Winter: The Time for Home

"Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home." - Edith Sitwell 

 During the spring, I lost my motivation to write. First I just stare at a blank word processor screen. I watched the little cursor blink on the draft of my blog post and couldn't find anything to say. I made excuses about writer's block and came up with reasons to stall the fantasy manuscript I had started penning. 

In the summer, I stopped trying at all. Instead, I spent the days working and the evenings going out for frozen yogurt and meeting up with my boyfriend and attending English literature class at Hunter College. I spent the weekends jogging -- making my way from a measly two miles at 13 minutes per mile to five miles at 10 minutes per mile. Todd and I traveled to Cape Cod, where we biked nearly 20 miles on the Shining Sea Bikeway from Woods Hole to North Falmouth. The sun warmed the skin, the sky blazed a glorious blue, and the fresh air beckoned me away from my laptop.

At the end of August, I hurt my back. I don't know how, but since then I've barely been able to exercise. I've found myself avoiding the chill weather by snuggling under blankets indoors. Today, I realized just how long it's been since I've written anything at all. I also remembered that November is National Novel Writing Month. So I decided to write something, and to keep writing again. Maybe I won't type out a whole novel in one very busy month, but I will at least try to start up blogging again. I don't want to lose the other activities I enjoy, like exercising or eating healthy or making time to read or cooking or planning a trip to Florida or learning or studying languages or clipping articles out of magazines, but I do want to regain my inspiration to write, even if I have to go about it one word at a time. Slowly, but surely, I'll find my way back home this winter.

Excited about my first blog post in about half a year.

The Thanksgiving Spirit

Happy Thanksgiving to anyone following this blog! My lengthy absence has finally ceased. With the next two days off from work and a half-day today, I can post to my heart's content... in between all the schoolwork I have for the two classes that I'm currently taking (Literary Theory and Fundamentals of Copyediting and Proofreading, but more about those another time) and the website that I'm trying to create (I'll update you as soon as it's ready). Now to get to my actual post...

This year,I'd like to list the top 10 things I'm thankful for in my life. So here goes. I am thankful...

... that I have a loving family to support me.

... that my boyfriend is the best in the world.

... that our relationship hasn't lost its spark.

... that my family and friends remain healthy and safe.

... that we survived hurricane Sandy with minimal damage.

... that Obama got reelected president.

... that great literature exists.

... that I have a roof over my head and a steady job that I enjoy.

... that I can afford to attend classes and continue learning.

... that I haven't forgotten all of my Hungarian language skills.

What are you thankful for? I'd love to hear from you and share our stories!

Happy Birthday, Hemingway!

Today is the birthday of Ernest Hemingway, author of many works, most notably The Old Man and the Sea, The Sun Also Rises, and A Farewell to Arms. I've recently finished a spree of reading all of his novels, and I'm now reading a biography on Hemingway by Kenneth S. Lynn. The biography further confirms the sense that one gets, while reading, that much of Hemingway's material was grounded in his own life and personal experiences--even though this action was something he strictly preached that good writers shouldnt' do.

But despite his violation of his own rule, Hemingway is--in my estimation, at least--still a very good writer. While some of his novels, like To Have and Have Not, had me hoping it would end sooner rather than later, the good ones were very good. With stark prose and a short, choppy rythm, Hemingway could describe a scene more fulfillingly than a painter could paint it. His characters are always human. His vocabulary often had me looking up words in the dictionary. His endings always left a sour taste in the mouth but a certainty in the gut that that was, in fact, the only ending, and that anything else would have been cheating the story.

I never used to like Hemingway, but after reading through all of his novels, I've changed my mind. I'd encourage everyone who scoffs at him to just give him one more chance. At the very least, his works give an insight into the mind of a writer, the writer, and in his memoir, A Moveable Feast, he gives all writers some philosophical techniques to think about and, perhaps, improve.

I Am Alive

Is this what a fisherman feels when he’s hauled in his day’s catch, with the carp and the marlin salted on the floor of the skiff? When he brings his boat ashore and the others stare at his haul, does he feel pride for his catch? Or does he think that it’s all in a day’s work, and does he plan to go out the next day and bring in the same, so that he can support his family, or just himself? The fisherman doesn’t worry when the line leaves scars in his palms or slices open his skin, or when the fish pull him in circles for so long that he’s exhausted and bent. The fisherman doesn’t worry and he doesn’t complain. He just prepares his bait and baits his hooks and takes each day at a time, each hour and each minute and each second waiting for the telltale pull on the line. 

I've been absent for quite a while recently, reading Hemingway and trying to work on a new novel. I still have to edit the draft manuscript of the last novel I'd been working on, but I think I need a break from that, time to let it marinate in my brain for a while. This new one is about a group of four friends who travel to Hungary together using the money that one friend inherited from her great grandmother's death. But one of the friends has a secret, and he has to tell the others before it's too late. 

In other news, the May issue of The CPA Journal is complete and has been sent to the printers, so we should be getting that in at work any day now. Aside from work, I've been spending time with Todd. We're going to see a We Were Promised Jetpacks concert this weekend on our 1 year and 8 month-iversary. I'll post some music and pictures at a later date. And more about my longest relationship ever at a later date too. Suffice to say, I'm still incredibly happy with him. <3

To end this mini update, here's an interesting article I read in the New York Times this morning about abandoned silos in Kansas that have acted like incubators for trees and now dot the prairie.

Understanding

“I sat beside Brett and explained to her what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charge the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always work to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero’s cape-work and why she did not like the others.”

- Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

A Date With Creativity

Let's spend a midnight in Paris
walking all the same streets
as the classic literary greats --
     On this side of paradise, we hold hands.
     We watch the tender night give way.
     As the sun rises we kiss and part.
     We bid a farewell to arms that kept us warm.

Oscar

So a short story I wrote has been featured as today's story of the day on the Fiction365 website. It's about a man and his semi-estranged wife. Check it out here.

Writing Short Stories

I used to abhor short story writing; there weren't enough plots and subplots and the page limit filled me with anxiety. But recently, I've decided to try my hand at writing some short stories, and although I've only got one or two so far, I'm going to persist with it. If you have any tips on writing short stories to share with me, please leave me some comments! 

For now, I'll post the first paragraph of a short story I recently wrote to whet your appetite: 

"The road wasn’t on the map but Gale Kringlebot, of the wealthy Manhattan Kringlebots, walked along its dusty, bumpy spine. His brown cowboy boots jangled loudly - a result of the gleaming silver spurs on their heels - and bit into his pinky toes. His normal New York stride slowed to a wincing teeter as he tried to walk on the inside arches of his feet to take the pressure off his last little toes.  The nostalgia that constantly ricocheted around in his chest hit especially hard as he thought about the black alligator-skin shoes he would be slipping on right now if he were back in the city, instead of here, in the middle-of-nowhere Nevada.  As he stumbled over a rock camouflaged by the dusty red dirt swirling up around him, Gale nearly cursed – “Son-of-a-!” - and vowed to talk to his father about the ill-fitting boots; his father would see to it that the shoemaker’s reputation plummeted like the stocks he was currently advising investors to hoard up fast, before they took to the rebound."

Writing Woes

There are plus and minus sides to every story, I suppose. And life is just as much a story as any other. So here are my plus and minus sides.

PLUS: My family and friends love and accept me. I have a wonderful boyfriend. I am employed part-time and making some money. I have applied to graduate school creative writing programs and am trying to pursue a path that makes me happy.

MINUS: I've already been rejected from one of the four graduate school programs I applied to, and it wasn't even one of the tougher ones to get into. I can't get it together enough to write poetry lately. I'm low on time and inspiration, and I might not have anything to read for Friday's monthly poetry open mic.

I guess I should go try and write something instead of lamenting about it on my blog, huh?

Visual Arts Aren't Just Digital

Considering I was just posting about reading and writing and about Jonathan Safran Foer, check out this video about his newest book, "Tree of Codes," which is actually a story literally formed by cutting out sections from Bruno Shulz' "Street of Crocodiles."

Active Reading

I interviewed Tim O'Brien for an article I wrote sometime earlier this year. Most famously, he wrote "The Things they Carried," the story of a group of army grunts in Vietnam. I've read every single book he's ever written, and he's always been my favorite writer. So of course, when I interviewed him, I had to ask him about writing, and he told me to always "read like a writer," asking myself why I liked something, and how it moved me.

I just finished reading "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer. What started as an affinity for the movie "Everything is Illuminated" (mostly because Gogol Bordello's Eugene Hutz had a leading role), has developed into a deep respect and admiration for Safran Foer, both as a writer and as a reader. 

As a writer, I've been paying attention to the way he manipulates style to get across the voice and tone of his character. I want to try and develop my own style and voice in my own works. It makes me want to write more. As a reader, I appreciate the always-moving, ever-developing story and the way it drew me in and didn't let me go until I had finished the entire novel, almost without realizing it.

Tim O'Brien will always be my favorite author, but Jonathan Safran Foer definitely comes close, and I highly recommend reading his books. Find your own way to read it, whether it's as a reader, as a writer, or as something else, something that only you can define. 

"What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls?" 

- Jonathan Safran Foer, "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close", page 1.

poems

Plea Before the World Ends
i slipped my hand into yours
and you smiled wide, so why
can't people live like this
all of the time?

dear old writing habit
where have you been?
you got deep within
my muscle memory
but it isn't enough
and i miss you,
let's catch up
soon.






by the light of the harvest moon
i'll lead you back to that 
secluded beach halfway between
an island and a landfill and we'll
sit on a rock that we don't really
fit on and we'll be falling and catching
each other all of the time
we'll let our feet dangle the foam-flecked
waves will lick our toes tickling and then
we'll feed ourselves to the sea 
in bits
and
pieces
first our skin peeling off like a lemon rind
stinging from the inside out and then 
our organs the liver the intestines the
brain and the hearts pounding wild jolting
and then comes the hard part we'll release
all pre and mis conceptions doubts and fear
details
our souls will float like jellyfish or
stingrays and we'll watch ourselves drift
salty and dissolved illuminated red 
we'll wish on the moon fat and huge
for no more than what we need 
and in that place where i knew
i would love you
we'll put each other back together
because 
i know
and
you know
we're already everything 
each other will ever need