narration vs dialouge.
Honestly, I wrote this story just to write it. I re-read Cathedral three times and found nothing from it. The story I wrote is off my narrow assumption that it has a similar form to Carver, though even that I doubt.
For the 100% honesty, this has to be one of the worst things I've ever written. Not so much as you can't read it, but that I have no feeling towards it and I don't believe the readers will either.
EDIT: Trashed this story and wrote a different one.
I'm assuming that the only actual difference between Carver and Hemingway is theme and format. Carver favors narration while Hemingway adored dialouge. Yes, they are completely different but seeing as how they were both minimalists, the only real difference in regards to my approach was narration vs dialouge.
Honestly, I wrote this story just to write it. I re-read Cathedral three times and found nothing from it. The story I wrote is off my narrow assumption that it has a similar form to Carver, though even that I doubt.
For the 100% honesty, this has to be one of the worst things I've ever written. Not so much as you can't read it, but that I have no feeling towards it and I don't believe the readers will either.
EDIT: Trashed this story and wrote a different one.
Morning skies
If you haven't looked at the six am skies yet, you probably should.
Fall is near!
Hmmm. Writing...
Eleven beers and an indefinite grin, I can't say I'm thinking at all about writing at the moment.
Happy, happy, happy.
Not really, but you understand addictive habits, yes?
It appears that authorship is truly something "rare," despite the infinite amount of books with pasted-on "New York Times Bestseller." I suppose I am designed for failure, that my "voice" with writing is something along the lines of a crude, apathetic retaliation against all the political theory I failed to present and prompt growth.
I tried writing something today in regards to it being published. I intentionally began a project in the idea that it would absolutely be bought and sold.
I stopped about a page in.
What was it about? Oh you silly thiefs, of course you'd like to know. I'll tell you, because I don't give a fuck at this wonderful time of six am.
Joshua. Apparently that is the real name of Jesus according to historians.
Joshua. It's actually quite an epic name if you think about it. Joshua. Anyway, the idea is that Christ is "reborn" in a lovely, horrible area (my idea was west orange, NJ) and that he is this white, gorgeous person whom not only has an incredible shot but also takes an incredible shot and dies. Bascially, some rascal (mine was named Lamar) becomes, somehow, in cahoots with this transfer student Joshua and that he essentially learns all the racist, bigotist, crude, unintelligent dogma's of Christianity and at the end Joshua dies via Pay-It-Forward style and Lamar becomes this sort of pilgrim.
Dumb.
But this is the type of garbage that sells! It's so very, very weird to me. How do people adore this partial theological nonsense which I can assure 40% of was written by smitten, angry mates like myself.
Ugh.
Either way, I didn't write it and instead stared at the unfinished, unedited short story of mine entitled "Rachel's Status." What's it about? I can't tell you because when I posted my damn stories on writerscafe.org they all got stolen and I had to hound down fifteen people and threaten them with copyright law unless they removed them.
So nobody can know and thus, nobody can read.
Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid.
Oh, but my pabst is here.
Not so lonely!!
Fall is near!
Hmmm. Writing...
Eleven beers and an indefinite grin, I can't say I'm thinking at all about writing at the moment.
Happy, happy, happy.
Not really, but you understand addictive habits, yes?
It appears that authorship is truly something "rare," despite the infinite amount of books with pasted-on "New York Times Bestseller." I suppose I am designed for failure, that my "voice" with writing is something along the lines of a crude, apathetic retaliation against all the political theory I failed to present and prompt growth.
I tried writing something today in regards to it being published. I intentionally began a project in the idea that it would absolutely be bought and sold.
I stopped about a page in.
What was it about? Oh you silly thiefs, of course you'd like to know. I'll tell you, because I don't give a fuck at this wonderful time of six am.
Joshua. Apparently that is the real name of Jesus according to historians.
Joshua. It's actually quite an epic name if you think about it. Joshua. Anyway, the idea is that Christ is "reborn" in a lovely, horrible area (my idea was west orange, NJ) and that he is this white, gorgeous person whom not only has an incredible shot but also takes an incredible shot and dies. Bascially, some rascal (mine was named Lamar) becomes, somehow, in cahoots with this transfer student Joshua and that he essentially learns all the racist, bigotist, crude, unintelligent dogma's of Christianity and at the end Joshua dies via Pay-It-Forward style and Lamar becomes this sort of pilgrim.
Dumb.
But this is the type of garbage that sells! It's so very, very weird to me. How do people adore this partial theological nonsense which I can assure 40% of was written by smitten, angry mates like myself.
Ugh.
Either way, I didn't write it and instead stared at the unfinished, unedited short story of mine entitled "Rachel's Status." What's it about? I can't tell you because when I posted my damn stories on writerscafe.org they all got stolen and I had to hound down fifteen people and threaten them with copyright law unless they removed them.
So nobody can know and thus, nobody can read.
Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid.
Oh, but my pabst is here.
Not so lonely!!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Lack-of Assignment
I know this blog is supposed to be for our assignments but, seeing as I didn't do the assignment, I'll just write something in regards to writing.
In all sincerity, my mind is shattering. Despite the stereotype, this lack-of alcohol has me spiraling downward even faster as the constant pressure of non-intimate classes and malignant, everyday duties take hold. I write, write, write, except I find I'm constantly taking a peek from my strangely high cliff of Ego, looking down on the rowdy, bright-lit plains of commercial writing and quality writers.
Envy is the only thing on my mind, other than suicide, respectively.
There is no tale of mine that competes, no novel project I stand behind with fists clenched. This is "art," I'm supposed to be tapping into something human, something unearthed but clouded, except I can't stop writing stories involving some sort of "monster," metaphysical being or quazi-satanic demon.
It's the same thing; I'm just unhappy, always unhappy, except I can't even get that down accurately on page.
This blog is an example of failure. It's 11.30pm, I woke up an hour ago. Because of my constant push towards writing, I know that I should be sitting in front of this thing writing either something new, or editing something old. I have all night, except I can't even pretend to desire something of once-before passion when the only thought upon my mind is a beer, razorblades and wine.
So I write this blog, which, despite it's ultimate purpose, hope will give me something.
It's not. Once the amber-streaks invade the mind it appears there is no cure other than the lust itself.
Getting nowhere with this.
Are we really expected to keep passion towards a project? Am I truly to have faith in my own novel feeding off the blackest-desires of my head? Though they are the same color they are not the same shade; no sadness is one in the same.
I write nothing. Again.
"Sand's overrated. It's just a bunch of tiny little rocks." Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
In all sincerity, my mind is shattering. Despite the stereotype, this lack-of alcohol has me spiraling downward even faster as the constant pressure of non-intimate classes and malignant, everyday duties take hold. I write, write, write, except I find I'm constantly taking a peek from my strangely high cliff of Ego, looking down on the rowdy, bright-lit plains of commercial writing and quality writers.
Envy is the only thing on my mind, other than suicide, respectively.
There is no tale of mine that competes, no novel project I stand behind with fists clenched. This is "art," I'm supposed to be tapping into something human, something unearthed but clouded, except I can't stop writing stories involving some sort of "monster," metaphysical being or quazi-satanic demon.
It's the same thing; I'm just unhappy, always unhappy, except I can't even get that down accurately on page.
This blog is an example of failure. It's 11.30pm, I woke up an hour ago. Because of my constant push towards writing, I know that I should be sitting in front of this thing writing either something new, or editing something old. I have all night, except I can't even pretend to desire something of once-before passion when the only thought upon my mind is a beer, razorblades and wine.
So I write this blog, which, despite it's ultimate purpose, hope will give me something.
It's not. Once the amber-streaks invade the mind it appears there is no cure other than the lust itself.
Getting nowhere with this.
Are we really expected to keep passion towards a project? Am I truly to have faith in my own novel feeding off the blackest-desires of my head? Though they are the same color they are not the same shade; no sadness is one in the same.
I write nothing. Again.
"Sand's overrated. It's just a bunch of tiny little rocks." Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Monday, September 13, 2010
Failure of Editing
Having this full day to work on my writing and not worry about having work tonight, I'd believed that I would edit some of my older stories, primarilly "You Never Forget Your First" which was my intended short story to bring to my workshop.
Failure remained close, and I accomplished nothing so much as leaving Wordpad open all day without editing anything. There was a ton I would have liked to edit, and know that I need to edit, except I just didn't feel like it. I'd like to blame it on something, but it was just laziness and lack-of passion, the latter being something that every writer is supposed to buck up and deal with.
I, like so many foolish amateur writers, started a novel-project not too long ago. The entire thing is planned in mind, the chapter presentations are mostly concrete save a few unavoidable alterations and the first six chapters are handwritten. I just recently got my laptop, which I had told myself that, when I get this device, I would begin typing up the novel.
I want to, except I don't, indifferent to my failure to edit today.
Laziness all around, I do nothing but complain. Either way, I'll figure out, eventually, what I'm bringing to workshop.
Failure remained close, and I accomplished nothing so much as leaving Wordpad open all day without editing anything. There was a ton I would have liked to edit, and know that I need to edit, except I just didn't feel like it. I'd like to blame it on something, but it was just laziness and lack-of passion, the latter being something that every writer is supposed to buck up and deal with.
I, like so many foolish amateur writers, started a novel-project not too long ago. The entire thing is planned in mind, the chapter presentations are mostly concrete save a few unavoidable alterations and the first six chapters are handwritten. I just recently got my laptop, which I had told myself that, when I get this device, I would begin typing up the novel.
I want to, except I don't, indifferent to my failure to edit today.
Laziness all around, I do nothing but complain. Either way, I'll figure out, eventually, what I'm bringing to workshop.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Hemingway Paper
Having to "write" a story like Hemingway is not something I'm very passionate about. Two years ago I tried it out, spending about four months on three five page short stories. They were horrible and this one and a half page story I just wrote is equally as horrible.
I didn't put much effort into it. I wrote it longhand first as usual, then typed it direct. Then I changed describing the girl from "you" to "her." I liked using "you," because I felt it tipped more at a Hemingway style for me, except I didn't really believe it. I think it makes much more sense using you, seeing as what is wrote is 100% symbological/psycological, but I decided to change it and I think it reads nicer now.
The next step was shortening it, which didn't happen save 45 words. I think the final count was 434 or 476, and it's supposed to be 250. I tried, though, and the only way it was happening was sacrificing from an already short story with little to be "gained" from. So now it leaks onto half a second page but that's just how it's going to be.
I don't really have any interest in the minimalist style. I don't deny it as form, or pretentiously attack it, but it doesn't fit my method of writing at all. I don't write "flowery," but I certainly use a lot of commas, travel quite a bit from describing one moss-covered bridge-support to the next and enjoy writing quite a bit from the protagonist's perspective and his/her many interpretations of things.
One of the paragraphs in the story just written is;
"Just a moment's breath," I say, leading her away. She wants to say of continuing our dance but I ignore her, moving to the door. The wind cools my hand wrapped around hers as we move to the open balcony.
It's an amateur, if not bad, paragraph, except if I wasn't subjected to writing via minimalist then I think I could have had a good time writing this bite-sized tale. I liked the idea of wind curling between two people's hands, a sort of barrier undesired but existant. I'd have liked to expand on the protagonist's feelings towards the wind cooling his unusually warm hand but alas! Hemingway style.
Perhaps it would have expanded to three and a half pages should I have written in my own form, but it would have still held the basic foundation and I think it could have held much, much more.
The word count thing is rather crude also.
Oh well. C- here we come!
I didn't put much effort into it. I wrote it longhand first as usual, then typed it direct. Then I changed describing the girl from "you" to "her." I liked using "you," because I felt it tipped more at a Hemingway style for me, except I didn't really believe it. I think it makes much more sense using you, seeing as what is wrote is 100% symbological/psycological, but I decided to change it and I think it reads nicer now.
The next step was shortening it, which didn't happen save 45 words. I think the final count was 434 or 476, and it's supposed to be 250. I tried, though, and the only way it was happening was sacrificing from an already short story with little to be "gained" from. So now it leaks onto half a second page but that's just how it's going to be.
I don't really have any interest in the minimalist style. I don't deny it as form, or pretentiously attack it, but it doesn't fit my method of writing at all. I don't write "flowery," but I certainly use a lot of commas, travel quite a bit from describing one moss-covered bridge-support to the next and enjoy writing quite a bit from the protagonist's perspective and his/her many interpretations of things.
One of the paragraphs in the story just written is;
"Just a moment's breath," I say, leading her away. She wants to say of continuing our dance but I ignore her, moving to the door. The wind cools my hand wrapped around hers as we move to the open balcony.
It's an amateur, if not bad, paragraph, except if I wasn't subjected to writing via minimalist then I think I could have had a good time writing this bite-sized tale. I liked the idea of wind curling between two people's hands, a sort of barrier undesired but existant. I'd have liked to expand on the protagonist's feelings towards the wind cooling his unusually warm hand but alas! Hemingway style.
Perhaps it would have expanded to three and a half pages should I have written in my own form, but it would have still held the basic foundation and I think it could have held much, much more.
The word count thing is rather crude also.
Oh well. C- here we come!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
For Creative Writing...
I have no idea what the point of a blog is outside of seeking some sort of critique/identification/reputation/traumatic-past-that-has-you-believe-internet-friends-are-the-best-friends or something of that sort (self-righteous indeed, and all-in-all naive, except I really don't see the point of these things (just yet, perhaps?) seeing as I've always kept journals) but alas, I have one now so I suppose I'll write something.
Seeing as this is for creative writing, I suppose this is supposed to involve writing, my method, format, means and ideas, except I'm not at all interested in talking about that at the moment. Seeing as this is an ego-to-media "device" that I'm on, I think I'd rather say what my night just consisted of via the last hour.
(I am about 80% sure this is not what I'm supposed to be doing but I guess this can be a -1 point for this post?)
So I left work about an hour ago (overnight shift at Kmart) and throughout the night I had been scamming "bathroom breaks" to sit hunched in a stall while secretly writing in my little pad with a mini-pen. I haven't had an intimate idea in a while so instead I wrote about some cliche drug-dealers whom go to a rock and roll show and do drugs and lack any sort of "place" as they jam out amidst the crowd.
If that sounds dispassionate it's because it is. The moment I begun I didn't care for it, though for some reason I liked describing drug intake (perhaps it was the bathroom stall atmosphere?) Either way, I got really into the idea that I was a rockstar and imagined how neat it would be to wear an unzipped leather jacket everywhere and not feel like the wanker of the century.
After I had placed up all the shelves and eternally scarred my finger tips by placing labels, I got in my mother's CRV, turned on the White Stripes and started driving. Somehow, I got the idea in my head that I was the biggest badass in the world and with my seven cigarettes and cold coffee, drove to the Manasquan inlet, switching lanes without a blinker (There was no traffic but it still felt "raw") and parked.
Afterwards, I just kind of walked. The mood subsided to fatigue and after two minutes of walking on the boardwalk I turned around and went home.
Still don't have a passionate story, so I don't have anything else to say.
Seeing as this is for creative writing, I suppose this is supposed to involve writing, my method, format, means and ideas, except I'm not at all interested in talking about that at the moment. Seeing as this is an ego-to-media "device" that I'm on, I think I'd rather say what my night just consisted of via the last hour.
(I am about 80% sure this is not what I'm supposed to be doing but I guess this can be a -1 point for this post?)
So I left work about an hour ago (overnight shift at Kmart) and throughout the night I had been scamming "bathroom breaks" to sit hunched in a stall while secretly writing in my little pad with a mini-pen. I haven't had an intimate idea in a while so instead I wrote about some cliche drug-dealers whom go to a rock and roll show and do drugs and lack any sort of "place" as they jam out amidst the crowd.
If that sounds dispassionate it's because it is. The moment I begun I didn't care for it, though for some reason I liked describing drug intake (perhaps it was the bathroom stall atmosphere?) Either way, I got really into the idea that I was a rockstar and imagined how neat it would be to wear an unzipped leather jacket everywhere and not feel like the wanker of the century.
After I had placed up all the shelves and eternally scarred my finger tips by placing labels, I got in my mother's CRV, turned on the White Stripes and started driving. Somehow, I got the idea in my head that I was the biggest badass in the world and with my seven cigarettes and cold coffee, drove to the Manasquan inlet, switching lanes without a blinker (There was no traffic but it still felt "raw") and parked.
Afterwards, I just kind of walked. The mood subsided to fatigue and after two minutes of walking on the boardwalk I turned around and went home.
Still don't have a passionate story, so I don't have anything else to say.
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