Below you will find writing advice that I, as a lowly amateur, don’t exactly agree with.
If this advice has worked wonders on you, I am eyes/ears/heart open. Comment and prove me wrong, if you feel so inclined! I dare you.
First, Ernest Hemingway’s most heavily circulated quote on le Tumblr and Internet. I’m not going to say I don’t drink when I write sometimes, because that would be a complete lie, but always? The main thing that makes me hate this quote (and the people who get it tattooed on their bodies) is the implied lack of effort. Hemingway was great at what he did, obviously, BUT! he was educated before intoxication, something college freshman (and sophomores, juniors, seniors, and super seniors) do not seem to grasp.
Sup freshman year of college! This Creative Writing 100 class is so tight! We can talk about sex and drugs and say fuck!? Well, FUCK, here’s my Ode to Getting my Dick Sucked, workshop! Don’t mind all the typos and smeared Chinese food all over it. Oh, you wrote notes all over it? That’s so cute. I’m not going to take your advice, though, because it’s Thirsty Thursday woooooooo!
I can’t take you seriously as an artist if you get black-out and then want me to praise your intoxicated ramblings. Sorry. Also, stop staring at me and sending me weird emails because I told you happy birthday. Creep.
Moving on. In the same vein, Master of Misogyny Charles Bukowski:
Just like Hemingway, I enjoy and appreciate his writing but who would want to be such an asshole?
Don’t try. Do not try. I’m so angry I can not even expand upon this.
There is a reason that the Modest Mouse song about him exists.
As I said in my first post, I have been fighting fighting fighting about getting back in the groove of writing and am currently in-between jobs. I thought that being temporarily unemployed AKA at leisure would mean I would cook, feel/get inspired/motivated and write all day and into the night! This has been… partially true. I have been cooking, but I’ve also spent a large amount of time avoiding sitting down and staring at an empty page by cleaning up after my 9 roommates (yes, 9 roommates) and sleeping 10 hours a night. Beginning is the hardest part, for me.
In more optimistic less angsty news: I just researched Delusional disorder for a play I’m trying to draft, and am boiling water for more coffee. Stay tuned, my little chestnuts.
A poem I have been thinking about now more than ever in this transitional period of my life is Kenneth Koch’s “So You Want a Social Life, with Friends.” Despite the fact that I am a little lonely, despite the fact that at the moment I am car-less, and it’s cold outside in Maryland but not as cold as Michigan, I do want a social life with friends… and that was my down-fall, creatively, for most of my undergraduate career.
New chapter. More writing, more reading. Less debauchery. Still some debauchery, just less so.
I’m trying to find a method that works.. a method that doesn’t include getting wasted and not giving a shit.
I’d rather do fantastic work that really hits home with someone and makes them think about their life/habits/relationships, THEN get wasted and cook a frozen pizza for my homies.
…Maybe I’m not cut out for this blogging thing.
“She was now what is sometimes called a “little wild thing” – by twenty-four full hours she was not yet unified and she was absorbed in playing around with chaos, as if her destiny were a picture puzzle..”
Things are starting to look up for me, anonymous Internet. I have successfully unpacked all of my belongings (which consist of books, books, books, clothes, clothes, a wok, coffee cones, and teapot) and have been lazily coexisting with my new roommates, le stinky boyfriend included. It’s been a nice break and starting over feels phenomenal. I have never lived outside of Michigan before and I feel more out of my element than I maybe (probably) let on sometimes.
EXAMPLE SO YOU KNOW THAT I AM SERIOUS: when I go to a bar… even though I usually just want whiskey and ginger ale, lezbehonest… I have no idea what to order. I don’t know the Maryland micro-brews like the back of my hand! I don’t have a favorite stout or IPA from a certain place and I never knew a person to drink Yuengling until I got here (AND I just had to Google how to spell the damn thing). I don’t want Baltimore bartenders to judge me. But why should I give a shit? Oh, but why does anyone ever give a shit?
Instead of just growing a back-bone and picking something to drink when the aforementioned intimidating bartender(s) ask, “Do you want something to drink?” I squeak, “I don’t know.” What? I hate people like me.
In other news: I had a nice interview at a great restaurant today that seems promising. I will be going in for a “working interview” sometime next week where I will shadow someone else and hopefully everyone will decide that they like me enough to hang out/work with me 30-40 hours a week. I’m pleasant at work and I like working, so I’m more excited than nervous, which is superb.
HOWEVER, my writer’s block has been a dark lady beast of the night that will not let me accomplish anything whatsoever. It is no fun combating writer’s block while searching for employment and learning my way around a new city. It is no fun combating writer’s block, ever.
Blah blee bloo blah. Writing this blog makes me feel way too self-important, but there it is. Here you are. Where am I?
Tomorrow is Saturday. I’m going to brunch and I’m going to get an Irish coffee and get my writer-girl dress and blazer on. Productivity and creativity are the names of the game!
Come on, feet.