aunt sandy is coming for a visit ...

I'll admit it:  I love hurricane names. I especially love when the worst ones are given pleasant names. "Irene" at least sounds like the bitchy old lady next door who tries to poison your dog when it won't stop barking. But "Sandy" sounds like a friendly aunt who comes to visit a few times per year and always gifts you the toys your parents can't afford for Christmas.

I plan to get a lot of work done today. I didn't think I would, but I got the itch to type when I opened up my computer. Let's hope the hurricane produces a maelstrom of ideas -- especially the ones I need to finish my website (which is launching, let's hope, on Friday this week ... after SIX LONG YEARS)! At this point, like any hurricane worth its salt, this very unread blog might die ... or at least change direction.

tiny excerpts

Because I can't think of anything interesting to write about (save maybe the fact that an entire night spent awake watching TV with a favorite on Friday was confusingly punctuated by a Dusty Rhodes documentary at 9 a.m. -- none of which was interesting), I will post a tiny excerpt from a very rough essay book chapter I'm working on currently (and I hope to finish this at some point this week, along with at least one other thing):

"My bad bike karma began innocuously, with some unimpressive tumbles on breezy, traffic-free residential side streets. My mom, dad and sister took family bike rides on crisp spring and hot summer weekends to a semi-secret meadow of honeysuckles and lilacs, even though everyone in my family was desperately allergic. The blossoms stared at us all in a row, the entrance to a long field that seemed untouched despite being the dividing border between two neighborhoods. Sometimes we would walk our bikes across the field, entering into the alternate universe of the houses just behind ours, which we could usually only glimpse through the narrow slats of our backyard fence. (Years later, my mother would break down and excitedly plant a lilac bush in our very own backyard. I imagine the ashes of my childhood shaggy dog, Cindy, are still buried there, unbeknownst to new owners.) On the way back or to the lilacs, I would sometimes end up laid out on the hood of a car or thrown into a cozy patch of grass at the request of my awkwardly-pedaling limbs."

 

the continuation of inspiration

Today, my drive to do things continues. I have been trying to continue the precious feeling of non-rushed calm that I tried to cultivate while I was in Chicago for almost a month from mid-September - mid-October. I actually find I get less done when I worry about some of the meaningless details about career advancement and general accomplishment -- like how many pages or notes of creative content I should be writing in a day, when the last minute I can finish a transcription is before I'm deemed lazy, when I need to start writing a bio for someone. I sit and spin my wheels for days, feeling guilty about watching TV or anything I do that is not directly contributing to my output.

No more.

Why don't I just wake up and write something ... anything? The worst that can happen is something semi brilliant.

In other news, I want, I want, I want ...

Also, I need to finish my bio and other website content.

And finally, my sister turns 40 today, and I feel this has to be impossible. 

I suffer therefore I write ... therefore, am I?

This cliche question brought to you by my realization (and I know all writers realize this at some point) that sometimes the only time I can create poignant/heartbreaking/affecting writing is when I am miserable. Actually, it's not really when I am miserable that I can create, rather when my heart, mind and soul (and bank account) are in limbo. This state of being is pretty much the definition of existential misery.

I hate waiting. And I have been doing it my whole life ... or at least for the past 11-12 years.

If I am basically satisfied with my life, will I stop noticing interesting things in the world and stop being capable of stringing words together that mean anything?

When I feel less of myself, I seek to find more of it in language. When I feel more myself, I feel no need to reaffirm my connection to the planet through words.

It's stupid, simple and complicated, all at the same time.

I am currently pushing to get my website up so I can feel that I have accomplished something rather than am just keeping myself alive. I also need to get back on the "approaching agents" horse. I went through a bit of a freshly-rejected period (after getting some rejections, none of which implicated I was anything but a fantastic writer) where I didn't want to do anything with that part of my life.

Then again, emptiness is hard to fill with more emptiness.