Branching Out in Fits and Starts

I've been doing some new things lately. Going to places I haven't been, hanging out with and meeting new people, and trying some new methods creatively (the story I'm currently writing features a character named Melba. Don't ask). I figure that, since I didn't move to a new place after finishing college, I need to find ways to delineate pre- and post-graduation. Yes, I realize I've been out of school for a while now, but sometimes I'm a little slow to arrive at fairly obvious realizations. At least I'm starting to figure it out now, right?
Anyway, I'm beginning to rediscover little quirks and tendencies I have that haven't been visible to me for a long time. Since I was so lucky to find a great group of friends in college, most of whom have stayed in New York after graduation, it's been very easy and comfortable for me to remain in this little zone of familiarity. So, because I've been going out to different sorts of places lately and feeling less secure or entrenched in the familiar, I've remembered how shy and/or awkward I can be when confronted with winning over someone new - seeming funny, charming, or just normal. It's almost as if I've been hibernating in the same cozy cave for the last five years or so and have lost the ability to interact with people outside.
I don't want to give the impression that I'm socially retarded. I'm not (or so I hope), but it does feel like a certain skill set I used to have has grown a little rusty. So I just need to give myself a particularly annoying piece of advice - sometimes the right thing and the hard thing are the same thing. Wow, I think I saw that on a candy wrapper or something. Pathetic.
In less whiny and self-absorbed news, I am currently stuffed into a sardine can of a Megabus on my way to DC for the weekend, which will be spent at the Comedy Central rally alternately restoring sanity and keeping the fear alive. I'm pretty excited, and I'll post the photos I take of the excellent signs and outfit choices that are bound to occur.

Paris & Plot

Tonight, I watched Broken English, which is a favorite movie of mine. Parker Posey is really great in it (and I love everything she wears). It's ultimately a love story, but also all about rejecting self-imposed boundaries and appreciating life while acknowledging its difficulties. The movie is set mostly in New York, but ends in Paris. Even though it's only the last 15 minutes of the movie, I love the way Paris is shot. So many movies set in Paris just show the "greatest hits", but there's so much more to the city than the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. The last scene of Broken English takes place in the Metro, which recalls so many visceral memories for me. Right down to the distinctive smell of the stations and specific shade of green plastic that lines the cars, the metro really says "Paris" to me, as much as any monument or museum. I can't wait to go back and pull the little lever to open the door before the car stops moving (always the illicit thrill).
I'm also wrapping up a truly epic family weekend that included lots of food, wine, Yankees baseball, watching both brothers be athletic, and celebrating their turning 16. Thankfully, while they are both of age to do so, neither are licensed to drive a car. I actually drove in New York for the first time ever this morning. It was terrifying, and something I hope to avoid doing ever again. Those cab drivers really are maniacs! I came close to shaking my fist at one this morning, but I thought it best to keep both hands on the wheel.
I also spent this evening reading and starting to write some responses to an article my mom clipped out and brought for me (along with a rug for my room and a blender. Thanks, Mom!) on plot in fiction by Ann Patchett. Plot, along with dialogue, is something I shy away from in my writing, out of fear of being cliched or otherwise lame. This article, along with the Michael Cunningham quote from the previous post, is giving me motivation to wade through the bad stuff that I will inevitably write to get to the good. It's scary (at least for me) to press forward with something knowing that I may very well fail at it, but I guess that's life. Can't be afraid of rejection and some mediocre work, since I'll never get better if I don't try.
I don't like to end on such a sentimental note, so I'll now go to bed grumbling because I have to work on Columbus Day tomorrow, unlike my across-the-hall neighbors who seem to be throwing a fairly large party. I feel like an old lady today - incompetent driver complaining about the damn kids and their loud music across the hall. Also, I'm going to bed at 10:30, which just perpetuates this theory. Good night!

Two Things Found on the Internet That Gave Me Great Joy Today

The first is this quote by Michael Cunningham (Pulitzer winner, wrote The Hours). I found it heartening and a much-needed boost of encouragement.

"The stuff I was writing at 22 was embarrassing. It was all theory about the world and how to live in it and almost no practical experience. I really needed to work and fall in love and work some more and fall in love again before I began to get a sense of what I call emotional physics — which are often counterintuitive. People don’t necessarily act the way you think they ought to act. We are not logical organisms."

I feel like pretty much everything I'm writing right now is crap, so thanks, Michael Cunningham! Even though I'm 23, no longer 22, these words make me feel as though things can only get better.

The second is from Ron Charles, a book editor for the Washington Post. He does virtual book reviews that are a big hit with my department at work, and just generally delightful. This is the most recent one on (coincidentally) Michael Cunningham's new book.



I especially like the part where he frolics through the sculpture garden.

Salvation City

Well, I just finished Salvation City by Sigrid Nunez, who was a writing professor of mine at Barnard and continues to be a mentor of sorts. I spent my senior year in her class, and immediately felt both intimidated and embraced by her. Most creative writing professors, in my experience, tend toward the all-inclusive, "everyone has something important to say" teaching style. There's nothing inherently wrong with this, and I'm certainly not advocating professors tearing down students' stories and styles, most of which are exceedingly personal and intrinsically connected to our ever-fragile egos. However, one of the things I automatically appreciated about Sigrid and her class was her no-nonsense approach. Her criticism was constructive, helpful, never excessive, and her praise was reserved for that which truly deserved it. I feel so lucky not just to have been taught by her then, but the fact that we're still in touch and she's still giving me encouragement and advice.
Also, as I've just experienced, she's written an incredible book. Salvation City has affected me in a way that I haven't felt in a while. Though the themes it deals with are big ones, and it's poignant enough to make you stop and think about the world, it's subtle and compulsively readable (thank you, job in Publishing. I now read so many book reviews I'm starting to write like one). In all seriousness, I admire so much about the book from a technical standpoint, but it's easy to love it purely for the story and memorable characters - which is why you read novels in the first place. To not get into too many details, the book is set in the not so distant future after a great pandemic, much like the Flu of 1918, which has left the world reeling. The narrator is Cole, a 14 year old boy who has lost both his parents and come to live with a couple in the fundamentalist Christian community of Salvation City. What I admire most is the way Cole narrates the story, skipping through time before and after the Flu but never leaving the reader feeling jarred or left behind. It's less than 300 pages, but it's the kind of book that was truly satisfying and taught me a lot. I actually laid there hugging it for a moment after I turned the last page.
I'm currently listening to a stereotypical (for me) "Writing Mix." Lots of Billie Holiday, the Beatles, and Annie Lennox, but "(You Make Me Feel) Like A Natural Woman", sung by Aretha Franklin of course, just brought me way back to memories of driving to school in the morning, probably more than 10 years ago. Aretha was a big hit on the morning drives, as was Van Morrison. I guess this bears mentioning because, at this point, my two brothers would be strapped into seats in the back, swinging their legs to the music. Now, they're both taller than me and turning 16 this weekend. Pretty amazing. I'm trying not to focus on the fact that this means I'm getting older, too.
It's cold and rainy here now, but that's not the only reason I'm running around closing all the windows in the apartment. Last night, I slept with my window open. This wouldn't normally be anything noteworthy, except for the fact that my window shares an air shaft with the identical building next door. In my half-sleep, the conversation two floors down and one building away sounded so clear as to be coming from the living room. As I was mostly sleeping and not in my right mind, I automatically realized that my apartment had surely been broken into, and the culprits were calmly discussing their breaking and entering on the couch. After mustering up enough courage to go investigate and discover that there was, of course, no one there, it still took two hours before I had calmed down enough to go to sleep, only half sure I wouldn't wake up to find all my earthly possessions carried away by some nonexistent burglars.