...except I can't.
The way I've taught myself to edit is a pretty strict as-I-go. The first draft is always hand-written, and the second one is typed directly from the hand-written copy with obvious minor-and-major edits to the structure.
After that, it's chaos.
I generally yell at myself as I'm writing, placing those comment's and misunderstandings in bold that look something like;
Stop being such a tosser. There is no connectivity from the reader to blah, blah, blah
The thing is that I delete these things because the moment I write one I am stuck on that segment until I get it right enough for me to continue on. Of course I go back later and edit, edit, edit, edit, edit, except all those other edits are performed in minor, very distant spaces of time.
You said in class to just print out frequently if we are Go-Editers, except I am having trouble doing that because for one, I don't want you/anyone to see the little comments I make to myself and Two, by printing out the little comments I am making to myself I feel this little audience-demon floating beside me that is essentially fabricating, and ruining, my potentially positive edits.
I am actually very stuck on this. I have no older edits of stories past to offer and, although it may seem easy for me to just write a new story and provide the edits, it isn't, solely because of the last paragraph.
So... if you see this, could you please let me know if there is anyway to go around this little assignment? It's severely stunting every creative thing for me at the moment.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Stageplays = Sad: My history with the form.
I finished the assignment (late), and I am both relieved and kind-of inspired. Also, I'm pretty sad and sort of mopey.
I always wanted to be a stageplay writer, or perhaps I wanted to be a director whom also wrote the play. Whatever title's, I always liked the idea of having my stories performed (Not filmed!) and, when I was much younger, I would always try and bamboozle my brother into putting on a play for my mum for X holiday or Y birthday. I can only remember one time that we did (A four-act play that lasted 1 minute, maybe less), but I did write it and, for a long time afterwards, I always wanted to write stage-plays.
I didn't write anymore stageplays after that, or maybe I did but I just didn't understand that there was a specific form to write them in and, thus, I am now confused by what was my earliest fiction and perhaps screenplays. Assuming I didn't write them, though, and that I continued to write fiction, the idea of putting on a play never did leave my mind. Up until 14, where I was slowly shrugging off my little tints of writing to pursue skateboarding, I had concocted an experimental "poem" which, in my head, I viewed as a play, called "The Machine Wars." It was an epic poem, one page a segment, each segment varying from the last though all in one massive, slowly-rolling story-telling structure.
It wasn't good, but I know damn well that that notebook was not just a series of connected poems. I had intended, always, for that to be performed.
(I'm reading over it now; I don't understand how I intended this to be performed, but I know I thought that it could be.)
So from 14 into 16&1/2, I didn't write at all. Then, when skateboarding lost it's edge and the ideals of corporate sponsorship dwindled, I re-took the art and started writing.
At this point in life, and even now, I chose to neglect stageplays in that I understand nothing of their marketing, how much opportunity awaits a stageplay writer, and, of course, how much money a stageplay may earn. So I focused on fiction.
At 19, I started to write a stageplay again. I don't understand what it was that made me do so, but I suddenly thought that perhaps I could say "F it" and write this epic and become this successful person. For one, I can't write at all, and two, I had never written a stage play in form.
Needless to say, I abandoned it as I do all of my projects, and ever since then I have wholly pushed stageplays off of my mind.
But of course writing one would be a substantially large grade assignment...
The one I just wrote is eight pages long and, though it is also trash like my other writings, I now am absolutely distraught at the idea that never, ever will I see my play performed. There are a couple of reasons I could list, but I'll focus on one here.
When I write fiction, I am generally growing more and more drunk as I write. As I push towards beautiful innebriation, I find myself much less concerned on my actions and find myself standing up and talking out loud and attempting, wholly, to immerse myself into the character. It's an odd habit, and an embarrasing one if ever one were to see, but nessecary.
With this play, I also wrote this with drunken-clarity, except the methodology for understanding the character was seperate in the means by which I entered their head. They say that with fiction the author is God, though I've never agreed to that and find that I am simply a weaver whom dictates, not God. With stageplays, though, the God-complex is unique in that it is not aquired, but required. I chose the format by which all action would be displayed, I chose how blood would sit upon the wall, how my character would fall and cry and exactly how his memory would be revealed, how the sombre atmosphere would not simply be but would intensify as that of a growing wind.
Everything that happens, every character action, every entrance, every exit, I chose and adjusted to my vision. Unlike fiction, where there is an understanding of plot and connecting the dots to climax's and downtimes and the eventual ending, I wholly wrote the life (Well, death really) and reasoning for everything.
And with this God Complex, I am now absolutely horrified that my play will never be seen. Though I know, again, that it's quality is entirely lacking, I do not believe that I put any less effort into it then any other "great" artist of the past. And, of course, it being a stageplay, it is is designed to be performed. Despite how many times i placed a toy-gun to my head to understand how my character would shoot himself, or how many times I skipped back and forth in the living room attempting to see a segment of dialouge, it will never amount to what could actually be revealed should my play ever be adequately performed.
Because of that, and I think perhaps that that may have been the reason all along, I'll stick with fiction.
I always wanted to be a stageplay writer, or perhaps I wanted to be a director whom also wrote the play. Whatever title's, I always liked the idea of having my stories performed (Not filmed!) and, when I was much younger, I would always try and bamboozle my brother into putting on a play for my mum for X holiday or Y birthday. I can only remember one time that we did (A four-act play that lasted 1 minute, maybe less), but I did write it and, for a long time afterwards, I always wanted to write stage-plays.
I didn't write anymore stageplays after that, or maybe I did but I just didn't understand that there was a specific form to write them in and, thus, I am now confused by what was my earliest fiction and perhaps screenplays. Assuming I didn't write them, though, and that I continued to write fiction, the idea of putting on a play never did leave my mind. Up until 14, where I was slowly shrugging off my little tints of writing to pursue skateboarding, I had concocted an experimental "poem" which, in my head, I viewed as a play, called "The Machine Wars." It was an epic poem, one page a segment, each segment varying from the last though all in one massive, slowly-rolling story-telling structure.
It wasn't good, but I know damn well that that notebook was not just a series of connected poems. I had intended, always, for that to be performed.
(I'm reading over it now; I don't understand how I intended this to be performed, but I know I thought that it could be.)
So from 14 into 16&1/2, I didn't write at all. Then, when skateboarding lost it's edge and the ideals of corporate sponsorship dwindled, I re-took the art and started writing.
At this point in life, and even now, I chose to neglect stageplays in that I understand nothing of their marketing, how much opportunity awaits a stageplay writer, and, of course, how much money a stageplay may earn. So I focused on fiction.
At 19, I started to write a stageplay again. I don't understand what it was that made me do so, but I suddenly thought that perhaps I could say "F it" and write this epic and become this successful person. For one, I can't write at all, and two, I had never written a stage play in form.
Needless to say, I abandoned it as I do all of my projects, and ever since then I have wholly pushed stageplays off of my mind.
But of course writing one would be a substantially large grade assignment...
The one I just wrote is eight pages long and, though it is also trash like my other writings, I now am absolutely distraught at the idea that never, ever will I see my play performed. There are a couple of reasons I could list, but I'll focus on one here.
When I write fiction, I am generally growing more and more drunk as I write. As I push towards beautiful innebriation, I find myself much less concerned on my actions and find myself standing up and talking out loud and attempting, wholly, to immerse myself into the character. It's an odd habit, and an embarrasing one if ever one were to see, but nessecary.
With this play, I also wrote this with drunken-clarity, except the methodology for understanding the character was seperate in the means by which I entered their head. They say that with fiction the author is God, though I've never agreed to that and find that I am simply a weaver whom dictates, not God. With stageplays, though, the God-complex is unique in that it is not aquired, but required. I chose the format by which all action would be displayed, I chose how blood would sit upon the wall, how my character would fall and cry and exactly how his memory would be revealed, how the sombre atmosphere would not simply be but would intensify as that of a growing wind.
Everything that happens, every character action, every entrance, every exit, I chose and adjusted to my vision. Unlike fiction, where there is an understanding of plot and connecting the dots to climax's and downtimes and the eventual ending, I wholly wrote the life (Well, death really) and reasoning for everything.
And with this God Complex, I am now absolutely horrified that my play will never be seen. Though I know, again, that it's quality is entirely lacking, I do not believe that I put any less effort into it then any other "great" artist of the past. And, of course, it being a stageplay, it is is designed to be performed. Despite how many times i placed a toy-gun to my head to understand how my character would shoot himself, or how many times I skipped back and forth in the living room attempting to see a segment of dialouge, it will never amount to what could actually be revealed should my play ever be adequately performed.
Because of that, and I think perhaps that that may have been the reason all along, I'll stick with fiction.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
'Sup December?
Women, women, women.
With any art, be it painting, mathematics, woodwork, etc:, there exists a very obvious connection of self-to-work. With writing, it's a bit more obvious; if I am miserable, chances are that, should it be written impulsively, than the tone/theme of the work is going to be rather somber.
Instead of a solid emotion, though, like happy/sad, angry/glad, ecstatic/suicidal, I find the most authentic, and well-rounded feeling, to be shame.
Shame is like a wobbly bridge. You can be ascending, with a full sun above glostening over your car/helmet, basking you in light-blanket, or descending, with the rain slicking the pavement, your hands clenched in pure terror about the wheel, feeling each and every mild hydro-plane, and shame will totally null whatever it is that you are experiencing.
With the former, it should be obvious in the manner by which shame affects it. You feel it, and suddenly you just stop, get out and walk to the banister, and stand there like a weirdo. But with the latter, shame brings to it awkward things, things that don't add/subtract, but fully, and wholly, distort. One can be suicidal, placing the noose about their neck, and suddenly remember a time of shame. They will not fling themselves into oblivion, but they will wait, and remember, potentially forget suicide and go do something miserable like hire a hooker.
Shame does not kill anybody; it fractures them.
With how this blog started, I believe that my entire connection, and basic means of livelihood alongside shame, are connected entirely to women. Strange that women, whom are brought up with the full understanding that they are indeed valuable and damn-near prizes in regards to how men view them, are the very thing that make me want to put cigarettes out in my eye and inhale aerosol. It is not lack-of, nor too many, but apathy towards those whom care for me that causes this shame.
No confessions are in this. Wrote this solely to fill in requirements.
Still am writing horribly.
With any art, be it painting, mathematics, woodwork, etc:, there exists a very obvious connection of self-to-work. With writing, it's a bit more obvious; if I am miserable, chances are that, should it be written impulsively, than the tone/theme of the work is going to be rather somber.
Instead of a solid emotion, though, like happy/sad, angry/glad, ecstatic/suicidal, I find the most authentic, and well-rounded feeling, to be shame.
Shame is like a wobbly bridge. You can be ascending, with a full sun above glostening over your car/helmet, basking you in light-blanket, or descending, with the rain slicking the pavement, your hands clenched in pure terror about the wheel, feeling each and every mild hydro-plane, and shame will totally null whatever it is that you are experiencing.
With the former, it should be obvious in the manner by which shame affects it. You feel it, and suddenly you just stop, get out and walk to the banister, and stand there like a weirdo. But with the latter, shame brings to it awkward things, things that don't add/subtract, but fully, and wholly, distort. One can be suicidal, placing the noose about their neck, and suddenly remember a time of shame. They will not fling themselves into oblivion, but they will wait, and remember, potentially forget suicide and go do something miserable like hire a hooker.
Shame does not kill anybody; it fractures them.
With how this blog started, I believe that my entire connection, and basic means of livelihood alongside shame, are connected entirely to women. Strange that women, whom are brought up with the full understanding that they are indeed valuable and damn-near prizes in regards to how men view them, are the very thing that make me want to put cigarettes out in my eye and inhale aerosol. It is not lack-of, nor too many, but apathy towards those whom care for me that causes this shame.
No confessions are in this. Wrote this solely to fill in requirements.
Still am writing horribly.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Nothing to write
I partially cured writers block, except it hasn't really benefited me much.
Started a story, and got stuck (Prose-fiction-prose-fiction paragraph form. Take a guess which one I got stuck on). This stageplay that is due (probably tomorrow... ) is absolutely murdering me. It's not that it's a bad assignment, or that I hate stage plays, but it's just like my present fiction output, which is lacking.
I haven't posted on this in too long, but I think I've only slipped up once before so perhaps the "three-strikes" rule can apply?
Hmm... need something to talk about...
I decided to try and write something opposite of what I generally write the other day, and that was just a miserable experience. I wrote about a little girl whom wakes up and has cookies for breakfast, and whose mother than mildly lectures in a humorous manner while her father reads the paper and shares an eye-conversation with her which is of a "bonding" nature. She then runs out the door and hip-hip hooray's as she starts the day.
The whole time I imagined the dad having whisky in his mug, and the mother being nervous that the wig she is wearing (because she had cancer but is hiding it from the daughter) is going to fall.
How am I supposed to write happy stories when those are the sorts of sub-plots I imagine?
Whoever said write opposite of what you normally write, is a moron. It doesn't work, and, for me, it makes me feel like I just polluted those characters and can never, ever return to them (which I wouldn't have anyway, but still!).
I can't even make this blog interesting.
Just awful....................
So... this probably doesn't count yet, huh?
Ok...
The stageplay I'm writing is, loosely, a sequel to my favorite poem (Richard Cory), though not really. The name is scrambled, and there is absolutely no connection at all to the details of the poem. But, in my mind, it's a half-sequel solely because I know the character, and the inspiration behind the character, is Richard Cory.
So where would that lie, then, in the fiction terminology? Fan-fiction, although it has absolutely nothing to do with the poem? Or plagarism, seeing as I am not mentioning Richard Cory, the poem or artist, in my play?
Dunno... don't really care too much about that, to be honest.
Alright, I think this is 250 words. By the terrible-ness of this blog, I'm sure you can see I'm in quite a rut these days.
For the future!
Started a story, and got stuck (Prose-fiction-prose-fiction paragraph form. Take a guess which one I got stuck on). This stageplay that is due (probably tomorrow... ) is absolutely murdering me. It's not that it's a bad assignment, or that I hate stage plays, but it's just like my present fiction output, which is lacking.
I haven't posted on this in too long, but I think I've only slipped up once before so perhaps the "three-strikes" rule can apply?
Hmm... need something to talk about...
I decided to try and write something opposite of what I generally write the other day, and that was just a miserable experience. I wrote about a little girl whom wakes up and has cookies for breakfast, and whose mother than mildly lectures in a humorous manner while her father reads the paper and shares an eye-conversation with her which is of a "bonding" nature. She then runs out the door and hip-hip hooray's as she starts the day.
The whole time I imagined the dad having whisky in his mug, and the mother being nervous that the wig she is wearing (because she had cancer but is hiding it from the daughter) is going to fall.
How am I supposed to write happy stories when those are the sorts of sub-plots I imagine?
Whoever said write opposite of what you normally write, is a moron. It doesn't work, and, for me, it makes me feel like I just polluted those characters and can never, ever return to them (which I wouldn't have anyway, but still!).
I can't even make this blog interesting.
Just awful....................
So... this probably doesn't count yet, huh?
Ok...
The stageplay I'm writing is, loosely, a sequel to my favorite poem (Richard Cory), though not really. The name is scrambled, and there is absolutely no connection at all to the details of the poem. But, in my mind, it's a half-sequel solely because I know the character, and the inspiration behind the character, is Richard Cory.
So where would that lie, then, in the fiction terminology? Fan-fiction, although it has absolutely nothing to do with the poem? Or plagarism, seeing as I am not mentioning Richard Cory, the poem or artist, in my play?
Dunno... don't really care too much about that, to be honest.
Alright, I think this is 250 words. By the terrible-ness of this blog, I'm sure you can see I'm in quite a rut these days.
For the future!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Rejection Letters AND the Block
This blog is useful for a two things.
Complaining and giving me one more reason to type, rather than to write (I hate typing, but I know I, eventually, need to get over that).
It took but two days for the magazine I just recently submitted for to reject my story, which I think is really neat. Most of the time, magazines take ages to get back to you, and the fact that they got back to me so quickly is actually very kind. Well, that, and the fact that they got back to me at all (Amazing how many magazines don't).
I'm not new to rejection, and I'm a pretty apathetic person anyway so worry not, I'm not about to go burn all my notebooks and start a band. But I am having a certain issue with this rejection, and that being that I don't have anything to write at the moment. Normally, I'm always in the midst of a project and, bored/trying to take a moment not to write, I check my email and find rejection letters. I nod, and then resume working on a brand new story.
I don't have that right now, though, and I'm rather, well, down.
Something bizarre with writing is influence, and the measures by which influence affects it. All writing is influenced, be it by personal experience, musical-stimulation, paintings, whatever. Influenced, I mean, simply by the attachment we feel towards something, and the way that corresponds with our creative minds.
But, sometimes, the influence is just far-too great, and the writing that is delivered from it is of absolute trash and borderline plagarism (We all put our spins on things, but can any writer truly deny the ultimate source when it is so obviously present to ourselves?). There is no ruler that can state whether something is of artistic-certainity, or fan-fiction, and it isn't needed. We know when we are simply connecting threads made of the thinnest yarn.
This is what my current block is. It is not that I am "dry" of ideas (I don't really believe in that), but that the only thing I could, potentially, write at the moment is directly inspired from a character from this videogame I've been playing. It's a faceless character, with badly-constructed background story and almost no character, but him, and his appearance (Blue, tattered jacket, no shirt, long, tan scarf, spiky red hair) are swirling in my head.
This happens a lot, and I'd love to write something on the authenticity of videogames, and how they are the most authentic immersion of person-to-art, but I'll save that for something else. I would much rather keep complaining right now.
Basically, I am no novice to writing under supreme influence, and I am very aware that when I do that not only does it turn out trash, but that I am mentally confessing to myself that is plagarism and I enjoy absolutely nothing about the writing.
But I have nothing else to write! And now, with this rejection letter open in another tab, I have nothing to do but simply look at it.
"You should spend your un-creative time editing!"
Yes, if I was interested in editing any projects.
"How about the story you just sent for submission?"
I don't really care about that story, and the only reason it was written was as a test to myself. One, to see if I could write a story in under 1500 words (The final word count was exactly 1500) and two, to see if I could write it in under five days. I submitted it simply as closure to my project. I hadn't anticipated that story to be published (Afterall, I sent it only to one magazine), and I really don't want anything to do with that story (Been doubting using it for workshop).
Editing, also, is weird. I think it's strange to think of editing as un-creative. I dunno how most people edit, but when I do I, generally, make very serious edits to the structure, meaning a complete re-writing of paragraphs and pages (multiple times).
I'm making excuses to myself, actually, not to write now.
....
Blogging is fun.
Maybe I'll write something sporadic, and just try and fill a page real quick.
A mage whom is lonely.
No.
A mage whom is sacrificing...
!
Why not?
Complaining and giving me one more reason to type, rather than to write (I hate typing, but I know I, eventually, need to get over that).
It took but two days for the magazine I just recently submitted for to reject my story, which I think is really neat. Most of the time, magazines take ages to get back to you, and the fact that they got back to me so quickly is actually very kind. Well, that, and the fact that they got back to me at all (Amazing how many magazines don't).
I'm not new to rejection, and I'm a pretty apathetic person anyway so worry not, I'm not about to go burn all my notebooks and start a band. But I am having a certain issue with this rejection, and that being that I don't have anything to write at the moment. Normally, I'm always in the midst of a project and, bored/trying to take a moment not to write, I check my email and find rejection letters. I nod, and then resume working on a brand new story.
I don't have that right now, though, and I'm rather, well, down.
Something bizarre with writing is influence, and the measures by which influence affects it. All writing is influenced, be it by personal experience, musical-stimulation, paintings, whatever. Influenced, I mean, simply by the attachment we feel towards something, and the way that corresponds with our creative minds.
But, sometimes, the influence is just far-too great, and the writing that is delivered from it is of absolute trash and borderline plagarism (We all put our spins on things, but can any writer truly deny the ultimate source when it is so obviously present to ourselves?). There is no ruler that can state whether something is of artistic-certainity, or fan-fiction, and it isn't needed. We know when we are simply connecting threads made of the thinnest yarn.
This is what my current block is. It is not that I am "dry" of ideas (I don't really believe in that), but that the only thing I could, potentially, write at the moment is directly inspired from a character from this videogame I've been playing. It's a faceless character, with badly-constructed background story and almost no character, but him, and his appearance (Blue, tattered jacket, no shirt, long, tan scarf, spiky red hair) are swirling in my head.
This happens a lot, and I'd love to write something on the authenticity of videogames, and how they are the most authentic immersion of person-to-art, but I'll save that for something else. I would much rather keep complaining right now.
Basically, I am no novice to writing under supreme influence, and I am very aware that when I do that not only does it turn out trash, but that I am mentally confessing to myself that is plagarism and I enjoy absolutely nothing about the writing.
But I have nothing else to write! And now, with this rejection letter open in another tab, I have nothing to do but simply look at it.
"You should spend your un-creative time editing!"
Yes, if I was interested in editing any projects.
"How about the story you just sent for submission?"
I don't really care about that story, and the only reason it was written was as a test to myself. One, to see if I could write a story in under 1500 words (The final word count was exactly 1500) and two, to see if I could write it in under five days. I submitted it simply as closure to my project. I hadn't anticipated that story to be published (Afterall, I sent it only to one magazine), and I really don't want anything to do with that story (Been doubting using it for workshop).
Editing, also, is weird. I think it's strange to think of editing as un-creative. I dunno how most people edit, but when I do I, generally, make very serious edits to the structure, meaning a complete re-writing of paragraphs and pages (multiple times).
I'm making excuses to myself, actually, not to write now.
....
Blogging is fun.
Maybe I'll write something sporadic, and just try and fill a page real quick.
A mage whom is lonely.
No.
A mage whom is sacrificing...
!
Why not?
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Submitted, and am feeling even worse.
I made the deadline for the magazine, and with a pretty decently edited story (Though I think it's practically boring, and thus a total fail) and was pretty ecstatic about simply being able to construct that story in five days. So the last two days have been a break from writing entirely (Well... I just don't have anything I want to write, actually) and have just been drinking and hanging out with friends.
For a laid-off, poor, unhappy person, these past two days have been nice.
Already, though, it has collapsed, and it's only 9 am.
I even made it, mostly, to school on time (8 minutes late) and, with my messanger bag begging to snap, made it to my Math Class. I walked up to the door, my book in hand, and put my hand on the door handle.
But I didn't go in. I just stood there, listening.
I'm failing Math. Not failing, failed. I can't recover it this symester, and I don't really care too much. I failed last year and, also, didn't care much. Except this year, though, I poisoned the routine.
Last friday, I didn't go. And the friday before that I didn't go. Last tuesday, when I was there, it was just a very solemn class, as we were given those "rate your teacher" sheets. I can't explain it, but last tuesday, silently, we recognized my circumstance, my total disregard for her subject, and the fact that I would remain in her class like a rotten egg, present but very distant (I had hoped, like last year, that maybe I'd snag a few things and potentially pass next symester).
Except I didn't go last friday, and today, when I got to that door, I just knew that I shouldn't be there, that I shouldn't go in. I could just see everybody looking at me, quickly finding in their minds that, indeed, I do occasionally come to this class, and resuming working. But, for my teacher and I, it would just be awful. I'd interupt her lesson by coming late, and she'd stop and look at me with such malice, or, even worse, pity, pondering why this fool even tries. And I'd take my seat, lumping my messanger bag to the floor, greeting my intrusion to her lesson with keen clarity of my uselessness.
No, it just wasn't happening.
So, schedule when I started school;
8am - Math 012
9.15 - Ethics
12.30 Creative Writing
2pm - Western Civ.
Current Schedule
12.30 Creative writing
2pm Western Civ.
Success story!
And it's just awful. Now I'm in this library for the next four hours waiting for my next class, unsure of what I am even doing with life. I'm just broke and ruining everything, and all the while I am searching on my psp to buy and download a game, instead of paying rent or something useful.
Paradox.
I wish.
Stupidity, is what this is.
Moment's like this when I regret dropping out of highschool.
The worst part about dropping out of highschool, you ask?
West Virginia University, that university with the highest amount of partying and kicking kids off of campus, won't even accept me.
I am literally stuck at OCC until I comply to their liberal arts standards (Which is bullshit, seeing as all I want to do is write!) and it's just awful.
Good thing I have only ONE story out for submission at the moment....
Fucking-A
For a laid-off, poor, unhappy person, these past two days have been nice.
Already, though, it has collapsed, and it's only 9 am.
I even made it, mostly, to school on time (8 minutes late) and, with my messanger bag begging to snap, made it to my Math Class. I walked up to the door, my book in hand, and put my hand on the door handle.
But I didn't go in. I just stood there, listening.
I'm failing Math. Not failing, failed. I can't recover it this symester, and I don't really care too much. I failed last year and, also, didn't care much. Except this year, though, I poisoned the routine.
Last friday, I didn't go. And the friday before that I didn't go. Last tuesday, when I was there, it was just a very solemn class, as we were given those "rate your teacher" sheets. I can't explain it, but last tuesday, silently, we recognized my circumstance, my total disregard for her subject, and the fact that I would remain in her class like a rotten egg, present but very distant (I had hoped, like last year, that maybe I'd snag a few things and potentially pass next symester).
Except I didn't go last friday, and today, when I got to that door, I just knew that I shouldn't be there, that I shouldn't go in. I could just see everybody looking at me, quickly finding in their minds that, indeed, I do occasionally come to this class, and resuming working. But, for my teacher and I, it would just be awful. I'd interupt her lesson by coming late, and she'd stop and look at me with such malice, or, even worse, pity, pondering why this fool even tries. And I'd take my seat, lumping my messanger bag to the floor, greeting my intrusion to her lesson with keen clarity of my uselessness.
No, it just wasn't happening.
So, schedule when I started school;
8am - Math 012
9.15 - Ethics
12.30 Creative Writing
2pm - Western Civ.
Current Schedule
12.30 Creative writing
2pm Western Civ.
Success story!
And it's just awful. Now I'm in this library for the next four hours waiting for my next class, unsure of what I am even doing with life. I'm just broke and ruining everything, and all the while I am searching on my psp to buy and download a game, instead of paying rent or something useful.
Paradox.
I wish.
Stupidity, is what this is.
Moment's like this when I regret dropping out of highschool.
The worst part about dropping out of highschool, you ask?
West Virginia University, that university with the highest amount of partying and kicking kids off of campus, won't even accept me.
I am literally stuck at OCC until I comply to their liberal arts standards (Which is bullshit, seeing as all I want to do is write!) and it's just awful.
Good thing I have only ONE story out for submission at the moment....
Fucking-A
Friday, November 12, 2010
Five Day Deadline
It's hilarious I'm even trying this.
I found an online literary journal that is brand new. They don't have money, they won't ever go print and they will probably shut down after this issue, or just get bored and bail on it. Still, though, their submission deadline is the 15th, and the wordcount is 1500, and for some odd reason I really want to submit/publish with them.
They don't pay you. They make a T-shirt based off your shirt.
Despite me struggling to even eat these days, I still think that's pretty rad.
I found this out on the 9th, and started writing the story on the 10th. The story is wholly inspired by the literary journals name, an instant construction of plot simply by their title.
This isn't good, seeing as their title is the very climax of my story. Also, I feel like that is very cheesy, and they will probably look at it the wrong way. Still, though, the story in my mind should be able to fit in under 1500 words, and this is probably the first time that has ever happened.
But I'm losing it. I managed to write 400 words over the past three days, which may make it seem like little, except I'm writing this completely off the computer (Except, unlike the assignments I've done for class, I'm actually trying to do this professionally and accurately, in a real, pure showing of my "craft," which I don't have) and they weren't too bad...
Except I'm stuck, and now I have only two days to write this. The worst part is I'm now completely doubting the structure of the story, and the way I've lead it.
Actually, I'm not doubting. It's bad, 100%.
So now I have two days to write 1500 words, and to, somehow, mentally re-calibrate the plot. The story is still the same, plot the same, characters the same, actions the same.
It's my style used for the story that has to change... which is, essentially, re-doing all of this.
Even worse is that I had intended, in my mind, to use this story as the workshop. Yes, it would be too late for me to make edits in time for this submission, but, seeing as I doubt they'll publish me anyway, I was hoping that, in the future, I could use this story for other 1,500 words or less submissions (Which there are, surprisingly, a lot of).
But who knows? Will I finish it in time for the deadline? Doubtful. Will I finish it in time for workshop? Doubtful.
Well, the actual worst, worst part about this is, seeing as I'm not 21 and have to have people go out and get alcohol for me, I gave somebody 20 dollars to get me two twelves of PBR, or, if they didn't have that, a 30 pack of beer.
They got me a 30 pack of Busch LIGHT. What the fuck do they think I do, play beer bong by myself? So now the only beer I have to drink alongside writing is light beer, which is essentially water, entirely tasteless and absolutely does nothing for my head.
Terrible.
Even more terrible is I chose getting that 30 and a carton of cigarettes rather than;
1. Paying the money I still owe the IRS from Taxes
2. Paying my "terrorist" charges to Toms River Court Houses
3. Paying off the settlement Financial Aid sent me because I dropped my one course (And am failing another!).
4. Buying food for the week.
I don't need a nicotine patch, Penny. I smoke cigarettes. Stranger than Fiction
I found an online literary journal that is brand new. They don't have money, they won't ever go print and they will probably shut down after this issue, or just get bored and bail on it. Still, though, their submission deadline is the 15th, and the wordcount is 1500, and for some odd reason I really want to submit/publish with them.
They don't pay you. They make a T-shirt based off your shirt.
Despite me struggling to even eat these days, I still think that's pretty rad.
I found this out on the 9th, and started writing the story on the 10th. The story is wholly inspired by the literary journals name, an instant construction of plot simply by their title.
This isn't good, seeing as their title is the very climax of my story. Also, I feel like that is very cheesy, and they will probably look at it the wrong way. Still, though, the story in my mind should be able to fit in under 1500 words, and this is probably the first time that has ever happened.
But I'm losing it. I managed to write 400 words over the past three days, which may make it seem like little, except I'm writing this completely off the computer (Except, unlike the assignments I've done for class, I'm actually trying to do this professionally and accurately, in a real, pure showing of my "craft," which I don't have) and they weren't too bad...
Except I'm stuck, and now I have only two days to write this. The worst part is I'm now completely doubting the structure of the story, and the way I've lead it.
Actually, I'm not doubting. It's bad, 100%.
So now I have two days to write 1500 words, and to, somehow, mentally re-calibrate the plot. The story is still the same, plot the same, characters the same, actions the same.
It's my style used for the story that has to change... which is, essentially, re-doing all of this.
Even worse is that I had intended, in my mind, to use this story as the workshop. Yes, it would be too late for me to make edits in time for this submission, but, seeing as I doubt they'll publish me anyway, I was hoping that, in the future, I could use this story for other 1,500 words or less submissions (Which there are, surprisingly, a lot of).
But who knows? Will I finish it in time for the deadline? Doubtful. Will I finish it in time for workshop? Doubtful.
Well, the actual worst, worst part about this is, seeing as I'm not 21 and have to have people go out and get alcohol for me, I gave somebody 20 dollars to get me two twelves of PBR, or, if they didn't have that, a 30 pack of beer.
They got me a 30 pack of Busch LIGHT. What the fuck do they think I do, play beer bong by myself? So now the only beer I have to drink alongside writing is light beer, which is essentially water, entirely tasteless and absolutely does nothing for my head.
Terrible.
Even more terrible is I chose getting that 30 and a carton of cigarettes rather than;
1. Paying the money I still owe the IRS from Taxes
2. Paying my "terrorist" charges to Toms River Court Houses
3. Paying off the settlement Financial Aid sent me because I dropped my one course (And am failing another!).
4. Buying food for the week.
I don't need a nicotine patch, Penny. I smoke cigarettes. Stranger than Fiction
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