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Posts Tagged ‘failure’

More like Spring bullshit. You want to know what’s new with me? How about some existential crises? I also feel like I have no grasp on my own writing anymore. I may or may not get a tattoo with Raise Up Roof Beams lyrics and probably freak Nathan out, who, I have to remind myself, is not actually my friend no matter how much I like to believe that he is. I do not have his phone number. We do not hang out. I have never made him and Anne dinner.

Reading Sartre and cannot help but think of Beth as Anny and Randy as Antoine. For no reason at all. I really should not have taken two and a half philosophy classes this semester. Why? BECAUSE IT’S FUCKING ME UP. Also its so much goddamn reading. Of course I can go to class and reading a hundred pages every night. Why can’t I do that? I mean, that’s absolutely reasonable. I have lost my ability to connect with literature. Because I can’t do anything but read for main points. Except for with Sartre. I’m too emotional, and yet too distant. Walking paradox.

I wish I could have classy blog posts like Alison Feldish.
I wish I could be in Costa Rica like Abby.
But most of all I wish I could be with Kenny.

I have been working everyday, but I have not been doing enough work. I do not feel like I am capable of working hard enough to be a good writer, because I will always favor sleep over writing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to myself.

“our mother has been dead for so long now”

More Nausea, staying up late tonight.
I hope it warms up so I can wear these dresses.

All my affections,
Liz

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So I got my first response to “Mechanics,” and it was just as much a punch in the gut as workshop usually is, except it came from the beautiful Becky Shealy, so it was at least pretty.

FIRST–self-deprecating, whiny rant:

OH! That’s right! The reason none of my stories go past twelve pages is because I leave out character development!  I forgot about that shit.  I hate how I can put in a story about 12 times that a girl is a senior graduating from college drinking wine and still be asked, “how old is she?” Then again, that just shows that my characters are, I suppose, flat and don’t show themselves off as their real age–or don’t have the time to show off their age.

And, of course, when Tiffany pulls Tim into the drawing studio and gets naked, it’s rushed. I sort of knew it was rushed.  But at the same time, when the pregnant chick starts fucking the biological father of her baby in “Caviar,” I thought it was rushed!  I had no idea she wanted to sleep with the dude! But that wasn’t rushed!  Why wasn’t that rushed? I guess I should add re-reading that story to my list of things I don’t have time to do.

And, again, I’ve really written myself into a tightly knit story here.  If this were actually knit, it would probably be felted at this point. Okay, that’s an exaggeration.  But again–time period: 4 hours.  Where is there room for reflection?  There isn’t.  Maybe I should start the story earlier in the day.  Or end it later. Or something.  Blah blah blah. This is why I write poetry.

SECOND–introspective rant:

Okay, so I was never one to get emotionally attached to my stories (I remember one intro-peer getting so attached to a story about a father watching his daughter grow up that he just never really edited it.) but I’m realizing recently that I do get very emotionally attached to the amount of work I put into a story.  Then when I get back feed back, it’s hard for me to view it as “ways to improve,” and I instead see it as “ways you have failed at writing fiction.”  Mr. McQue let me view these issues in bulleted formed. Thanks, Steve.  Thanks for the bulleted points of how I have failed as a fiction writer.

Logically, I know this is all REALLY melodramatic and I just need to get over myself and write the goddamn story. But can it at least be agreed upon that there is someone amount of paradox (Oh, Great Paradox) that fiction is supposed to “deepen feeling” (which I do believe) and yet as a writer I’m supposed to be able to emotionally detach myself from it long enough to write multiple drafts?

Perhaps that’s the whole point of undergrad, to figure out how to view fiction so it doesn’t seem like some overwhelming, never-ending battle.  I’m working on it!

On a completely different note, I had a dream last night that Aaron, Beckley (I think), Nigel (maybe), and Nadia were at my Grandfather’s house.  He had a guillotine for some reason and then we beheaded Shakespeare.  In my dream, I saw Shakespeare’s fucking head get chopped off. EW.  Then I was trying to shake these little plush pokemon out of my flash drive and Nadia had two babies and one was named Dane.

End melodrama.

All my affections,

Liz

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