In just Winter
The world smells like ham and cheese sandwiches
which I notice as I walk from class
Past the table where Dom sells
truffles
and love poems
for Valentine's Day
and I keep my head down
because I promised to buy one
and I haven't.
I used to pick the melty cheese
off the sandwiches we had at school
and eat just bread,
wincing as I encountered some American
I had missed.
Past the igloo on the mall
soft and melty
the entrance a black hole with mush surrounding
I never went in, you know?
Mom used to tell me not to make snow forts like that
because they can collapse
and crush you into suffocating whiteness.
I was only allowed to dig a little bit into the plowed snow
at the edge of the driveway, making a half cave
that barely concealed my sled and I.
It's just Winter
and the world is of softening snow
and ham and cheese sandwiches.
Someone asked me why I didn't say anything in American Lit.
Her name might have been Brittany or Angela.
I said I just didn't feel like it.
How does one explain
that the soggy world outside
(even as it dissolves into nothing)
means more today
(as it drips to nothing)
than even F. Scott Fitzgerald?
Showing posts with label F. Scott Fitzgerald. Show all posts
Showing posts with label F. Scott Fitzgerald. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Anatomy of a Novel
I think there's a novel in me somewhere. I'm not sure how it got there exactly. I mean, both of my parents are science-y, math-y people. Even my sister mostly dislikes English, although she is a far more dedicated journaler than I.
Maybe the novel nestled up against my rib cage, crushing my left lung a tad, is just buildup. You know, a bunch of leftovers mashed together into a convenient manuscript shape. A bit of This Side of Paradise here, some Harry Potter over there...and I think I can also feel pieces from some of the books I was forced to read: Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Ellison are represented in that part.
Unfortunately, however, this inner Nobel winner of mine is not easily accessible. Sometimes when I'm in the shower or driving or sleeping or staring dumbly out of a window I get flashes of it, but they're never much. A conversation, maybe, or a glimpse of some character's face. They never seem to fit together, these flashes of mine. Most of the time I don't even write them down. I just continue to carry them with me, hoping for more.
Someday, I hope, my slowly emerging novel will be solid and promising on the table in front of me. I will be able to open the cover and smile at the dedication (because arrogant and sappy as I am, I already know who's name will be there). One day I will be at a Barnes and Noble, trying my best not to dash over to the fiction section and browse, and I will be signing copies of my book, handing them shyly back to people I have never met in my life. I will live in New York City (although I'll secretly miss Minnesota terribly), and I will dance (badly, because that's the only way I know how to dance) on Youtube with Libba Bray and John Green and Scott Westerfeld. And someday, when I'm old, and have written many many books, all of them precious to me, I will look a young, ambitious reporter full in the face, and answer a question. "My first novel was my most precious. Because I carried it around next to my heart*** for twenty years."
For now, though, I'll continue to blog. I'll continue to labor into the wee hours over papers whose topics I don't especially care about. I'll devour other people's stories in hopes that they will stick and become part of my own.
Someday, though (and it'll probably take a nasty case of hiccups), I will pour this entire novel onto paper (because it's so very uneloquent to say 'word document'). And I'll dance on Youtube with Libba Bray to celebrate.
Believe it.
***Don't worry, I Googled it: the heart is actually between the lungs. And the left lung, actually, is on the left side of your body if you look down at yourself. There! I did get a partial science gene after all!
Maybe the novel nestled up against my rib cage, crushing my left lung a tad, is just buildup. You know, a bunch of leftovers mashed together into a convenient manuscript shape. A bit of This Side of Paradise here, some Harry Potter over there...and I think I can also feel pieces from some of the books I was forced to read: Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Ellison are represented in that part.
Unfortunately, however, this inner Nobel winner of mine is not easily accessible. Sometimes when I'm in the shower or driving or sleeping or staring dumbly out of a window I get flashes of it, but they're never much. A conversation, maybe, or a glimpse of some character's face. They never seem to fit together, these flashes of mine. Most of the time I don't even write them down. I just continue to carry them with me, hoping for more.
Someday, I hope, my slowly emerging novel will be solid and promising on the table in front of me. I will be able to open the cover and smile at the dedication (because arrogant and sappy as I am, I already know who's name will be there). One day I will be at a Barnes and Noble, trying my best not to dash over to the fiction section and browse, and I will be signing copies of my book, handing them shyly back to people I have never met in my life. I will live in New York City (although I'll secretly miss Minnesota terribly), and I will dance (badly, because that's the only way I know how to dance) on Youtube with Libba Bray and John Green and Scott Westerfeld. And someday, when I'm old, and have written many many books, all of them precious to me, I will look a young, ambitious reporter full in the face, and answer a question. "My first novel was my most precious. Because I carried it around next to my heart*** for twenty years."
For now, though, I'll continue to blog. I'll continue to labor into the wee hours over papers whose topics I don't especially care about. I'll devour other people's stories in hopes that they will stick and become part of my own.
Someday, though (and it'll probably take a nasty case of hiccups), I will pour this entire novel onto paper (because it's so very uneloquent to say 'word document'). And I'll dance on Youtube with Libba Bray to celebrate.
Believe it.
***Don't worry, I Googled it: the heart is actually between the lungs. And the left lung, actually, is on the left side of your body if you look down at yourself. There! I did get a partial science gene after all!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wednesday Night Apple Crisp
Current Location: Briggs Library Writing Room
Just Ate: Apple crisp; they had three huge pans of it downstairs for some reason. The librarians were wandering up and down the floors encouraging people to go down and eat some, so I did! It was certainly delicious, that random, Wednesday-night apple crisp.
Just talked to: Some random lady on the phone. She called the library asking for writing advice, and then the librarian came up to the writing room to get me so I could speak to her (they didn't know the number to transfer her up). I picked up the receiver, and all of the sudden the woman is throwing sentences at me, asking me to help her identify the subject and the predicate. Subject and predicate (I exclaimed to myself)! I haven't learned about those since elementary school! I remembered somehow, however, and was able to help her out.
She wasn't done yet, though; as a child screamed in the background, the woman began to complain about how schools give assignments and just expect children to be able to do them without help. She berated teachers for not wanting to be contacted with questions after hours, and for telling kids not to bring their textbooks home (which makes it hard for parents to assist their children).
I understood her points, and she really wasn't nasty about any of it; it just amused me that she was talking to me of all people about such things. I'm simply a student worker who's job it is to help other students improve their papers for class! I work in a tiny room on the 3rd floor, I'm not a mother, and it's 9:30 p.m. What a random call to receive!
In retrospect, I think that the woman simply needed someone to vent to, and that I was the first person who seemed willing to listen. Fine with me. It's interesting experiences like this that make my life interesting, truthfully.
F. Scott Fitzgerald: Will have to settle for a shorter spiel than I originally intended to give. This Side of Paradise was amazing. It is now officially my favorite new book, mainly because it gave me so much to think about, both in terms of the ideas introduced in the novel, and in terms of how the novel itself was crafted.
Although Amory Blaine (the main character) is not necessarily a character to be admired, I found that I could relate to him in various ways, especially where his college experiences were concerned. He discovers so much about himself, and about the world in college, and yet these discoveries leave him reeling, and wondering what the true meaning of everything is.
And at the absoulte pinnacle of the book, Amory finds himself back before the spires of his Alma Mater. He leans his head back into the night and screams, "I know myself, but that is all-."
And that is exactly how I feel.
As good of an ending as the above is, I want to briefly add that F. Scott Fitzgerald was an absolutely marvelous writer. It's actually difficult to describe it, but the thing that strikes me the most is how observant he was as an author. Fitzgerald had a gift for character development; he effortlessly pieced people together until they were so complex that they were entirely real to readers.
Again, I don't think I'm explaining this very well. I think you should just read something of his for yourself. Start with The Great Gatsby, and then go from there. You'll like him, I promise.
Just Ate: Apple crisp; they had three huge pans of it downstairs for some reason. The librarians were wandering up and down the floors encouraging people to go down and eat some, so I did! It was certainly delicious, that random, Wednesday-night apple crisp.
Just talked to: Some random lady on the phone. She called the library asking for writing advice, and then the librarian came up to the writing room to get me so I could speak to her (they didn't know the number to transfer her up). I picked up the receiver, and all of the sudden the woman is throwing sentences at me, asking me to help her identify the subject and the predicate. Subject and predicate (I exclaimed to myself)! I haven't learned about those since elementary school! I remembered somehow, however, and was able to help her out.
She wasn't done yet, though; as a child screamed in the background, the woman began to complain about how schools give assignments and just expect children to be able to do them without help. She berated teachers for not wanting to be contacted with questions after hours, and for telling kids not to bring their textbooks home (which makes it hard for parents to assist their children).
I understood her points, and she really wasn't nasty about any of it; it just amused me that she was talking to me of all people about such things. I'm simply a student worker who's job it is to help other students improve their papers for class! I work in a tiny room on the 3rd floor, I'm not a mother, and it's 9:30 p.m. What a random call to receive!
In retrospect, I think that the woman simply needed someone to vent to, and that I was the first person who seemed willing to listen. Fine with me. It's interesting experiences like this that make my life interesting, truthfully.
F. Scott Fitzgerald: Will have to settle for a shorter spiel than I originally intended to give. This Side of Paradise was amazing. It is now officially my favorite new book, mainly because it gave me so much to think about, both in terms of the ideas introduced in the novel, and in terms of how the novel itself was crafted.
Although Amory Blaine (the main character) is not necessarily a character to be admired, I found that I could relate to him in various ways, especially where his college experiences were concerned. He discovers so much about himself, and about the world in college, and yet these discoveries leave him reeling, and wondering what the true meaning of everything is.
And at the absoulte pinnacle of the book, Amory finds himself back before the spires of his Alma Mater. He leans his head back into the night and screams, "I know myself, but that is all-."
And that is exactly how I feel.
As good of an ending as the above is, I want to briefly add that F. Scott Fitzgerald was an absolutely marvelous writer. It's actually difficult to describe it, but the thing that strikes me the most is how observant he was as an author. Fitzgerald had a gift for character development; he effortlessly pieced people together until they were so complex that they were entirely real to readers.
Again, I don't think I'm explaining this very well. I think you should just read something of his for yourself. Start with The Great Gatsby, and then go from there. You'll like him, I promise.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Mid August Slump
I think I'm in a slump. A horrible, stressful, don't-feel-like-writing-for-no-apparent-reason slump. And I need to get out fast.
Not only because my August firstlinefiction story is due in a little over two weeks, but because I don't especially like myself when I'm not writing. No, it's worse than that. I don't even feel like myself.
Finishing Going Bovine last night only contributed to my overall slumpiness. Not because it was a bad book, but because it was so completely wonderful that I felt my own talents shrivel in comparison.
I know I'm being stupid. I shouldn't be comparing myself to Libba Bray, or even to F. Scott Fitzgerald for that matter. I should be happy that I have something to bring to the table that is completely unique, and I should devote my energy to becoming a better writer, not to becoming a different writer.
Plus, in all fairness (even though this is kind of a skunky card to play), I am only 19. I'm young and I still have three more years of school left. I have time yet to morph and figure out how I'm going to approach this whole book-writing thing.
In the meantime...
While I wait for the tides to turn and the slump to slowly straighten out, I'll be sitting here on my bed. This Side of Paradise will be open in my hands, and I'll be thinking of things and not writing them down.
Not only because my August firstlinefiction story is due in a little over two weeks, but because I don't especially like myself when I'm not writing. No, it's worse than that. I don't even feel like myself.
Finishing Going Bovine last night only contributed to my overall slumpiness. Not because it was a bad book, but because it was so completely wonderful that I felt my own talents shrivel in comparison.
I know I'm being stupid. I shouldn't be comparing myself to Libba Bray, or even to F. Scott Fitzgerald for that matter. I should be happy that I have something to bring to the table that is completely unique, and I should devote my energy to becoming a better writer, not to becoming a different writer.
Plus, in all fairness (even though this is kind of a skunky card to play), I am only 19. I'm young and I still have three more years of school left. I have time yet to morph and figure out how I'm going to approach this whole book-writing thing.
In the meantime...
While I wait for the tides to turn and the slump to slowly straighten out, I'll be sitting here on my bed. This Side of Paradise will be open in my hands, and I'll be thinking of things and not writing them down.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
All Hands on Deck
I was studying my hands just now. I have a slight obsession with hands, you know. It's not creepy or anything, I simply think they're rather amazing. Where would we be without hands? We do so much with them, from writing to fixing cars to carrying things to making rude (though sometimes deserved) gestures.
You can also tell a lot about a person by looking at their hands. For example, I have a gash across my right thumb from when I broke a glass a few nights ago. So, I'm a klutz.
Most of my fingernails are regulation length, but my index and second fingernails on my left hand are short. So, I recently stopped biting my nails, but it's a work in process.
I have small lines of ink randomly spattered across the fingers of my left hand. So, I write.
The life line on my right palm is long and very pronounced. So, I will live to be 108, have 60 grandchildren and 60 dogs, and write a dozen bestsellers, all of which will become part of Oprah's Reading list.
(Just kidding on the last one, by the way)
Besides vainly gazing at my own manos, I haven't done a whole lot this fine evening except read and watch Glee. I'm trying desperately to finish the book series I'm currently working on so that I can switch to something harder. I think this summer I'll go back to the old pattern of alternating lighter, easier books with dense classics. It seems to work, and then I don't feel like reading the classics is such a chore. Not that I don't ever enjoy the classics, but I'm not going to pretend that they're not difficult to get through sometimes. Depends on the book, of course.
Here's the list of classics I definitely want to get through this summer (note: I haven't read any of these before):
1. King Lear
2. Jane Eyre
3. This Side of Paradise
4. The Bell Jar
5. The Stand (Yes, I consider Stephen King to be somewhat of a classic author. You would too if you had dated the boy I did last year)
6. Crime and Punishment (or SOMETHING Russian)
7. Ivanhoe
8. Either Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn (or both, if I'm feeling ambitious)
9. Dickens (I sort of want to do David Copperfield first. Don't ask me why)
10. Uh oh this list is getting long. But I just can't leave anyone out!
11. The Picture of Dorian Gray
12. The Old Man and the Sea
13. Invisible Man (I guess...Since it was the only assigned book I didn't finish in high school, and because I hated it so much, and because everyone else in the world loves it...I'll try again)
14. Let's do another Toni Morrison. What has she written besides The Bluest Eye? Beloved? Okay.
Okay I'm going to stop before my entire reading list for life ends up in this post (I have one, by the way). How about if I read 8 off of this list I'll be satisfied that I didn't waste my summer reading rubbish? If I read 10 I'll do a happy dance and pat myself on the back a few times. If I read 13 I'll treat myself to a trip to Barnes and Noble and buy more books for next summer's list. Deal? Deal.
You can also tell a lot about a person by looking at their hands. For example, I have a gash across my right thumb from when I broke a glass a few nights ago. So, I'm a klutz.
Most of my fingernails are regulation length, but my index and second fingernails on my left hand are short. So, I recently stopped biting my nails, but it's a work in process.
I have small lines of ink randomly spattered across the fingers of my left hand. So, I write.
The life line on my right palm is long and very pronounced. So, I will live to be 108, have 60 grandchildren and 60 dogs, and write a dozen bestsellers, all of which will become part of Oprah's Reading list.
(Just kidding on the last one, by the way)
Besides vainly gazing at my own manos, I haven't done a whole lot this fine evening except read and watch Glee. I'm trying desperately to finish the book series I'm currently working on so that I can switch to something harder. I think this summer I'll go back to the old pattern of alternating lighter, easier books with dense classics. It seems to work, and then I don't feel like reading the classics is such a chore. Not that I don't ever enjoy the classics, but I'm not going to pretend that they're not difficult to get through sometimes. Depends on the book, of course.
Here's the list of classics I definitely want to get through this summer (note: I haven't read any of these before):
1. King Lear
2. Jane Eyre
3. This Side of Paradise
4. The Bell Jar
5. The Stand (Yes, I consider Stephen King to be somewhat of a classic author. You would too if you had dated the boy I did last year)
6. Crime and Punishment (or SOMETHING Russian)
7. Ivanhoe
8. Either Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn (or both, if I'm feeling ambitious)
9. Dickens (I sort of want to do David Copperfield first. Don't ask me why)
10. Uh oh this list is getting long. But I just can't leave anyone out!
11. The Picture of Dorian Gray
12. The Old Man and the Sea
13. Invisible Man (I guess...Since it was the only assigned book I didn't finish in high school, and because I hated it so much, and because everyone else in the world loves it...I'll try again)
14. Let's do another Toni Morrison. What has she written besides The Bluest Eye? Beloved? Okay.
Okay I'm going to stop before my entire reading list for life ends up in this post (I have one, by the way). How about if I read 8 off of this list I'll be satisfied that I didn't waste my summer reading rubbish? If I read 10 I'll do a happy dance and pat myself on the back a few times. If I read 13 I'll treat myself to a trip to Barnes and Noble and buy more books for next summer's list. Deal? Deal.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Is There Anyone Alive Out There?
Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever reads this blog. I don't mean familiar anyones, but strangers. Late night anyones who landed on this blog and decided to take a second look for some strange reason. Anyones who are interested in the musings of a nineteen-year-old college student who sometimes thinks that she's F. Scott Fitzgerald, and sometimes thinks that she's an Oompa Loompa (destined to sing and work for a man in purple all her life).
You see, I'm not sure exactly why I write this blog, but I suspect that it has something to do with you anyones. You give me hope, I guess. You make me feel like what I'm writing does matter, and maybe not just to me. Because the stuff I write in this blog, this stuff is who I am. This is my voice. This is what I sound like when I'm talking in a large room by myself. This is what the inside of my brain looks like.
I know exactly what I want to do with my life. I want to write and write and write and then I want people to tell me that my writing is good enough that I can just continue to do it forever. I've told you that I love to write before, I know. Writing is the hardest thing in the world, but it's the most beautiful and powerful thing in the world also. Maybe you don't feel the same about writing, dear anyones, but everyone feels this way about something.
This rant must end. Truthfully, it probably should have ended at Oompa Loompas, but I've never been one to know where to end things.
(The End)
You see, I'm not sure exactly why I write this blog, but I suspect that it has something to do with you anyones. You give me hope, I guess. You make me feel like what I'm writing does matter, and maybe not just to me. Because the stuff I write in this blog, this stuff is who I am. This is my voice. This is what I sound like when I'm talking in a large room by myself. This is what the inside of my brain looks like.
I know exactly what I want to do with my life. I want to write and write and write and then I want people to tell me that my writing is good enough that I can just continue to do it forever. I've told you that I love to write before, I know. Writing is the hardest thing in the world, but it's the most beautiful and powerful thing in the world also. Maybe you don't feel the same about writing, dear anyones, but everyone feels this way about something.
This rant must end. Truthfully, it probably should have ended at Oompa Loompas, but I've never been one to know where to end things.
(The End)
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
That Side of Paradise
Here's something ironic:
About a month ago, I was taking a quiz for my Intro. to Lit. class. I hadn't studied as much as I should have, so I was stuck on a few questions. In desperation, I wrote one of my favorite quotes in the margin: "Stop using so many exclamation points. It's like you're laughing at your own joke." That's a quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Why is this ironic?
Because I was thinking about it the other day while lying in bed reading my "History for Every Day" book. Just then, I discovered that yesterday (December 21st) was the anniversary of F. Scott Fitzgerald's death.
Now that's ironic.
In light of this irony (which I'm sure F. Scott himself would have appreciated), I have decided that the next book I read will be "This Side of Paradise."
"This Side of Paradise" (wow I'm tired of these quotation marks) is F. Scott's first novel, and was a big success when it came out. Best of all, he started writing it when he was just twenty-one. That's two years older than me. And while I can't see myself having time to start a novel while in college, I think it'll be an inspirational read.
This entry strikes me as rather pompous (perhaps it's the quotation marks?)
I don't think I'm pompous, so I won't let it bother me. Pip pip.
About a month ago, I was taking a quiz for my Intro. to Lit. class. I hadn't studied as much as I should have, so I was stuck on a few questions. In desperation, I wrote one of my favorite quotes in the margin: "Stop using so many exclamation points. It's like you're laughing at your own joke." That's a quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Why is this ironic?
Because I was thinking about it the other day while lying in bed reading my "History for Every Day" book. Just then, I discovered that yesterday (December 21st) was the anniversary of F. Scott Fitzgerald's death.
Now that's ironic.
In light of this irony (which I'm sure F. Scott himself would have appreciated), I have decided that the next book I read will be "This Side of Paradise."
"This Side of Paradise" (wow I'm tired of these quotation marks) is F. Scott's first novel, and was a big success when it came out. Best of all, he started writing it when he was just twenty-one. That's two years older than me. And while I can't see myself having time to start a novel while in college, I think it'll be an inspirational read.
This entry strikes me as rather pompous (perhaps it's the quotation marks?)
I don't think I'm pompous, so I won't let it bother me. Pip pip.
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