She really does, you know. She may not know how huge the donkey balls that she sucks truly are, but she sucks them nonetheless.
Allow me to explain. “Ally Arkallian” is a made up name, to protect the poor girl from googling herself as a whim some day and finding out how much she sucks, but she is very much a real person. She’s a little older than me, and the daughter of a close friend of my dad. She’s a lesbian also, or possibly bisexual, and last I heard she was trying to become a writer.
A writer, of all things. She takes classes and I’ve always fancied her a sort of nemesis. A sort of alernate Vanessa, the slightly less crazy, slightly less flaky daughter of my Dad’s slightly more successful, slightly wealthier friend Mitchell.
The thing is, though, that she sucks. I’m way more talented, also prettier and thinner, and everything about her that is silly and flaky is, in me, true life difficulty and/or serious artistic pupose.
I found a book of her short stories on the kitchen table when my parents left for Italy. Her VANITY PRESS book. Her SELF PUBLISHED book. This is important. I would never write stupid garden-variety short stories about relationships that could substitute for any moderately competent set of stories by any MFA on the East coast. If I wrote such uninteresting derivitive BS I certainly wouldn’t pay money to publish my own book. If I couldn’t sell my stories I’d write better ones.
This girl is everything I hate and fear about myself while at the same time being somehow someone I’m jealous of or trying to measure up to. And she doesn’t even know it!
(of course, the fact that I make up elaborate scenarios, back stories, and motivations for her is just further proof that I am a true writer and artist, and she’s just the shallow vain rich stuck up self delusional SUCKY person my imagination has turned her into)
Yesterday I had my 1st of 4 writing workshops, and one of the exercises was to create a character as a group and then everyone wrote using that character. Thought it would be fun to show you what I did with the male, 49 year old, unemployed former botanist with a pet groundhog and a fixation about weeds named Gigantor.
Gigantor, weed killer, stood astride the Clements’ garden like a colossus. There were weeds here, aye, weeds aplenty and large enough to require gloves upon a lesser mortal. Never Gigantor, nay, he pulled the weeds barehanded from the Clements, yes and from the Marshal’s and from the Rajensanjays. These labors he performs for nothing, for he is too much a man to bother over payment. A word of gratitude and some fresh baked scones or curry or a muffin were all that he expected.
For the dandelions he felt a certain kinship even as he grasped and yanked and vanquished them. Their silly puffball heads inspired bleak despair in men with rusty grumbling lawnmowers, aye, but pure delight in little children.
Deep inside the perimeter of the Clements acre plot he came upon the Ivy. Ivy, poison, dreaded rash-inducing menace, bane of his existence. He looked down upon the Ivy with disdain as he contemplated the hubris he’d shown before, forgoing garden gloves. Once proud he now stood humbled by the one weed even the mighty former botanist Gigantor couldn’t approach without some hesitance.
To Hell with it! If rash he was to face then face it he would with steel and strength and fortitude. He’d grasp it, aye, and pull it out and damn to hell the consequences. No meek creature he to go and ask the Clements for some gardening gloves. Besides, they’d gone to Orchard Beach for the long weekend.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: creative writing, eating disorders, writing
Quick post, as update and sharing of little insights. Things continue to go well with me, the weather is a big part of that. Being in Bedford with a car is a nice change, and I can’t wait for when my brother comes, in about another week he’ll be here!
Eating disorder update, briefly, for a while my pattern was something like 2 days, oops, 2 days oops, 3 days oops, 4 days oops, 2 days oops, etc. Now its more like 3 days oops, 4 days oops, 5 days oops, 3 days. My face is looking decidedly more human, but weight remains distressingly high and might be climbing, though.
My writing is going well, I’m deep in to my new Psychohistory story, and on Saturday I’m going to a workshop in person run by my online teacher and then later on Saturday I’m going to be reading my story for a group she gets together to do readings of short stories and poetry once a month.
I feel I’m learning a lot about writing, and also that I’ve passed a milestone now that I’m able to write longer things that don’t feel tentative or open ended. The trick, it seems to me, is to pay full attention to all the writerly stuff like dialogue and character and description while also being simultaneously aware that in order for something to be interesting to read you have to have things actually happening- plot, or whatever. Balancing the two makes for good writing, while too much focus on either one or the other is a problem.
What to write about? I’m not doing fiction on the blog much lately, after having recently learned how to write short-story length short stories. And I’ve stopped writing about the big bad eating disorder on the theory that if things are going well (they are!!!) it’s best not to do anything that might upset the balance. So I figured I might write a little about the new story I’ve started and the ideas I have for it.
For those that don’t know science fiction, one of the big names in sci fi is Isaac Asimov. Asimov was a favorite of mine in my early teens, and I even had a subscription to “Asimov’s Science Fiction” which was a magaazine of short sci-fi stories.
One of Asimov’s most successful series was the Foundation Novels. The first few were sets of shorter stories, and later on some of them were ordinary novels. The Foundation books began with the idea that the Galactic Empire was on the verge of collapse, and one man figured this out ahead of time and set a plan in place to limit the damage after the collapse occured. This man was Hari Seldon, and he worked out a mathematics of Psychohistory which was what allowed him to predict and shape the future.
My new story began with a character, the tempermental genius. I thought about writing a story about a genius who is revered by the general population but is very difficult for those closest to him. It’s not a new idea of course, the tempermental genius is an archetypal character.
The direction I decided to go on was to make this genius character a revised version of Hari Seldon, and have him discover Psychohistory in the present, at MIT, in Boston. I decided to look at him mostly through the eyes of a woman who both studies under him and becomes romantically attached to him.
I like the idea of re-imagining a classic character and maybe putting a bit of a feminist take on him. All my heroes, I’ve recently realized, are male writers. Many of them write in ways that totally by accident end up either not including women or devaluing them. I also like the idea of bringing Psychohistory back because these days we have so many doomsayers, so many people predicting our imminent collapse and destruction. Is it all hysteria, and can we as non-scientists even know what’s really to be feared and what’s just, you know, Swine Flu aka the Porky Sniffles?
I began a new story today, based on a couple little fragments I saved in case I wanted to connect them up with anything. My new story idea features a reimagining of the classic Isaac Asimov character Hari Seldon, founder of Psychohistory, in modern day America.
I’d like to have the story done in about a month long time horizon, which would fit with my newly emerging pattern of writing a short story in about a month, with about another month to re-edit and look for places to submit for publication.
I even started an excel spreadsheet, with story titles and the publications and dates each one is submitted. I have now submitted four stories, total. A shortened version of “instructions,” a finished and edited version of my “Stowaway’s Tale,” “Beachcombing/Becoming” which is the story I wrote for class about the boy that finds a dead fairy, and “Adams and Molecules” which takes place entirely in the familiar modern world and is about two boys in high school. I’ve figured out the place I want to send my fifth story “World Without History,” but their submissions don’t open until June 1st and I’m taking my time in editing.
One crucial part of all this frenzy of sending out as many things as possible is so that by the time I get my first rejection I’ll be already committed, other pieces will be out there in the world, and giving up prematurely will be off the table before it’s even become an option. Another part is just that I feel the need to have a submissions routine similar to my daily writing discipline. If I expect myself to submit something once a month and this becomes part of the “job” of being a writer the actual outcome of any one story fades in importance.
Part of me still doesn’t quite believe I’m really doing this. You see, I think from early on I imagined being a fiction writer. I remember having a vague idea about it in 2nd grade when I was learning to love reading and how to write things down. I remember wanting it in 5th grade, and in 7th grade, and I also remember feeling that this wasn’t practical. It was aiming too high, thinking too highly of myself, asking too much of the universe.
In a way it feels like for the past 10 years or so I’ve been trying to unlearn this lesson in pragmatism. Now although I’m not published I’m taking more of the steps that most aspiring writers don’t quite get to. The part where you formally announce to the universe, by way of submitting work for publication, that youwould like your dreams to please be taken seriously.
Please, Mr. Universe, I’d like s’ more.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Wow, so my missing cat story had quite a dramatic ending. Also a happy one, so as not to keep you in too much suspense.
What happened is that I was driving home from having tea with a friend today and when I turned up my street I saw a squashed-looking mass of orange (color of my cat? orange). It’s a bad corner and I couldn’t stop or turn back easily to look closer, so I went on home and by the time I’d turned into my driveway I was 100% sure that there was no other explanation than that Rusty had been hit by a car on the road near my house sometime after he’d got lost. I believed this so completely that before turning around to go and look I took the precaution of going into my house to get gloves and a cardboard box so that I could get his body and bring it back to bury it.
So, I’m pretty upset as you can no doubt imagine. I get the box and gloves from the garage and as I do I notice a bit of animal poo at the very edge of the garage. I wonder briefly about it, whether it was the dog’s, who has been known to get locked in the garage by accident, or if somehow the cat might have been responsible but remember, in my mind the body of the cat is definitely waiting down the road and I’m distracted by the thought of retrieving his car-squashed remains in another minute or so.
I drive back, park a little ways away, and venture on to the road with rubber gloves and box in hand, only to find to my relief that there is a roughly animal-sized mound of twigs and dried pine needles that could easily look like a dead animal from the road, but is actually nothing of the kind.
Of course, the fact that Rusty isn’t asphalt jerky doesn’t mean he’s safe or found or even still alive, just that I don’t have to scrape him off the pavement. Even so, on the drive back a very faint hope starts to stir inside of me. That poo, that lovely fresh (possibly) cat scat that I saw on the way out of my garage. Is it possible that last night, when I opened the garage to go out into the dark to try and find my kitty that he somehow ran into the garage while I was out calling his name and foolishly holding a dish of cat food out to the darkness? Is it possible that once he did this he did not make me aware of his presence when I shut the garage door last night, thus locking him safely in the house over night instead of outside with the foxes and coyotes?
I get home, go inside, put away my bottles of diet coke, pat the dog, and go downstairs where the door between the house and the garage is. I open the door and in streaks Rusty, very much alive, albeit hungry after missing both last nights dinner and this morning’s breakfast.
I’m still not completely sure how or when he got inside without my noticing, but I’m certainly not going to argue with the outcome. God, I officially apologize for all the things I’ve said about cats in general and this one in particular. Thanks for not squooshing him, I really appreciate. I owe you one, big guy in the sky.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: creative writing, house sitting, missing cats, writing
Well, just to keep the blog limping along I thought I’d post a sort of general update.
First off; still doing well with the whole not-throwing up thing. On the theory that the least said the better I’m not going to over analyze it.
Next item: I’m staying at my parents house in the burbs for the next 6 weeks. The dog needs taking care of, and (huge bonus!) my brother will be along in a couple weeks and I’ll get tons of catch up time with him! hoorah! Also, I’ll have access to a car and will get to go to some in person writing workshops every other Saturday with the teacher of my online classes.
Which leads to: writing, coming along very nicely. I’ve completed 2 new stories, one a sci-fi about a world trying to erase its history, one an actual real-life kind of deal about 2 boys in high school. No laser blasts or centaurs or robot aliens or anything! I’m now moving on to looking for places to submit things and trying to get everything nicely finished and edited before sending them off. This way by the time I get my first rejection I’ll have another 2 stories submitted and be totally committed to the idea, meaning that a little rejection will have no power to derail me. Hopefully.
last point: sad thing. opened door for dog last night and out ran kitty cat. Tried looking but too dark to find him, left food on doorstep, no sign of him this morning. Miss cat, annoyed with self for not being more careful.
Still, overall I’m in good spirits. A little tired from not sleeping well due to cat situation but in the end I know I can’t change what happened and have to be sensible. If I find him, good, if I can’t it’s best to imagine him finding a new family and living happily ever after and not go crazy over it.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I’m often not sure whether my father doesn’t think that highly of me or if he just cares about protecting me. This applies particularly to writing but can be seen in all the corners of our relationship, from when I was fat and he wanted me to be thin to when I was crazy and he wanted me to lower my expectations for myself, to now with, as I say, my writing.
I think he may be afraid to encourge me too much, because he doesn’t want me to get my hopes up in terms of publication. Or maybe he just doesn’t think I’m all that good. It’s hard to tell, you know? If someone reads something you wrote and says things like “huh” and says noncommital things or, most often, changes the subjects to that of his personal favorite authors.
I understand if he doesn’t think I can become an actual real life author, not because of lack of talent but because there aren’t that many paying authorial gigs open. I understand if he wants me not to get my hopes up, only to have them dashed. That said, the more noncommital he is the more desperately I want to write something that impresses him.
Today I sent my parents my recently completed story about a world trying to erase its history. My dad called me right away when he had finished it, before my mother even read it. He said he’d wanted to call and tell me how much he loved it, how he couldn’t put it down once he had started it.
I know my writing’s good, you know? I don’t actually need anyone to tell me, I’m confident enough to tell myself it is. And yet, the approval of one’s daddy is something special. I always know he loves me, but the feeling of being respected is something precious that I treasure.
Filed under: Uncategorized
My stats are showing somebody searching things related to people in my real life, from years ago. Things like “vive 42 Jenn killed” as an example.
I had a friend who died last year, named Jenn, who overdosed. If there’s someone else that knew her and cares about her and remembers her I’d love to know them. If they’d like to email me? If they’d rather not I understand, and hope they’re honoring her memory. She deserves it and I thank them for bringing her so vividly back to my own mind through their searching.
Filed under: fiction | Tags: Africa, flash fiction, short story, story, traditional medicine
You come to accuse me. You people search my shelves and take things away and perhaps one day soon you come back and we walk together with you behind me and my wrists in handcuffs.
Sit. Your compatriot may take a while and we might as well be comfortable while we wait for him. Will you take tea?
Please do not compound your insult of my age and my position by refusing hospitality. Here. Take the cup.
There was a time when a boy like you would come with respect and ask for things to help him with his problems. If he wanted to be strong or to make babies or simply to ask advice about a problem a boy like you would come in supplication and ask my father for his medicines and his advice and for his wisdom. I remember I would mix the potions and see the fear that people had for him. They wouldn’t dare to come in with silly uniforms and guns and make him sit while they ransacked his storage shelves. Then the doctors came with their own medicines and their own gods to steal our people from us.
You disagree? You think their medicines are powerful and ours are old, outmoded, superstitious? You are a fool. You never stop and ask yourself why the same doctors that say our medicines don’t work are the ones that say we mustn’t use the rhino or the tiger or the elephant.
My father hated them. He told me not to trust the colonisers. He told me not to let the people go into their clinics. I know now that I was vain and foolish when my father died and I replaced him. The doctors came and lied to me and asked me questions pretending to be interested. The doctors of the colonizers with their clever ways of putting things made me think that we could be in harmony if I allowed some cases of severe sickness to be treated by their medicines. Do I deny their medicines have power in certain areas? Of course not. To do so would be foolish, and I am not a fool like you and your fellow officers.
Think. Once the doctors were allowed to treat the sickest ones, the little child whose mother was crying over him, the hunter who came upon a wild boar by accident and might have died without their surgeries, the women began to love them and the men began to trust them. I felt concern at the old ways becoming less respected but even I believed they might be trusted. Then they began to take away my medicines.
The strongest medicine must be made from the strongest animals. That is the logic of the old ways. That is the secret that we used to serve our people down the generations. When their doctors came they told me my ways would be respected. They lied and said my medicines could be used alongside the newer methods they were introducing. If I had no cure for one disease, they might have no way to cure another and together we could serve the people better. They were silver tongued liars from the start, you see, because once the people began to trust them they began to make my cures illegal. They told the people that no longer could we hunt for certain animals. The animals that they chose for this so-called protection were the same that happened to be necessary for my medicine. You see how clever these colonisers are, these thieves and liars that have convinced you come here to arrest me?
I don’t expect you’ll realize your foolishness. I was a fool at your age. I’ve told you how I became foolish, how I didn’t listen to my elders and heed the warnings not to trust the white men who called themselves doctors and scientists.
I am a scientist too now and I’ve done much research into the topic of the ways of the colonisers. My research tells me that the people are becoming destitute, that they starve and fight with one another and die in numbers greater than once did in my father’s time. My research tells me that where once we had a village now we have a wasteland of lost souls and misery.
If I had my medicines perhaps I could find cures for such soul sickness. Instead they will be taken to a lab and when a trace of bone from an endangered species of frog is found you will come back and take me with you to a prison cell.
Perhaps the frog will thank you. I will take my cup back now. I see your partner here is finishing and it seems he’s found something he doesn’t like much. Shall I go quietly, or would you like to handcuff me?
