Friday, October 8, 2010

Entertainer

College assignment.... Writing about a character who loves a job that you would hate to have.
Something I might want to revisit.

Most people don’t know what it’s like to feel wanted.
Really wanted.
To have every crease and dimple highlighted by blinding fluorescent lights
and gleaming beads of sweat, with almost nothing to hide yourself behind.
To be exposed for everything that you are and still be craved.
There is nothing to help you pretend- no forced conversations
no scripted pleasantries.
Just you.
They watch your every movement like hungry dogs, salivating,
but all you see is, how much they love you
no matter what you may have done
or who you are.
They need you
There’s something exhilarating about them
wanting to touch you and have you
but knowing that they cant.
You lean so close to let them, teasing
Giving them a taste of the unattainable
You are the one who gets away, every time.
They will come back for you,
And you will be remembered.

Response to a college literary magazine meeting

            It was clear, from day one, that we wouldn’t get along. They go for subject matter- the abstract, the sexual, the mysterious. To them, topics are key and can overshadow poor writing, as long as the subject is strong. I go for expression. I think that any subject can be made into brilliance, with the right style. I think dark poetry and such is often forced. It’s a pose. People want to stand out and be artistic and deep and they create feelings that they don’t have. I want to read something real.
           Once they realized that I was not afraid to disagree with them, they quickly learned to interrupt and cut me off. It’s kind of a cult-mentality. The group of staff members is a very close community, and as soon as one person’s opinion is stated, it is the duty of the other members to agree. Personally, I think this is a cop-out. A literary magazine should be representative of every type of writing about every kind of subject matter, which can only be done if the editors have different perspectives, to bring out the value and weaknesses in different pieces. I am really the only variety in this group.
            I know that I am not the world’s greatest writer, and it is unlikely that I will ever be. Actually, it is unlikely that I will ever be recognized for my writing, at all, at least in the way that I want to be. This being said, I think I’m good. I know how conceited that sounds, but I do think that I can write. I have to be able to write, and I have to keep getting better, because this is the one thing that I love to do. I have to do it justice.
            I had assumed that they would not enjoy what I submitted. As editors, though, I was sure that they could separate their own taste from their acknowledgment of the value of the writing. My two submissions were at the bottom of the pile, anonymously. When we got to them, everyone fell silent, as they do when we move on to any new piece. Finally, someone spoke up, “Wow. Where do I even begin with this?” Okay… Is this good or bad? Impressed? Disgusted? “I mean, honestly, I am genuinely concerned for the mental-state of this author.”
            It went something like this:
            “Yeah, I don’t think this person knows that we are supposed to be in college.”
            “I know, right? Missing your mom? Okay, how old are we? You don’t write about that.”
            “Exactly! And this other one about the love letter to nobody? God, someone please find this girl someone to go out with. This is just pathetic. If you’re going to write to nobody, at least find someone. Honestly, pathetic. Who is that lonely?”
            “But the one about her mom? That’s messed up. They have medication for that kind of thing, and, I am not even kidding, I really think they need some. It’s psychotic. I truly am worried about this person.”
            “I feel like if I met her in person, I would have to go up to her and be like ‘what the hell is going on in your head?’ Like, what is wrong with you? Please, let me help you.”
            And it continued like that for the next ten minutes. I sat there, dumbstruck and insulted. This is not how it’s done. This is not professional. Where is the grading scale? Where is the mention of my line-breaks and metaphors and symbolism? Did you notice the repetition and the alliteration? I’m sorry you can’t relate to having a relationship with your mom, but does that really mean that my writing is less valuable?
            I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The editor kept her head down, knowing that those pieces were mine, but she didn’t stop them. It was almost eleven thirty that night when we finished up, and I said my polite goodbyes, picked up my folder, and walked out. I wasn’t more than a block away from our building when it hit me. I sat down, against one of the buildings on Broad Street, and sobbed. I called my mom (exactly what I was criticized so harshly for in one of my poems) and cried.
            There was no piece of me left. The one thing that I prided myself on, the only thing that I truly enjoyed doing, had been stripped from me, completely. On top of this, every aspect of my sense of self-worth, what I loved and what I had experienced had been thrown on the ground and spat on. I was ashamed for, essentially, everything that made me who I was- my family, my relationships, my pride and my weaknesses.
            There is a false notion that, to be recognized, you have to be different. You have to feel differently and see differently and believe differently than everyone else. There is no beauty in the commonplace, because everyone has experienced it. What really makes art is what is not understood- something that leaves you wondering and maybe even a little shaken up. This is not true. To anyone who reads this, please do not fall victim to this misconception.
            Notice that nothing was said to criticize the way I write, only what I wrote about. They chose to create an idea of the me, as the author, to criticize, instead of criticizing the work I had done. I take no offense to someone telling me that my writing is bad. I encourage this, actually, because it gives me something to work with. No one in this group could tell me that my writing was bad, just that the anonymous author was.
I don’t write so that people will be shocked. I write, because I have something to say. I don’t read to be disturbed or confused. I read because I want to feel something, something that I can understand. I don’t admire art because it’s abstract. I admire it, because it says something to me. Anyone can be shocking. Anyone can talk about something taboo. To write about something that everyone knows, that everyone can relate to, and bring out the life and beauty in it... that is good writing, at least to me.
            If you have ever been told that you can’t do something, or that you are wrong for doing it… keep doing it and do it better and harder than you ever have. Don’t let people, who want to be something they are not, try to mold you into the same, confining shell that they have created for themselves. Write what you know is true and real for you, not for anyone else. Never write, because someone wants to hear it. Write because you need to say it. Write something that means something to you, and I promise, that it will mean something to someone else, as well.

Friday, October 1, 2010

The Beginning

 dialogue assignment for UNIV 112... write a short story in nothing but dialogue. Possibly, one of the most difficult assignments I have had. I'm posting this, though, because (for whatever reason) I'm intrigued.

“Hey there.”
“…”
“I said, ‘hey there,’”
“…”
“Hey, buddy. I’m trying to say hello, over here!”
“…Hey…”
 “My name’s Dave.”
“…”
“What’s your name?”
“John.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, John! Where are you heading, this fine spring morning?”
“…”
“I said, ‘where are-‘”
“Nowhere.”
“Well how can you be going somewhere, if you're going nowhere?”
“I don’t know. Just… going. Doesn’t matter where.”
“Huh. Doesn’t sound too logical, does it? Well, me? I’m starting fresh. Yes, sir, starting fresh! My girl kicked me out. Something ‘bout not doing anything with my life or some bullshit, like that. Can you believe it? You know what I say, though? I say, good riddance. I’m gunna go out there and start fresh. Make a new name for myself. What about you? You starting fresh, too?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, you got about fifteen minutes to decide what you’re guna do with your life, then the bus is guna take you somewhere or another and you’ll be stuck.”
“I don’t get stuck.”
“I don’t mean stuck like stuck. I mean stuck like lost.”
“I don’t get lost.”
“Nah, everybody gets lost.”
“Not if you’re not trying to get anywhere.”
“Well, everyone is trying to get somewhere.”
“Not everyone.”
“Well, like me. I’m trying to start fresh, remember? I think I want to go to New York or California or something fancy like that, eventually, where everybody’s somebody. That’s where I’m trying to get. I want to be a somebody. What about you? You want to be a somebody, ‘cause everybody wants to be a somebody, so everybody’s trying to get somewhere.”
“Just trying to get away.”
“Away from what?”
“From everything.”
“Come on, John. Tell me.”
“I don’t think that’s really-“
“I’ll tell you a secret, and you tell me one.”
“I really don't think that's necessary.”
“Well, when I was younger, my grandpa used to take me down to the lake by his house, where we’d-“
“I said to drop it.”
“…”
“…”
“Well… you want to know my story, anyways?”
“Dave.”
“Hey, look at that! The bus is here! Alright, here we go! Starting the next adventure of my life, with my new pal John! No, I’m good to go, Mr. Bus driver. My buddy here has got my ticket covered.”
“What? No. I think you’re confused.”
“All that stuff you said about getting away made me think, John. I’m a grown man. Time to get out on my own. You’re alone. I’m alone. Two of us gotta stick together. And you look like you need a friend.”
“Seriously, I’m going to get on the bus now, and you’re just going to…go…”
“Go where?”
“Wherever you were going before this.”
“But… I got kicked out, remember? I don’t… I don’t have anywhere to go…”
“...”
“No, that’s okay. You’re right. You don’t need me tagging along. Said you were getting away from everything, but how can you get away from everything when you got dumb ol’ Dave following you around? Damn it, Dave.”
“…”
“No, no. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me. You can’t get lost if you’re not going nowhere, right, John? And I’ve got nowhere to go, so I’ll be just fine.”
“Don’t…”
“You were a good friend, John. Bout the best friend I coulda ever had.”
“I'm not…"
"Good luck, buddy. You take care of yourself. Don't worry about me. No, sir. Don't you-"
"Two, please.”