This has been a very long few weeks. First I get sick, then get better, only to be sick again. And then when I think it's all passed, I get sick. Again. I'm pretty sure it was the flu, in all its wonders, even though I got the flu shot, and even though I got sick from said shot a few weeks after. They guessed wrong on the flu this year, and I get to suffer for it. Let's just say it hasn't been a pleasant time, and I'm not sure if I'll ever get a flu shot again. I'm jaded by experience, what can I say.
In other news, my computer is sick as well. It seems that the connection between the screen and the computer (which is built into the monitor) is bad. So I'm having them send me a new refurbished computer because if this thing is already having problems, I don't want to think of what is to come.
That said, I probably won't be around much this week seeing as I won't have a computer. I'm just praying it will get resolved quickly, but if my hour-long conversation with several people at Apple trying to get them to send me a new computer is any gauge, I could be in for problems. Grrr . . .
P.S. I'm looking for suggestions on reading, but not just any book. At the moment I'm in the mood for a light, nice, romantic tale, preferably set in the present day in the U.S. or European country. Specific, I know, but I'm in one of those moods where nothing else seems to hit the spot. A few books I've read recently that fit the bill are Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allan, Stardust by Neil Gaimon, and I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith, to name a few. (These are all excellent books if you haven't read them, by the way.)
Please ease my suffering and give me suggestions. Something along these lines or a book that is utterly fantastic that I just have to read. I will be in your debt. (Sorry, it's late and I'm getting dramatic. It happens.)
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Epiphany
I've been going about it all wrong, for nearly all of my life, really. I always thought I had to be a perfect writer, a prodigy, a genius at the age of twenty-seven. One who never makes a mistake or inserts a comma in the wrong place. Oh, how that perfectionist and proud fool in me has hindered my work.
I was reading this evening in my latest acquisition, a book on writing called The Writing Life. Really, a collection of essays written by some of the greatest writers and minds of our time. I've been struck by their language, their seemingly effortless way of crafting words into thoughts of incomparable beauty. How I long to write like that!
Then I realized, after reading the words of Joanna Trollope, that I'm going at it backward: I can't expect myself to be perfect in writing because my pride is causing me to stumble. "But what [writers] forget," she says " . . . is that the writers who last, the writers whose writing is indeed their monument, not only have an essential benevolence, a fundamental affection for the human race, but also, more uncomfortably, possess a hefty dose of humility. Most writers—all but a very few in fact—are translators, not inventors, of language, and of life."
Even while writing this post, I mentally stumble over how I can place the words that would make it perfect, that would let people see how, in my humility, I possess the talent necessary to be a literary genius. But it is not so. I am no genius. I'm human, imperfect, and as flawed as anyone else. The only difference is I have a knack for writing, which doesn't even come from myself.
If I expect perfection in my writing I'll never attain it. It's a conundrum I'm finally seeing. I have to accept that my writing will have major flaws. That's okay. I won't say it perfectly every time. But if I keep at it, keep working without the expectation of mastering the art of the English language before I even reach my thirtieth birthday, then maybe—maybe—I might get somewhere, maybe even somewhere important.
But I have to stop trying to write the Great American Novel. I have to quelch those daydreams of winning the Pulitzer or, goodness knows, being the youngest writer to capture the Nobel Prize. It's not going to happen, folks, so deluding myself—even only in my dreams—is hurting me with false pretenses of grandeur.
Humility. I really need to work on that. I also need to work on not knowing everything, or even pretending I do. I've noticed some of my characters speak as if they have the wisdom of the ancients, but they don't, not really. All they have is the collected experiences of my still young life. Honestly, it's good to share with others the things I've learned, but I can't pretend anymore that I can solve the world's problems with a few well-placed words.
What I can do is tell a story. I can share what's in my heart. I can pour my passions and hungers, my pains and hopes out onto the page, and if someday someone decides that what I have to say matters to them, I've done more than I could ever hope to accomplish.
This can't be about me or my ego anymore. It has to be about the words and the sounds they make as I write them out on the page. And about the need to write, to get these thoughts and feelings down on the page so they finally make sense to me.
No more pride, only acceptance that I can only do so much. And that much, for me, is writing.
I was reading this evening in my latest acquisition, a book on writing called The Writing Life. Really, a collection of essays written by some of the greatest writers and minds of our time. I've been struck by their language, their seemingly effortless way of crafting words into thoughts of incomparable beauty. How I long to write like that!
Then I realized, after reading the words of Joanna Trollope, that I'm going at it backward: I can't expect myself to be perfect in writing because my pride is causing me to stumble. "But what [writers] forget," she says " . . . is that the writers who last, the writers whose writing is indeed their monument, not only have an essential benevolence, a fundamental affection for the human race, but also, more uncomfortably, possess a hefty dose of humility. Most writers—all but a very few in fact—are translators, not inventors, of language, and of life."
Even while writing this post, I mentally stumble over how I can place the words that would make it perfect, that would let people see how, in my humility, I possess the talent necessary to be a literary genius. But it is not so. I am no genius. I'm human, imperfect, and as flawed as anyone else. The only difference is I have a knack for writing, which doesn't even come from myself.
If I expect perfection in my writing I'll never attain it. It's a conundrum I'm finally seeing. I have to accept that my writing will have major flaws. That's okay. I won't say it perfectly every time. But if I keep at it, keep working without the expectation of mastering the art of the English language before I even reach my thirtieth birthday, then maybe—maybe—I might get somewhere, maybe even somewhere important.
But I have to stop trying to write the Great American Novel. I have to quelch those daydreams of winning the Pulitzer or, goodness knows, being the youngest writer to capture the Nobel Prize. It's not going to happen, folks, so deluding myself—even only in my dreams—is hurting me with false pretenses of grandeur.
Humility. I really need to work on that. I also need to work on not knowing everything, or even pretending I do. I've noticed some of my characters speak as if they have the wisdom of the ancients, but they don't, not really. All they have is the collected experiences of my still young life. Honestly, it's good to share with others the things I've learned, but I can't pretend anymore that I can solve the world's problems with a few well-placed words.
What I can do is tell a story. I can share what's in my heart. I can pour my passions and hungers, my pains and hopes out onto the page, and if someday someone decides that what I have to say matters to them, I've done more than I could ever hope to accomplish.
This can't be about me or my ego anymore. It has to be about the words and the sounds they make as I write them out on the page. And about the need to write, to get these thoughts and feelings down on the page so they finally make sense to me.
No more pride, only acceptance that I can only do so much. And that much, for me, is writing.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Six Confessions
Well, I've been tagged by my good friend Melissa. The assignment is to write six things about myself. That's nice and all, but I'm thinking I should spice it up a bit with six confessions. They aren't lurid by any means, but things most people won't know about me, nor probably care to know. Anyway, here goes.
1) Although I strongly deny any interest in celeb activities, I'm a closet fame-seeker. I've always been a news hound, and in public I've claimed to learn things of prurient interest for the sake of following current events. Really, I just like to know details about the people I secretly hope to know someday. Sad, oh so very sad.
2) In addition to my hidden fascination with celebrities, I try to keep quiet how much of a fantasy nerd I really am. Some of it recently poked its head out during Halloween when I dressed up in a medieval costume. If I could land myself in a fantasy book a la Inkspell, I'd be in heaven. Give me fantasy books, movies, daydreams, or whatever it is, and I eat it up. Though I doubt you'll get me to admit to my passion for all things mythical or magical, at least not out loud.
3) Speaking of magic, I would live in Harry Potter's world without a second thought. I've always wanted to perform magic, and deep down I wish it were real. I'm not talking about the purported witches in the world, but full-blown fantasy magic—wands, spells, and all. Life would be so much more interesting, and I'm pretty sure I'd be really good at it. Better, even, than Hermione.
4) One thing that I can do magically is make cookie dough disappear. Yes, this is another sad, sad confession. I will eat a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough, or even a bowl of brownie batter, in one sitting. (Which may account for my recent weight gain. Well, that and my desire for complete inactivity.)
5) And by inactive I mean that one of my life's dearest ambitions is to have a job where I can sleep in every day until my body is good and ready to get up. That's not always past noon, but so what if it is? I could stay up late and sleep when I want, and work when I feel the desire, or read, or watch movies. Ahh, wouldn't that be the life . . .
6) Of a writer, which is my other big dream. I want to be a world-famous author with time enough on my hands to write full time. Sales of my books would be large enough to support my rather opulent tastes, and all I'd have to do is wake up and go to work in my pajamas if I want. Oh, how sweet it all would be. Now if only I could finish that first novel. Sad how little things like writer's block get in the way of my ambitions.
Now, I know these revelations aren't terribly shocking, but they are also things I don't tell everyone. So, remember, this is all between us. No shouting my gluttonous behavior from the rooftops—or from the blogtops, either.
1) Although I strongly deny any interest in celeb activities, I'm a closet fame-seeker. I've always been a news hound, and in public I've claimed to learn things of prurient interest for the sake of following current events. Really, I just like to know details about the people I secretly hope to know someday. Sad, oh so very sad.
2) In addition to my hidden fascination with celebrities, I try to keep quiet how much of a fantasy nerd I really am. Some of it recently poked its head out during Halloween when I dressed up in a medieval costume. If I could land myself in a fantasy book a la Inkspell, I'd be in heaven. Give me fantasy books, movies, daydreams, or whatever it is, and I eat it up. Though I doubt you'll get me to admit to my passion for all things mythical or magical, at least not out loud.
3) Speaking of magic, I would live in Harry Potter's world without a second thought. I've always wanted to perform magic, and deep down I wish it were real. I'm not talking about the purported witches in the world, but full-blown fantasy magic—wands, spells, and all. Life would be so much more interesting, and I'm pretty sure I'd be really good at it. Better, even, than Hermione.
4) One thing that I can do magically is make cookie dough disappear. Yes, this is another sad, sad confession. I will eat a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough, or even a bowl of brownie batter, in one sitting. (Which may account for my recent weight gain. Well, that and my desire for complete inactivity.)
5) And by inactive I mean that one of my life's dearest ambitions is to have a job where I can sleep in every day until my body is good and ready to get up. That's not always past noon, but so what if it is? I could stay up late and sleep when I want, and work when I feel the desire, or read, or watch movies. Ahh, wouldn't that be the life . . .
6) Of a writer, which is my other big dream. I want to be a world-famous author with time enough on my hands to write full time. Sales of my books would be large enough to support my rather opulent tastes, and all I'd have to do is wake up and go to work in my pajamas if I want. Oh, how sweet it all would be. Now if only I could finish that first novel. Sad how little things like writer's block get in the way of my ambitions.
Now, I know these revelations aren't terribly shocking, but they are also things I don't tell everyone. So, remember, this is all between us. No shouting my gluttonous behavior from the rooftops—or from the blogtops, either.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Revisions
I've been meaning to do this for a while but hadn't quite got around to it: I've finally posted the revised first chapter for my novel-in-progress Surviving Eden. Please take a moment to look it over and offer helpful remarks or criticism.
If you haven't taken the time to read it, I think you'll find it enjoyable. I've only got about five or six chapters posted at the moment, so it isn't very long. I hope you like it.
If you haven't taken the time to read it, I think you'll find it enjoyable. I've only got about five or six chapters posted at the moment, so it isn't very long. I hope you like it.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Quote of the day
Kate: I wish there was a cookbook for life, with recipes telling you exactly what to do.
Therapist: You know better than anyone. It's the recipes you create yourself that are the best.
—No Reservations
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Is it a fancy or a feeling?
I thought I knew what love was, once upon a time. I felt it burn within me, and was glad for the exhilaration. But then I never realized my heart could get broken so severely and so fast, either. Since then, I've had to rethink my idea of what love really is, end even if I've ever really loved.
With all this talk of Valentine's Day—diamonds, chocolates, roses, and countless other gifts that supposedly mean you are loved—I wonder sometimes if I haven't bought into the common perception of love. When a man loves you, the story goes, he will do anything for you. You are his sun, his moon, his stars. Never mind that he has a life that goes on without you and you are only a part of the great whole. No, he must drop everything to be at your side, shower you with presents, and constantly whisper sweet nothings in you ear, or he does not really love you.
Have I experienced this kind of love? No, not by a long shot. Will I ever? Maybe. But do I really want it? I can't say that I do.
I want someone who loves me for who I am—flaws, imperfections, quirks, and all. I want someone who is willing to tell me when I'm being a fool but love me all the same. I want a relationship that can stand up to burnt dinners, foolish mistakes, and protracted silences. I want someone as imperfect as me, but who wants to be better because I want to be better.
Love isn't a perfect thing or idea or feeling. It changes, it grows. It waxes and wanes. But most of all, it fits the characters and passions of those who possess it.
I have to remind myself that, though I long for a storybook romance, it's not likely to ever happen because it wouldn't be me. And it probably wouldn't be the man I fall in love with either. Love at first sight isn't my style. I just don't have it in me to be sappy sweet lovey dovey all the time. I would end up disgusted with myself more likely than not.
What I need is a best friend. A companion. A confidant and lover. He needs to cheer with me when I'm up but there to carry me when I'm down. I need someone who will sit with me as I read and won't mind that I constantly interrupt his own reading with a funny tidbit or philosophical commentary from my book. I need someone who is continually learning, but who, more importantly, appreciates my own passions.
All my foibles with love have taught me that love isn't a one-size-fits-all deal you can pick up at the nearest Wal-Mart. It is individualized, it grows, it changes with the people we are and will become.
I wouldn't want the juvenile adoration Romeo and Juliet clung to till the bitter end, nor would I want the bond-breaking passion or Lancelot and Guinevere. I need the love that fits me. I'm realizing now that I might not figure out which type of love I need until I find the person who completes it—and me.
Until then, I keep loving: myself, my friends, my family, and all those I meet. It's good practice for the love that I'm hoping will eventually come.
With all this talk of Valentine's Day—diamonds, chocolates, roses, and countless other gifts that supposedly mean you are loved—I wonder sometimes if I haven't bought into the common perception of love. When a man loves you, the story goes, he will do anything for you. You are his sun, his moon, his stars. Never mind that he has a life that goes on without you and you are only a part of the great whole. No, he must drop everything to be at your side, shower you with presents, and constantly whisper sweet nothings in you ear, or he does not really love you.
Have I experienced this kind of love? No, not by a long shot. Will I ever? Maybe. But do I really want it? I can't say that I do.
I want someone who loves me for who I am—flaws, imperfections, quirks, and all. I want someone who is willing to tell me when I'm being a fool but love me all the same. I want a relationship that can stand up to burnt dinners, foolish mistakes, and protracted silences. I want someone as imperfect as me, but who wants to be better because I want to be better.
Love isn't a perfect thing or idea or feeling. It changes, it grows. It waxes and wanes. But most of all, it fits the characters and passions of those who possess it.
I have to remind myself that, though I long for a storybook romance, it's not likely to ever happen because it wouldn't be me. And it probably wouldn't be the man I fall in love with either. Love at first sight isn't my style. I just don't have it in me to be sappy sweet lovey dovey all the time. I would end up disgusted with myself more likely than not.
What I need is a best friend. A companion. A confidant and lover. He needs to cheer with me when I'm up but there to carry me when I'm down. I need someone who will sit with me as I read and won't mind that I constantly interrupt his own reading with a funny tidbit or philosophical commentary from my book. I need someone who is continually learning, but who, more importantly, appreciates my own passions.
All my foibles with love have taught me that love isn't a one-size-fits-all deal you can pick up at the nearest Wal-Mart. It is individualized, it grows, it changes with the people we are and will become.
I wouldn't want the juvenile adoration Romeo and Juliet clung to till the bitter end, nor would I want the bond-breaking passion or Lancelot and Guinevere. I need the love that fits me. I'm realizing now that I might not figure out which type of love I need until I find the person who completes it—and me.
Until then, I keep loving: myself, my friends, my family, and all those I meet. It's good practice for the love that I'm hoping will eventually come.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
I could be a Beauty
In an effort to put some excitement into my life, I've decided to audition for the musical my city puts on every summer. I couldn't have been more excited when I heard what musical they were doing: Beauty and the Beast.
Now, I may be an unknown, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't choose me, so I'd like to elaborate on all the reasons why I should be Belle (ahem, pay attention if you're on the casting committee):
1. Belle is my favorite Disney heroine because she has a mind of her own.
2. I have brownish hair, which I am also willing to grow out and dye.
3. I already have most of the songs and scenes memorized.
4. I'm not ugly (though there are probably other much prettier girls aiming for this part).
5. Reading is my passion, and I most assuredly "have [my] nose stuck in a book."
6. My singing voice compares very well with Belle's, and I'm definitely in the same vocal range.
7. I've got attitude (to spare, some might say).
8. I dream of adventure.
9. Just because I should.
Now, though these are great reasons, I do have to contend with the fact that I haven't auditioned for anything since high school, which was, oh, about 10 years ago. I still sing frequently, but my acting skills are a touch rusty, you might say.
Even if I don't get the lead, though, it might be fun dressing up like a fork or a chair and dancing around without injuring myself or others. Plus it'll be something to keep myself busy—very busy, I should say—for three months during the spring/early summer.
Wish me luck!
Now, I may be an unknown, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't choose me, so I'd like to elaborate on all the reasons why I should be Belle (ahem, pay attention if you're on the casting committee):
1. Belle is my favorite Disney heroine because she has a mind of her own.
2. I have brownish hair, which I am also willing to grow out and dye.
3. I already have most of the songs and scenes memorized.
4. I'm not ugly (though there are probably other much prettier girls aiming for this part).
5. Reading is my passion, and I most assuredly "have [my] nose stuck in a book."
6. My singing voice compares very well with Belle's, and I'm definitely in the same vocal range.
7. I've got attitude (to spare, some might say).
8. I dream of adventure.
9. Just because I should.
Now, though these are great reasons, I do have to contend with the fact that I haven't auditioned for anything since high school, which was, oh, about 10 years ago. I still sing frequently, but my acting skills are a touch rusty, you might say.
Even if I don't get the lead, though, it might be fun dressing up like a fork or a chair and dancing around without injuring myself or others. Plus it'll be something to keep myself busy—very busy, I should say—for three months during the spring/early summer.
Wish me luck!
Thursday, February 14, 2008
News, news
Ah, Valentine's Day. It's the one holiday I've never really celebrated, i.e. I've never had a valentine before. Sad, I know, but that's life.
However, I did have a pleasant day. We had a little potluck buffet at work, and boy, did I eat way too much. It all tasted wonderful, so I'm not terribly upset. Honestly, Valentine's isn't Valentine's without conversation hearts and sugar cookies overburdened by frosting. Mmmm . . .
I will say that I am trying to be much better with my eating habits. I've also started going to the gym, oh, just about every day. Well, five days a week, but who's counting. I am, actually. I'd rather the number were six, but I don't think my body can take it at the moment. I haven't, well really, ever, exercised this frequently in my life (so very sad, I know). Here's to hoping it sticks, or rather, that I stick with it.
Eating healthier is also a priority, but today is an exception rather than the rule. I'm allowing myself a free day a week so I don't go crazy with being good. (And that only applies to food.) So today was definitely my day for being bad, but oh, it felt so good.
In other news. . . I honestly can't remember the last time I posted, so forgive me if I repeat myself, but I've had a lot of fun and exciting things happen this year. Back in January a friend and I went up to Park City for Sundance again, and this year we actually saw a movie. But not just any showing. We went to the world premiere of Diminished Capacity, Matthew Broderick and Alan Alda's new movie. (I saw that to make myself feel special. Like I'll ever go to a movie premiere again in my life.) It was really fun, though, because all the stars were there, as well as Sarah Jessica Parker, who I kept getting confused with someone else. Don't ask me how. I took pics, but everyone turned out the size of pin pricks, so I can't imagine you'd want to see those. In all, it was plenty fun but very much on the cold side.
And my latest and greatest news? I got a Mac! An iMac, to be specific, and I'm completely loving it. It's refurbished, so it's not the newest model, but I love it all the same. I just finished watching a movie on it, and the quality is incredible. I'm so used to watching films on my old computer, which didn't even come close, dinosaur that it was. (No, I don't have a t.v., and I can't say I miss much since I watch flicks on my computer.)
It is also blessedly fast and easy to use. Honestly, I don't know how PC users do it anymore, not with Macs available. Convert, I tell you! You'll be glad you did.
So that's about it from me. I'm hoping now that I have a wonderful, fast, beautiful computer that I'll be back to blogging much more frequently. I hate shutting it off every night, it's so perfect. Sad that I've fallen in love with a computer, but with no man in my life, I've got to fill it with something, right? At least my Mac will do everything I tell it to and won't talk back. I wonder if Apple makes men? I'd get me one of those.
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