the knock at the door

They assume I'll stay. I suppose it is because I haven't said I don't want to. I play out each scenario in my mind and it always ends with the devastation of disappointment and hurt feelings. I know that part of the reason I'm saddled in a groaning misery that is difficult to shake off has to do with this situation and my inability to do anything about it (it is a daily barrage of noises, that the dog has only exacerbated, the clinking of the fork against his bowl, his rampant barking and nails clicking on the hardwood floor, his awareness that amplifies her awareness that underlines the feeling I'm always being watched, it is nearly unbearable after all this time and to imagine another year here tolerating the brunt of her insecurities and her rules and regulations among her chronic hypocrisy makes it worse). So I plunge my head further into the sand, telling myself I'm not in a place to take care of this problem, not right now, so I have to do the thing that proves to me that I'm a grown-up now, the one thing that children cannot do well; I will wait. I will be patient. I will hope for the best.

The dust here is stupendous. It settles along just wiped surfaces quickly, grows into thick gray strands, and I know the dust is affecting me, bringing sneezes in the morning, pounding my lungs and lining my nose and throat. I have never been sicker, so many colds in this year and a half, coupled with quitting smoking and starting smoking again and quitting again because you get so sick of being sick that the idea of putting a thing that you love that makes you both happy and sad anywhere near you becomes a chant stop doing that to yourself. I haven't smoked for two months, except for some reason, out of some defiance, out of some feeling of unfairness, I had a cigarette with them, standing outside with the men, feeling equal to them, making jokes with them. And then I resolved to never smoke again, again. I feel I am constant state of regaining ground after being sick and losing it by getting sick again.

Never before I have enjoyed the freedom of a light work schedule, weekends off, sometimes days off during the week, but with it comes less money, and with less money comes the terror and panic of not having enough, of struggling, of resorting to a constant mental anguish, a constant calculation of what money may be coming my way and what work I can do to get more of it to come my way. I was working a lot before but I had a lot of money to show for it; now I work a lot less and worry over paying the rent (another reason moving away from here isn't feasible, because even paying this low rent is tough, how can I afford to live alone?). Being broke for the last three months has cast a pallor over my social life and it is beginning to take its toll on me. I miss doing things like going out to dinner, being able to see a movie with a friend or doing a spur of the moment activity. I don't miss the drinking; the stupid brain cell bashing waste of time and money, but the rest of it, it is frustrating how bound I feel by the lack of money.

And then there is them, to imagine not being within walking distance of him, so that it feels easy to go there and give my cheerfulness and optimism and smiles to him, I see the benefits of it, that he is not a happy person and I infuse him with joy, I feel glad that I can be there for him, even if it is nothing more than watching sports games or bad tv shows together, because it is just being there for him, sitting next to him, not shirking from his wan and gaunt figure, not scared of the man he's become, a man he constantly insists is not the kind and gentle and intelligent soul I know (he would say knew) him as. It is probably one of the more difficult things in my life, that I must pretend is just fine. To do that, to constantly dull the shock and sharp point of despair, to grin and bear it, it takes up nearly all the energy I can muster. I weep when I walk home, I have to remove the clothes that reek of cigarettes and shower the smell of stale smoke out of my skin.

So there is the constant flipping of these two columns, that it is cheap and near them (and the park, I must mention the lovely park next door) and stifling and obnoxious.

Somehow, despite that, I've managed to find peace in being broke, because it means I can return to the solitary activities that bring me joy. Whether it is the finishing of the fingerless gloves for Daniel, or the necklace I started in spring, or to watch the exhilarating television series Deadwood; I have been enjoying my return to creative endeavors and see that I could spend this time of fruitless indecision productively. I might have something to show for myself. I haven't had the opportunity to revive my summer's challenge of participating in the Artist's Way, but I see that these small spurts of inclination come from the wellspring that program pointed me to, and all there is to do is remove the boarded opening and let the geyser erupt. A part of me is holding back, because it would mean that I would have to alter somehow the life I've become familiar with and used to, even though it doesn't serve me fully.

I already knew there was change coming, change was necessary, but I'm tired of change, tired of constantly turning the puzzle pieces over and fitting them into another place. I want to be done changing and being put together, but I also want to enjoy the things I have always wanted for myself, so I will do the work it takes to have the life I want. Live the life you want and want the life you live, they said.

Three years ago I began working with my writing partner and doing the bare minimum of work to develop my novel. I had hoped that I would be able to go to grad school to give me better focus and a greater discipline. Fitting my writing into my busy life is hard, harder than just about anything I spend time doing (because it is something I actually would rather do more than anything else, I try to find a large piece of time that I can really enjoy it). I come to each meeting with my inner artist bound and gagged, and I carefully release her, bathe her in reassurances and then she talks to me.

As of late, my writing partner is absorbed with her own stories, capturing them, crafting them, so in the meantime, instead of wringing my hands at the writing I cannot do alone (I could write an entire entry about the reasons why, suffice it to say, I would be easily distracted when left to my own devices), I decided to print out the entirety of what I have crafted and attempt to do a thorough edit. The distance of time will help, as each sentence is no longer imprinted in my mind, so that I can view it all objectively. I printed out one document with 179 pages (double spaced, manuscript style) and even though I knew it was 179 pages, to see them, to feel the weight of one hundred and seventy nine pages (and know that there is more of it not included and more to write), I felt the pleasure one must feel when showing off their growing infant. My how it's grown.

And then there is my quest, seen to many as arbitrary and unnecessary, but to me, reading the Snopes Trilogy by William Faulkner was my way of creating one safe haven to rest, one less decision to make, one less door to worry about whether or not to open. I have another hundred and more pages before I leave the world he made, and I have stayed in it, lingered there, loved it these many months, I think it has been more than a year; each book stretched into a cluster of pages that I mentally excavate, aware of every word, thrilling in every shift and whorl, examining the structure of the writing while being hypnotized by the words themselves. I sometimes wonder why it took me so long to find him, but realize that I would not have been prepared for him, which is why it took me so long to get through what I now see is his most deceptively simple novel, As I Lay Dying. A part of me would like to reread all of his novels I've previously blundered through with this attentive appreciation, because I know I did not give them enough careful consideration and I know that I would be a happy reader for it.

And then, there is them. It is strange. I had completely reduced the urge to be with someone, put on the mask of unloneliness, pretended that being single hasn't bothered me. I even went so far as to allow one (who is not enough) to try and make that emptiness seem a little less empty, but it only seems to shine the light on all the corners, all the openness, all that's missing. It makes me feel more alone, which I hadn't expected and now wonder what to do about them. For a long time, I was not ready for the task of dealing with them, of navigating the senseless and often difficult waters, like a ship trudging through glaciers in Antartica, trying to find a place with waters free enough to sail and weather less difficult to maneuver through. And now I see that just like everything in my life, it requires not that I be perfect, not that I know ahead of time what to do, not to be more patient and less anxious, it is a matter of being as prepared as I already am and able to choose to open the door when the knock arrives.

Surprise, I'm a writer:

At work today, my boss was showing me a website of an artist she knows and navigating the artwork until she got distracted by a phone call. With her attentions otherwise absorbed, I began clicking on some of the site, focusing on "press" and then finding myself intrigued by the first listed link titled, "Fall Gallery Walk 06." As I began to read the piece, it felt vaguely familiar, as if I had read it before. And then I realized it was familiar because I was the one who'd written the piece.

It's odd because I have been thinking about that thing I used to do, where I would go to events in the "art" world and write about them for a blog. No one really ever read it (except my delightful father, I suspect was our only avid fan/reader), and it was the sort of thing I did just for fun and because my friend Natalia liked to go to art galleries and wanted to do a blog about them and wanted a writing partner.

It surprised me the way it might surprise someone to casually bump into a family member you haven't seen in a while. Enough time has passed so that they seem slightly different, maybe they have grown a beard or put on weight, but with a good scrutinizing glance, you recognize the face from long ago. In other words, my writing, my babies, my work is out there in the world being put to good use and it was heartwarming to see it fulfilling some function. At the time I wrote that piece, I didn't know the artist and had no idea that my boss knew the artist. I simply loved her work from seeing it at a gallery.

It also made me aware that I used to lend a lot more of my time to intellectual and cultural pursuits, opting to skip a night in front of the tv on the couch getting high with Eric and his roommates. Of course, I was still in school and bone crushingly busy so was just part of the rigor I subscribed to without thinking very hard about it and sometimes when you are busy you are more productive than when you have all the time in the world to do anything.

The other thing that surprised me about the piece is before I knew it was mine, I was impressed by the writing. Generally I scoff at most online reviews, finding them dull and meandering or too full of excitable language (written by a marketing major, most likely). Of course, looking at it now, with three years distance, I can see obvious mistakes and edits I'd make. Yet, it just reminded me that writing isn't about thinking about it, wanting to do it, conceptualizing, it is about doing it and having something to show for myself. And though I have quite a lot of words behind me, there are a lot things I don't give credence to, for whatever reasons (those screenplays, that piece on oprah.com, the stuff I do here--hehe--because largely they are not exactly what make me thrilled as a writer) but they are still a part of me.

well well well

Somehow, this plan to take over the world with writing has resulted in my completing a story in less than a month. A story that I didn't know I was ready to write, a story that I had no idea where it was going or what it was about, and lastly, a story that I have been wanting to write for about two years.

As I look back on the last month I'm amazed and glad. My writing partner has had a lot to do with it, but at the same time, I've really put a lot of effort into it, and to tell you the truth, I could put in more. I've got a twenty five page story that is now ready to be edited and clarified, but it's actually got a beginning, middle and end. I don't even think I got this kind of results during school.

In the fiction department there's a huge emphasis on new material, new places where something is taking your attention, but with my writing partner, I've been able to go in having a general idea of what direction I want to go in and then I get in the car and drive. I didn't worry about where I was going or what was happening, because somehow she's been able to impart a sense of freedom in me that I didn't have before.

I'm also pleased because I'm finally winding my way through the complex novel Wild Palms by William Faulkner which I've been "reading" for four months now. And by "reading" I mean looking at it on my nightstand and trying to find the mental capacity along with the urge to crack it open.

Here's to doing the work and getting results...

writing as another job of mine...

This week began what my writing partner hailed as The Plan to Take Over the World, One Page At a Time.

I've mentioned my writing partner before. She's extremely enthusiastic and highly motivated and very delightful. I'm lucky that we've found each other and I adore her. If it wasn't for her, my writing would have become another thing I did once, or tried to do once, but instead, thanks to her, it is a constant whirring of gears and machinery and excitement. I suppose it's equal in that I've provided her with the essential prodding and poking we need as artists and she's crafted a screenplay while sitting across from me, as well as fits and starts of other things.

The plan is a five pronged attack meant to get me to write more, to think of writing every day, to be inspired to write, write, write. 1)journal writing, 2)at least a half hour of fiction writing per day, 3)meeting with each other regularly, 4)co-writing our screenplay (a whole 'nother story) and 5)getting shit published.

For both of us, that last one has been problematic. I think it is something that the Fiction Department really drops the ball on. If we had to craft full movements for class, then wouldn't it stand to reason that sending them out to a publication should be a requirement as well? I only had to send out one piece as an assignment for a fiction writing class in the four years I spent writing there.

The other problem is that a "full movement" is a difficult thing to come by. I know for myself there is always something more that could be done to a piece. It is rare that I can look at something and say it's finished and there's nothing more I can do with it. I have so many nearly completed things, and a lot of other stuff that's half done. So that is part of the job there is to do, to polish and clean up and inventory all of those things, to get them ready for publication.

Oh, and on top of all that, I have five jobs! And a fairly active social life! And I seem to be busy all the time!

So far it's been going well. I've been enjoying journaling the most. It's a pleasure I hadn't realized I'd missed. Because I mainly blog here, I rarely take a pen to paper. [And my blogging here has been paltry, to say the least.]

The meetings have been crazy. We've already met three times this week with another meeting scheduled for tomorrow. I'm so impressed with myself that I could make it work with my crazy life and that the people I work for are so supportive. I told my one boss that I needed to work a half day and she said no problem and even drove me to my destination! I am so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life.

One of the things we've committed to doing more of is to read books more often. As my general commute has been shortened into ten minutes, my reading has diminished greatly. Not that I could read Faulkner very well on the bus anyway. But I've been taking out time to read and it's been very pleasant. I sit in my chair by the window and read while the sun goes down.

All of this may seem silly or unnecessary or scoff worthy, but I've found it inspiring enough to comply on a daily basis. And that is the real victory. The world will just be the frosting on the cake.

the culmination of three months time

Once again, Iowa has turned me away, taken the fullness of all I had to offer and said no to me. And once again, it is almost more a relief to know, to just have an answer. I've never been good at living in uncertainty. Chaos I can handle, I can deal with, but not knowing is hard on me.

In a lot of ways I'm relieved not to have to uproot myself, set myself and my writing up to constant scrutiny, suffer what is rumored to be a harsh and treacherous path to writing glory. Even though it offered a proscribed change that I was willing to accept and looking forward to taking on, I am glad that it was a no.

I don't know what lies beyond today. It is a good feeling that brings both sides of the spectrum of feelings with it. And all I can say is that I know I am lucky to be in this position yet again, that I have the world at my feet, that I am at another fork in the road with no burdens and little responsibility to hold me back.

All of what I do is pushing to be something I've always wanted to be. It all seems unnatural, unfair, when I get home I'm too tired to do the thing I love most. I never said it better than I did in his presence (the brit's), when asked what I do for a living, that everything I do is to support me as a writer. Iowa fit into that, but not being there doesn't mean I can't still be a writer. That's the thing people don't get. Of course I'm disappointed I didn't get in to Iowa (again) but it doesn't mean anything other than I didn't get in (again).

The truth is, I don't write as much as I could, I don't focus on my success as a writer as much as I could, I don't do all that I could be doing to be a working writer. So as with other things in my life, I'm going to see what occurs when I give it my full attention, when I approach a problem with a renewed sense of discipline, earnestness and enthusiasm for seeing some glimmer of progress.

And maybe actually focusing on my writing and not the path will lead me somewhere worth going.

the satisfaction

The application to Iowa is in the mail. The hopes I have this time around are less than last time, but I think it would wonderful and amazing to get in. If I don't, I may begin to reconsider my stance of not, no way, never applying to any other schools. I'll find out sometime in March if my manuscript impressed enough to qualify me to be a student there.

the winning ticket

I checked my email this morning from a sense of duty. I didn't expect the email I received today to come for many more days. And I didn't expect it to be good news.

In speculating which three shoulders I could tap to write my letters of recommendation, I decided for one, to try a former professor of mine who is quite the hotshot at Columbia College. Basically he's the hardest working writer I've ever met, cranking out book after book, having his plays produced, publishing short stories all over, you name it, the guy's done it and most likely recently. I wanted to ask him last year, but he took a sabbatical from school and I didn't have his personal email. I suppose I could have found it, but I think part of me was a little afraid to even bother asking him.

This year, as I was discussing this with my writing partner, who is enthusiastic (she's still young and largely unsullied by the world at large) and pushy, she encouraged me to email him. She even forced me to sit down with her and write the email and send the email in her presence.

I found out that this was the last week of the semester (which is the pretty much the worst time to email someone with this request), but I did it anyway. And I figured, if this is the last week, I won't hear from him until maybe next week or the week after.

And when he emailed today, just a mere four days later, he actually apologized for not getting to me sooner! I was astonished. And then to further read that he was actually willing to do the letter, I was just thrilled. It was like winning the lottery.

And for the first time in this process, where I've been dragging my feet, toying with the idea of not applying at all this year (and supposedly definitely going to apply next year), I actually feel like it's really happening. This is it. It's my time.

I'm going to send them two short stories and an excerpt from a novel I'm working on. I'm fairly confident about my material. I'm fairly hopeful about the whole thing. And I've got three weeks and three days to get it there.