Secret lives of readers and writers.
Current mood: pensive
It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words.
I think words are worth thousands of pictures. Millions of pictures.
Because what I see may be completely different than what you see, even if we're reading the same book. And both may be completely different than what someone else sees. I guess it is kind of like meeting people after "hearing so much about" them. The reality of what they look like is usually not even close to what you saw in your mind.
There is a reason that we're often disappointed after seeing a movie based on a book we've read. No big screen production, not even on Imax, can compare to the sheer magnitude of what our imagination can produce. Not to mention all they leave out. While watching a movie we're merely spectators. But when reading a story, we become involved in the character's lives in a much more intimate way. We have a life-like, 360 degree view of the story, not a two-dimensional rectangular one.
And sometimes we even become a character in the story. Especially if it is written in the first person. We have such a close relationship with that "I" character that it can be difficult not to identify with him or her.
Creating fiction, being a writer of fiction, has to be the most difficult and least appreciated art form there is. Not that taking a beautiful photograph or painting a masterpiece isn't difficult. But they are certainly easier than crafting a novel; inventing characters, and their lives, their worlds. And in a society attuned to instant gratification, it is certainly easier for people to appreciate a photograph or a painting, even with the slightest of glances. But to fully appreciate a story one has to invest time, cognitive thought, a bit of reflection and sometimes a little discussion. Or a lot. Especially when you're reading the classics; that almost goes without saying.
So you can imagine the struggle a writer feels at any moment in his or her "career", wondering if their months, years, decades of passion will ever come to fruition. Will ever be appreciated in a world diagnosed with ADD. And you can imagine how frustrating it is when someone suggests you pursue something else, too, so you have a career to fall back on. And you just grit your teeth, but smile and nod, knowing it is the practical thing, and yes, maybe you are even pursuing other options. You tell them so. You tell them that you are a certified massage therapist and health educator. You tell them you have worked in hospitality for over ten years, in all aspects of the industry, from housegirl, to bartender, to concierge, to banquet manager. You tell them you are currently interning at a record label, and you have a deep love of the music you are representing, even if they think it is frivolous. Like disco was. You tell them you would like to write for a magazine one day. You tell them, no, I don't have a boyfriend, but yes I would like to get married and have kids one day. Soon? They ask. You are at that age, they say and smile sympathetically. Maybe, you say, smiling back as your stomach churns uncomfortably. And all these things are true, of what you have done and who you are and who you eventually want to be.
But behind your smile is the relief in knowing that even if all of those things are true, it is partly because in order to write about dynamic lives, you have to live a dynamic life.
(Isn't that the secret all writers share, but keep to themselves?)
Currently
listening
:
Domesticated
By
Home & Garden
Release date: 2008-09-23
"I am not led, I lead."
Current mood: desperately inspired
Have you ever felt inspiration and despair for the same thing within mere hours?
I bet it happens to me more often than I think. It probably happens to us all, all the time. The spectrum of human emotion is as detailed as the bits and bytes in binary numbers. Possibly more so. Like how people can have a thousand different facial expressions. Like a friend can have a thousand different facial expressions. How interesting is it that we know our friends' faces almost better than we know our own. Perhaps it is that we see the beauty in a friend's face easier than we see beauty in our own. All we see when we look into a mirror is what we dislike, the flaws, the old scars, the new wrinkles. I don't know what I look like when I am happy, but I know what Mackensy looks like when she is contemplative. I know what Alexis looks like when she sees her son laugh. I know what Mike looks like when he is excited about something he is writing. I know the difference between my sister's bartending smile and her genuine, Michelle, smile. Her canned laugh for the drunk guy at her bar, and her hysterical, tearful laughter when we're talking about her sleepwalking escapades.
I finished reading Old School by Tobias Wolff late last night. It took me three days, only because I had other things to do. I would have finished in a day given the free time. No book has captured me, captivated me, the way this one did, with its beautiful prose. More poetry than prose really. Each word in a precise place, the way an epic poem is carefully constructed. Like crossing a river, rock by wobbly rock, stepping in just the right place to maintain that perfect balance. And what an incredible story! Masterful. Truly masterful. I wanted to read it again, as soon as I had finished the last sentence. I almost did, having turned the first page for a second time, before sighing and putting it in a safe place, resolved in my decision to try and read as much as I can from this year's Litquake line up before the festival begins.
I was so inspired after reading that (I also have to mention I've read a few other books in the past two weeks which have contributed to that inspiration, namely, The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls and Dinner at The Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler.) I woke up this morning itching to write poetic prose. The subject matter I tend to be drawn to, however, usually sucks that beautiful inspiration out of me, and my drive starts to fade, and I lose my momentum, like a marathon runner who gets a stitch in his side midway through the race and slows, before eventually grasping at his ribcage is desperation. That's me. Grasping in desperation to this romantic idea I have of writing emotionally-charged fiction. I'm really good at it in blogs, huh?!?! Somehow it just doesn't translate into my fiction. I write, coldly, as Mike says. And then I get frustrated and "take a break." Usually for a few days, or a few weeks, even months, before I give it another go. Because my inspiration has deflated, like birthday balloons the morning after. Sad orbs in darker colors than yesterday, hovering above the floor.
What I am choosing to read for Litquake, if I do it, is Pseudocide. The obvious choice. It is short and simple and SF related. And I started to get inspired, excited about it while chatting with Mike earlier this evening. But I now realize it is also controversial. (Like much of my fiction.) I watched 20/20 tonight and the first segment was about the 2007 documentary entitled The Bridge. It is not what inspired my piece, but many people, especially in SF, are concerned about its impropriety. They think it romaticizes the idea of committing suicide from the Golden Gate Bridge. Gulp. Does my story do that too? I didn't mean it that way, but I don't know. I cannot see my story from the outside. From a reader's perspective. Much like I cannot see my own face, the way my friends see it.
Inspiration and despair are intertwined, like a smile and a frown. Like crying and laughing. Love and hate. Life and death.
Non dvcor, dvco. Yeah, that's me to a T. (What does that mean, anyway?) But I have to admit; sometimes I feel like I'm being pulled. Like, by some external force, I am not allowed to be satisfied with the same thing, or the same place, or the same life for too long. Because I have goals too, Mike :) Golden goals. So maybe I just needed to remind myself that yes, I am in charge, I do lead, but sometimes I should stop and enjoy where I am, and savor any spark of inspiration I get, for as long as it lasts.
Free Porn and Prolificacy
Current mood: words, words, words ;)
Free porn is what my mom calls any movie starring Viggo Mortensen when it is on cable television. Particularly the Lord of The Rings movies.
"Guess what's on right now, Melissa?" My mom stood in my doorway earlier this evening, smiling unabashedly. I paused from typing, used to interjections during moments of creativity or inspiration after being here a year and a half now, and glanced over my shoulder at her. "What, Mom?" "Guess?" She grinned. "Oh," I didn't have to guess. "Free porn?" I laughed. "Yeah!" She giggled and disappeared from my doorway, and I could hear Aragorn filtering down the hallway from her bedroom and into mine.
* * *
I sat outside a coffee shop in San Francisco earlier this week, writing in my journal (ugh, I know, how uppity, artisty, coffeehouse-snob of me, right?) and thought a lot about my summer, and the days ahead of me. Spending almost two months in Orange County turned out not quite like the summer I had originally envisioned. I think I had gone there with the expectation that things had changed and realized quickly nothing had. Except for me. My disappointment was magnified by other things. By friends who couldn't make time, by my need to work and study so much I hardly had time to go to the beach. And when I did it was so crowded it wasn't enjoyable. I forgot how sardine-can-packed OC beaches get in the summer. How could I forget! Other disappointments I can't really discuss; they're private. But a few bright spots helped me get through it. Lyndi; my sister, when she was around and herself; Alexis and Rocknroll; and my wonderful job at a chiropractor's office in Irvine. Seeing Kenz, and the boys a bit. Saw Rocky Votolato in Hollywood with Danny, Lars and Minh, which was amazing. Had a nice 27th birthday, despite a bit of drama amidst the celebration. Hey, what's Melissa's birthday without a bit of drama?
But overall, my time there was very beneficial. I got through my class, I spent time with people I missed, even if it wasn't enough, and I made the important realization that I will never and could never and never want to live there again. There. I said it. Three nevers. Serious stuff.
My last night was spent packing and having dinner with a small group of friends. The next morning Michelle took me to John Wayne Airport where I hopped on a plane and flew the 3,000 miles to New Jersey. Spent about a week with all my family there, took a train to Baltimore, spent five days with Mike, the best tour guide on his side of the Mississippi, and now I'm back. Sitting at my desk, writing on my laptop, staring at my trees.
Almost as if the summer went by, as they say, in the blink of an eye.
What's next on my agenda?
I started school this week. I swear, it is more difficult navigating the politics of matriculation and registration than it is to pass a class.
I start my internship at Om Records in the city on Tuesday. I'm stoked on that. I'll let you all know how that goes.
I've started writing more. Mike met the girl who runs Word Riot, the website that published my flash fiction piece, Pseudocide. She remembered my story (!!!) and said it was very good, and that usually the other editors choose the stories they publish, but she chose mine. Needless to say, I was flattered and super happy to hear that. But aside from singing my praises to her, (which he did, good boy) he also mentioned to her that he wishes I were more prolific. That sort of ruffled my feathers. Lit a fire under my ass, so to speak :) He's right though, I've been totally remiss about maintaning my discipline for productivity in my writing. Fuck, how can I call myself a writer, when I'm not writing? I'm a hypocrite. And I don't like hypocrites. But I guess I don't like not being prolific even more than not being a hypocrite. Because here I am... not that blogging is fruitful, but hey, it's something. And I did just finish a first draft of a new story. I just emailed it to you, Mike :)
But my most exciting endeavor in the coming months? Well, I think it's exciting, anyhow :) Volunteering for Litquake, San Francisco's awesome literary festival. Check it out. October 3-11, 2008.
So that's it. That was my summer. Not as eventful as it might sound. Then again, it might not sound all that eventful.
I'm looking forward to fall. That season's always liked me better anyhow...
I love Rocknroll...
Current mood: so put another dime in the jukebox, baby.
I used to say that being around other people's children was the best form of birth control a girl could get for free.
When my cousin Theresa had Jacob over seven years ago, I couldn't even hold him; it freaked me out.
When one of my best friends in NorCal, Aja, had her first daughter, Niya, I held her straight out in front of me with both hands, as if holding a nuclear device I thought might explode in my hands. Aja, being the the relaxed, fun, amazing woman she is, (when she got married she was no Bridezilla; I called her Bridechilla) just laughed at me and showed me the correct way to hold a newborn baby :)
Alexis is one of my best friends in SoCal. And she gave birth to a baby boy on November 23, 2007. His name is Rocknroll Lee Rippy, and I've had the immeasurable pleasure of spending time with him and Mama Lex over the past month. He is so cute and so fun and so entertaining to be around. And I love holding him! I have NEVER said that about a baby. But he rarely cries, and hardly ever fusses, even when he is tired. He has been to nice restaurants with us a number of times and is always the center of attention, in a good way. Because he is so freakin' cute and not because he is screaming and crying. I've never seen him do that, ever. Alexis admits she is pretty lucky. But I guess in the past week he's been a bit fussier, so maybe he's is growing passed being the perfect baby. Hopefully he'll evolve into the perfect toddler! Knowing Alexis, he will :)
I'm not saying I WANT a baby now. Not now, anyway. But I do, eventually. And being around Rocknroll has made that much more clear.
Spending time with him and Alexis has been such a bright spot in a month that has been clouded by tragedy and sadness. That is all I can say about what has been going on with me lately. I can't think too much about it, it's too depressing and I've cried enough to last me the rest of the year. But it has been too long since I've blogged, so I don't want to end this on a sad note. So instead of reading about my woes, please watch the videos of the little buster, Rocknroll :) xoxo
rara avis health
Current mood: I love the calamari at Villa Nova! and I love Lexi
as I have graduated from the holistic institute and am now a certified professional massage therapist and health educator, I have launched my website promoting my private practice, rara avis health.
I am in Southern California for the summer, so all of you OC peeps better use me as much as you can before rara avis health and I relocate back to the Bay Area!
In a little...
Current mood: falling in love with my life.
It's been awhile since I've written anything, creative or otherwise. I have just one more week left of school and while it has been an incredible experience and I have met some really great people, and made friends for life, I will be sooo glad to have my life back!
I guess it isn't fair to say that, really, since it was my choice to do this program and I really loved it. But when spending every day of my life in the exact same way for ten long months it certainly felt like I had no control sometimes. Or rather had to maintain control at all times so I wouldn't suffer utter failure. School, work, school, work, school, work. So now, one more week. Then I get my wisdom teeth pulled (yikes!) and a week after that I'll be on my way to southern California! Look out! LOL. Yes, as most of you already know, I will be in Newport for about 6 weeks, staying with my sister, taking a class at OCC and enjoying all the summer festivites I missed out on in 2007, my first summer away from OC in five years.
Don't get any crazy ideas, though. I won't be down there for good. I will return to the Bay Area in August where I will be continuing my education. I'm really excited to be in the city more often. And I hope to be actually living there by this time next year.
So as you can tell, my life is pretty mapped out for the next couple of years. It is a refreshing piece of knowledge, to know where your life is going and to be really happy about it. I think that is also why I haven't been writing much lately. It is so easy to write when miserable, not so easy when happy. Such is the life of a writer, eh? Just ask Hemingway, or Plath.
The wind stirs inside of me the way it swirls through leaves on trees, disturbing the peace, unsettling what is typically a settled day. I feel anxious and scattered, like I'm trying to catch my breath but I can't because it has joined the wind, a captive stallion reuninted with the wild herd. I walk against it and my eyes tear and the tears streak across my temples. I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand and shield my eyes from the wind with the other. I squint ahead and finally see the bus stop, a simple red bench, unguarded by the whipping wind, a victim to its fury. Like me. I finally reach it and sit, huddling with my knees pulled up tight, as if to minimize the beating my body is receiving. It is no longer just wind. It is a tornado, a hurricane, a monsoon minus the rain. I've never felt wind like this before.
The bus arrives and its hydraulic doors whoosh open. I stand and grab the railing. Hoisting myself onto the step, I crash against the side, fighting with the wind, before finally stepping fully inside, the doors whooshing closed behind me. I slide my beanie off my head and drop change into the tray, smiling politely at the driver, a very large man with a turban on his head. It's crazy out there, eh? He says. I nod and think that I've never met a Canadian muslim. I turn down the aisle to find a seat. The bus is empty. I sigh, realizing I'm the only idiot out in this weather. I drop my backpack on a seat and plop down next to it. Skimming through my travel guide, I figure out that I'll be on the bus for at least an hour. I pull out a book and my intention is to read but I can feel my eyes begin to droop in a matter of sentences.
I don't know how long I've been asleep before I am rudely jolted awake. I have to grab the pole on my left just to stay on the seat. I frantically glance at the driver and his face is red and scrunched and his hands are gripping the steering wheel but I can tell they are shaking. The force of the wind is too strong for him to keep this up for much longer, I think to myself. I'm sorry miss, he says, as if he heard my thought. I think we'll have to stop for a bit. Until this wind calms down. Whenever that will be.
I think he is about to pull over into a gravel highway inlet. I see a tunnel bridge ahead, and then the bus is hit by a wrecking ball. No, no, it isn't a wrecking ball. Gale-force winds have just toppled the bus onto its side but it doesn't stop, it keeps tumbling, down the embankment toward a river. My body and backpack are tumbling with the bus, slamming against the windows, the plastic seats. My vision is momentarily in line with the bus driver and I know he is unconscious, his body slumped in the stairwell of the bus, as if stuck there, and I wonder how it is that I have not been knocked out yet. I manage to grab ahold of a pole and hang on right as the bus lands in the river with a magnificent splash. It is surprisingly upright as it begins to sink. The windows have been smashed and the wind roars passed my ears and my eyes water, tears streaming down my cheeks and all I can do is cover my face with my hands and gasp in a near hyperventilating way. The bus driver has come to and lunges for the hydraulic door lever. It gurgles open and he screams for me to swim over as he exits. It is too late though and I take one more quick, frightened breath before the bus is fully submerged.
I am surprised at how peaceful it is underwater. It is soft and slow and cushiony. I am calm because I realize how easily I'll be able to swim out of the doors or windows to the surface. The river isn't very deep because the light in the water is still bright enough for me to make out blurry shapes. So I float there, hanging onto the pole, knowing that as soon as I resurface, I'll be hit by the wind.
I wonder how long I can wait.
Currently
listening
:
Finally Woken
By
Jem
Release date: 2004-03-23
Kissing in Taxis
Current mood: Blowing our minds in a life unkind...
Bright flashes of white and yellow Pink mini skirts and bejeweled handbags flung around dance floors In dark corners and you feel the music in your bones in your skin and you can't help but move and groove The drums, the drums the drums, and a dj.
A red glow, the slow burn of the tip of his cig catches your eye and you stare mesmerized by the painted scene against a backdrop of fresh air and black light in a crowded back alley and you realize that he sees you under the tilted brim of his hat with an unlit cigarette in your hand. An invitation.
You're back inside and dancing and he is there too, dancing his eyes under his newsboy cap fixated on the floor and your feet your legs, your breasts, your mouth your eyes, your eyes your eyes and you spin away. A slow burn.
It's four o'clock in the morning and you drunkenly sashay in the parking lot outside the club and people leave and scream and laugh and continue to dance. He grabs you and whispers something you can't quite hear but you nod anyway and he takes your hand and hails a taxi and you climb in and he follows and gives the driver an address.
You wake up in your own bed in a haze a fog of dancing and music vodka and cigarettes and you wonder how you got home because you don't remember much and you look around your room at clothes, a pink mini skirt a newsboy cap, a newsboy cap? and you hear a toilet flush and suddenly you remember kissing in taxis.
Currently
listening
:
Great D.J.
By
Ting Tings
Release date: 04 March, 2008
a throw back
Current mood: Every moment is a future memory.
Maybe we'll have one of those nights again, someday.
We'll sneak out the bathroom window of a sleepy motel room in the middle of a night so quiet we have to whisper softer than we've ever had to, stifling nervous and shaky laughter. And when one of us slams the top of her head on the window's sharp edge laughter stabs the silence like Don Vito Corleone getting revenge for his father's murder. Unabashedly piercing the guts and entrails of a still and peaceful midnight, we'll screech as we make a break for it, pouring out the window, hopping fences and striking pavement with sneakered and flip-flopped feet. We'll reach the safe haven, a private beach, private because no one else is digging their toes into the nighttime sand, no one else is braving the cold waters of a Southern California sea in early May; private because no one else will ever have a night quite like this night. This night we had when friends were new and girls were not yet women and life was undecided.
Or maybe we'll drink beer and toast to Irish pubs and Taco Tuesday and reminisce about how we used to sit under neon lights in the empty parking lot of a movie theatre, music from the car stereo as a backdrop to our conversation about how one day we'll live the dream, we'll make the move and see the ocean every day with true, unadulterated independence and how we can't believe that we actually did it, we actually made the move, we're actually living the dream. To celebrate, we'll run across PCH, and down to the beach, ripping our clothes off piece by piece, our footprints glowing in the wet sand, each wave sending bright blue electricity through our inebriated bodies as we sink into the warm black water and float in the red tide, the glowing phytoplankton framing us with each movement. For one night our lives will be as perfect as that moment and we'll savor it and save it and even if we never get to have it again, it'll be okay; because it was perfect. And how do you top perfection?
Maybe we'll sing, we'll scream to the tops of our heads and the soles of our feet, driving down the 405 with Helena in our lungs, in our throats, in our mouths, the windows down, the wind shrieking along, cigarettes burning bright in hand and the promise of beer and friends at our 80 mile per hour destination, the night still young because we're young and we have nothing better to do because this is the best thing in the world, singing in the car with someone you love, someone you've known pretty much your entire life, someone you can't even imagine living life without. And when we finally arrive, the song will be over, the wind over, the drive over. But it's really just beginning because every time we hear that song, we'll think of that drive, and the wind, and sing and scream along in our heads and smile. And when someone asks why we're smiling we'll laugh and not know what to say. Because how can we put that memory into words that will make sense to someone who wasn't there?
But maybe we'll just share a great bottle of wine and laugh about all of the crazy experiences we had when we were still young and full of energy and innocence. Maybe we'll go to the local pool hall and play darts and drink beer and cheers to friends, old and new. Maybe we'll travel together, or shop together, or road trip together, even just a one-day road trip, and discover that we're still young, even if some of us are married, even if some of us have kids, even if some of us live far away. Even if some of us have passed away.
I want nothing but incredible moments and even more amazing memories. So thanks to all contributors; past, present and future :)
Currently
listening
:
Goddamnit!
By
Alkaline Trio
Release date: 13 October, 1998
if you know this girl...
Current mood: Thinking of Kenz at 12:24am...
then you know that she's a subconcious saboteur. A wanderer, a soul searcher, a realist and a surrealist.
If you know this girl, you know that she sings the blues in blogs, but not quite like her friend Molly. She writes stories better than she can tell them. She can pretend better than she can face truths. She can hide and lie, little white lies; pale, translucent white lies that don't hurt; they don't hurt anyone. Not anyone, but her.
If you know this girl, you know that she loves more than she leaves. Although she leaves a lot too. So maybe she loves too much, too easily, too forgivingly. Or perhaps is not forgiving enough. Maybe she does actually leave more than she loves. Maybe she's too confused. Or maybe she's been hurt too many times.
If you know this girl, you know that she is more than a writer. She's a painter. A captivator. Or maybe she just wants to be more than a writer. More of a writer? She wants to be nothing, but a writer. She's obviously conflicted.
If you know this girl, you know she has writer's block. You know she always has writer's block. You know that she knows that the best way to overcome writer's block is to write. Anything. So she writes. Anything.
If you know this girl then you know that she loves to be happy. She loves to laugh. But you also know she subconsciously loves to be miserable. Because misery is a catalyst for material. So even when she is happy, she looks for the rainclouds on the horizon of a sunny day. So she sabotages her happiness. Or maybe she just refuses to settle for happiness. Perhaps happiness isn't enough. If you know this girl, you might agree with that.
If you know this girl, you know that there is always music in her head. Songs swim in an ocean of words, like schools of silvery fish.
If you know this girl, you know that she can't be alone, but she hates being crowded. You know that she is a lover AND a fighter. You know that she is the smartest blonde to have ever graced the beaches of Orange County. If you know this girl, you know she's a total bullshitter. But you also know she is in no way disingenuous.
If you know this girl, you know that she tries often and gives up easily. (But secretly never gives up.) If you know this girl, you know that she underestimates herself; she's very critical of herself.. (But tries to avoid cliches like "you are your own worst enemy" because cliches are unoriginal, duh, and she despises being unoriginal.)
If you know this girl, if you really know this girl, you can't help but adore her. And if you really know this girl, it must mean that she can't help but adore you.
But do you really know this girl? Does anyone really know other people, as close as they may be to one another? Can you ever really know someone?
(If you know this girl, you know she loves to get existential.)
If you know this girl, give her a hug the next time you see her. Because if you know this girl then you know that she never forgets a hug. And you know that she thinks a hug is one of the best things you can give to a friend. If you know this girl. you might agree with that.
Currently
listening
:
The Covers Record
By
Cat Power
Release date: 21 March, 2000
pensive
