Sacred Faulkner Space

"It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

When I was writing my Senior Thesis in the Spring of 2009, I would shut my door and become a recluse for hours on end - reading The Sound and The Fury over and over again. If this seems like a recipe for insanity, that's pretty accurate. I wrote my thesis specifically on the first part of the novel, narrated by Benjy, a member of the Compson family with severe mental disabilities. Faulkner's method of narration from his perspective, with all its seemingly nonsensical prose and imagery, was unprecedented and, in my opinion, genius.
My general argument was that Benjy is an "idiot savant", a psychological phenomenon where people of low IQs possess genius-level memories or mathematical skills, like the recognition and prediction of patterns. I remember reading a study on one idiot savant that could do multiplication of huge numbers in seconds - the kind of problems usually only solved on a calculator. Benjy's seemingly impermeable accounts of specific instances are peppered with distinct memories and observations that set him apart from his limitations. Once the reader is acclimated to the admittedly psycho language of Benjy's world, it's clear that he has capabilities overshadowed by what sets him apart in the first place.
But, I don't need to rehash my paper here. The point is, I sequestered myself reading some pretty crazy literature and went hours without seeing or speaking to another human being. During this time, I told my apartment-mates that I was in the "Sacred Faulkner Space", both mentally and physically, and was not to be disturbed - for better or worse.
I feel like I'm going through something similar right now. Because I was foolish and didn't start putting money away until about a month ago, I have basically brought all social activities that involve spending money to a screeching halt until I leave for Paris. The result is a lot of time spent alone in my apartment - writing, reading (sometimes legitimate books, sometimes fashion magazines), and watching alternately awesome and awesomely bad television.
The result - I think I might be going a little crazy. Cabin fever is a real thing. I know this because it is my reality. I am typically a person who enjoys being alone, and relishes pockets of solitude amidst an active social life. But this has been a lot of time with myself, and just myself.
I have to keep telling myself that this will all be worth it when I'm in Paris, being out for breakfast, lunch, dinner, after dinner, and into the early morning. After all, what's the point of going if I'm not going to live it to the fullest? 11 days of exuberant living will be pretty incredible.
I've also downloaded a blogging app onto my iPad, so I can write little Paris dispatches while I'm there. No photos until I return, since there's no way to plug my camera into the iPad. I'll just flood this blog with them when I get back. Oh, I'm already bursting with excitement - exactly three weeks to go!

Two little postscripts.

This glorious video:



And this gem from Jezebel's "Drink 'Til He's Witty: The Reader's Drinking Game", to undercut all the Faulkner-ian pretension happening here:

William Faulkner: Every time a sentence goes on for more than a page, drink the entire bottle. Then make out with your sister.*

*I would not recommend this. To anyone.

Working on my Fitness, among other things

That would be me, in my work-out clothes and the head of the Barnard mascot - the Barnard Bear. Devastatingly creative, I know.

I ran a 5k this morning - in the wind and cold. Although it was really unpleasant for the first mile or so, I loved it, and felt great afterward. Plus, I came in #72 out of 456 people (my time was just under 25:30), which gave me a boost of confidence to keep training for my 10k in March.
Also, I'm someone who typically runs alone, but there was something really amazing about running with a big group of people. At one point, somewhere between miles 2 and 3, I slowed down a little, and a woman coming up behind me touched my arm and motioned for me to keep going. It sounds pretty insignificant, but I felt completely motivated and encouraged by a complete stranger. I'm not sure why, but that felt pretty special to me.
As promised, I've included a bit of my other endeavor into self improvement - a snippet of the novel I'm trying to write. Any suggestions/comments appreciated!

All she had seen was a flowing white shape, falling fast, but Mary was certain that it was a person. There was something about the way it moved so fast through the darkness, with the weight and velocity that made it clear – this was the end of someone’s life, an act so final and deliberate it could be nothing else. Mary had seen suicide before, but she had always had some knowledge of the person affected. It was either abstract and distant - an acquaintance or someone she had known as a child, or staggeringly omnipresent – a longtime patient or coworker, or, for Mary, her brother Charles. In either case, the victim (and as she saw it, there were always multiple victims of this kind of thing) was never anonymous. Somehow, this fact was making it all the more unnerving, knocking Mary off of any kind of equilibrium she’d learned to build around moments of extreme stress and loss. Yet, here she was, freezing without a coat, standing outside the door to the garage remembering vaguely something about a bottle of wine.

Mary opened and closed the door behind her, into the garage where it was less cold but still not warm. Her hands were cold enough to start stinging, but she knew, after so many Maine winters, soon enough they wouldn’t even be cold anymore, if she stayed out here. Which, of course, she wouldn’t. She also knew that even more painful than the shots of cold through her extremities would be the accelerated thaw once she got back into the blazingly warm house, cold wine bottles undoubtedly still pressed in each hand. That’s just the way, she thought, sometimes the thaw is even worse than what you’re thawing out from. Whoever it was that jumped tonight couldn’t or wouldn’t thaw. She imagined a vague person dressed in white, frozen in an ice block, unable and unwilling to move, even to blink. She tried to banish the image of that blank stare as she wrestled two bottles of wine from the cardboard box and trudged as quickly as she could back towards the kitchen door.

“So, you can either be silent and dress the salad, or pour me a glass of wine while this sauce thickens and tell me what it is that’s got you so worked up.” Tom said this, while breading chicken breasts, when he heard Mary close the door and start stomping the snow off her boots.

“Okay, hand me two glasses. I’ve decided I’ve hit my petulance quota for the day,” she replied, chuckling as she saw the corners of his mouth turn up into a subtle grin. She and Tom shared their offices as psychologists, and often poked fun of each other when exhibiting the very behavior they tried to discourage in others. They used to work together occasionally, advising married couples, before they realized the temptation to analyze their own relationship was too great, especially with the person who alternately delighted and enraged you sitting half a foot away. Now there were their three rooms, two offices with an adjoining waiting area, on the second floor of an old boarding house in Portland. They lived together, worked together, often traveled from home to office and back again side by side. Mary rarely thought about it, but she was hardly ever without him.

So, Tom sprinkled some flour into the skillet full of wine, broth, and mushrooms, sipping the Beaujolais throughout, as Mary attempted to tell him what happened. In the hour or so that she’d experienced it, the image had taken on an intangible quality in her mind, so she finally felt she had to be as abrupt as possible.

“I saw someone die tonight. Actually, it was a suicide. I’m quite certain it was.”

Ugh. February.

It's winter. You see the snow on the trees, and it all seems very picturesque and delightful. This is not so. My reality is the sheet of frozen ice covering all the sidewalks and the horrible weather phenomenon known as "wintry mix" that's currently making all moments spent outside full of misery. February, we are not friends right now.


In other news, my novel project (2 days down, 26 to go) has not gone off the rails yet. Amazing! I was babysitting last night, and the parents were out much later than usual. This was actually pretty great, since I got paid to sit and write at their kitchen table. Not a bad gig. Although there were moments when I was pulling my hair out (figuratively, thankfully), I had to admit that this felt a lot better than what I usually do while waiting for these parents to return home - watch awesomely bad TV, play solitaire on my phone, aimlessly texting people for no apparent reason. I realized pretty quickly that I haven't sat down to write 7 pages since college, and I didn't have a full time job then. The feelings of frustration and blank stares at the computer screen came back like a charm, though - it's like riding a bike.
But! I reached my page quota. And the wheels have started turning, I think. I must be honest, not a lot of it is use-able yet. So much of what I wrote last night was my version of thinking out loud: starting a paragraph with "So, why is this character interesting?" or "How can I calm my misgivings about this turn in the plot?" and sometimes "I absolutely need to cut this, because it's stupid and makes no sense." Sometimes, it helps to have a physical log of these things. Anyway, a lot of headway was made last night. I've had the idea for this novel for about two and a half years now, but could never get anywhere with it. Last night, I finally figured out why. I changed a lot of things, restructured, and added some new details, so now I think it might actually have a future as something. Incredibly liberating, and the best I've felt about my writing in ages.
I'll post a snippet of the new stuff when I can, somewhere in between my treks across the frozen Manhattan tundra.

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!

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.

Hi?

Ugh, so incommunicado for the last...(yikes) 20 days. Apologies all around. I don't suppose it would help to say that I'm working on a story inspired by what may be the best title ever? Maybe? Okay.
So, basically, life has consisted of working and weekend trips to the homestead for the past two weeks. In theory, all of these things are good. But I'm looking forward to spending the foreseeable future in NYC to focus more on things both immediate (cleaning my room) and long-term (actually finishing a story). Plus, now that summer is winding down, my psychological need to get out of New York at every possible moment is decreasing also. A lot of people say they like New York in the summer because there's no one around. I fundamentally disagree with this. Even though there are fewer people, I think that everyone who is still in the city starts to inhabit their own personal sphere of heat, sweat, and all-around rage at everyday tasks, like simply waiting for the subway. The overwhelming discomfort and fact that the heat makes people twice as pissed off at their morning commute than they usually are definitely makes up for the fact that a fair amount of the population is sunning themselves elsewhere.
Ok, that rant felt good, but onwards. I'm also throwing myself upon the mercy of friends, family, and now the internet to start a freelance tutoring business. While working with wine would be amazing, I've had to accept that a second job like that just wouldn't make sense right now, especially with how much I'm working. So, if you know of any Manhattanite (or Brooklynite) children in need of some educational guidance, please let me know.
So, this weekend is supposed to be completely perfect, and I plan on spending it outside finishing this gloriously-titled (and hopefully well-written) story - to be continued!

Deception/Devotion

As promised. I've been posting a lot of these initial attempts at stories, which, for me, is the most challenging part of the process. After I accrue enough with potential, they'll become more substantial and, hopefully, complete.

In the center of the very highest dome at the top of the church ceiling, there is a painted eye. I spend a lot of time looking at it when I'm at Mass with my mother, especially during the parts when we kneel on that cushion-thing that folds out. I hate it because it hurts my knees. I used to be able to get away with sitting during the kneeling parts, but I guess I'm too old to sit now. One Sunday, my mother suddenly started glaring at me when I stayed in the pew while everyone else moved to the floor. She whispered something at me, in a tone that she could barely use in church. Anyway, she meant business, and now I have to suffer through it like everyone else.
I told my mom that I saw the eye blink once, but of course I didn't. It's fun to see what I can get away with, and sometimes she pretends like she believes me, even though I know she doesn't. She loves my imagination, but I wonder if she knows how much I make up and how much is true. Sometimes, I forget that it's not true, and I walk around thinking that God's eye blinked at me, until I remember that I made it up. My parents make a big deal about lying, how it is "the one thing they don't tolerate", but I've been caught a bunch of times already and haven't really faced any consequences. I know it's bad for me to do, but sometimes it's fun to think about things like the eye in church and how amazing it would be if it moved and looked at just me, out of everyone in the room.
After Mass, I have Sunday School in the family center across the street. Some people call it CCD, but that bugs me because I don't know what those letters would even stand for. Anyway, we're split up into groups by which grade we're in, and we sit at round tables with nuns who teach us out of these workbooks. For the past few weeks, we've been learning about the ten commandments. I sit next to Peter, who goes to my school, and make illustrations of whichever commandment we're being taught that day in the back of my workbook. It's funny - in regular school, I would never talk to him during class and definitely wouldn't show him stupid drawings of "Thou Shall Not Steal" (a stick figure stealing a pile of money getting struck by lightning from a vengeful stick figured version of God). No matter how much I try to forget it, everyone in my grade seems to remember the Valentine I put in his desk last year. I thought it would be totally secret, since I only signed it with my first initial. Unfortunately, the only other girl whose first name starts with "B" was absent on Valentine's Day, so my foolproof plan fell through pretty quickly. Peter and I are the only two from our school in the group, so I can talk to him without everyone noticing.
Today, we had gotten to "Thou Shall Not Commit Adultery", which apparently has something to do with sex. I don't really know anything about what sex is, aside from things the boys whisper to each other at school and scenes in movies where my parents make me leave the room for 5 minutes. So, I just started to draw a bridal couple, the kind that they put on wedding cakes. Then, when Peter would look over (we sat next to each other), I would whisper the commandment under my breath and scribble through the couple as I said "adultery" - almost growling it so the nun wouldn't hear.

Catch Up

So, I have not been great about posting lately. This past week/weekend was a bit of a blur. Lots of work and play - so I've been distracted.
Life in Publishing has been great, busy, and made the past month and a half fly by (I can't believe I've had my job this long). It has also, peripherally, been stirring a bit of jealousy within me. I think it's the good, motivating kind of jealousy, though. Seeing young debut novelists get good reviews and exposure makes the whole game of getting published less mysterious and also more tangible...as in, why aren't you doing this?
As a result, I've been reading and writing a lot lately. As Faulkner said, "Read, read, read everything." Very wise words - nothing inspires me more. When I attended the Young Fiction Awards at the New York Public Library a while ago, I swiped copies of all 5 nominated books (a feat for someone in a pocket-less cocktail dress and a handbag barely big enough to hold my wallet). I've been blazing through them, the first being All The Living by C.E Morgan - a gorgeous and unique book for many reasons. The novel takes place on a dusty, lifeless tobacco farm in Kentucky and very little happens, but I can't remember the last time I was so engaged by such a seemingly simple narrative. The author, who went to Harvard Divinity School, weaves in religion in an unexpected and fascinating way. I love being able to see how clearly the ways in which our experiences can shape the way we express ourselves creatively. It makes me thirsty to do more and varied things.
Now, I'm on to Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower, which could not be more different. I was initially excited to read it, beyond the great reviews and the fact that it actually won the Young Fiction Award, because I think the title is badass. It also resonates with every story, which range from chronicling a man building an eclectic aquarium in a trailer park to hilariously following a group of vikings as they, yes, ravage and burn things.
This post has somehow turned into a book review. This is not surprising, as a large portion of my days now are devoted to me reading, scanning, and trying to get book reviews for our titles. Oh well. Tomorrow I'll cover the writing part of this rant and post one of the things I've been working on - which is narrated by a child, an exercise I love.
Also, there will be more tomorrow on the second job search...my work is never done! Plus, the wine-related aspects of my life haven't had enough airtime lately.
So, I exist. I am still writing this thing, and I will be back tomorrow.

Some Vintage Stuff

Last night was lovely. I had dinner with a great friend, her sister, and her sister's boyfriend - delicious food, great wine, and lots of fun. Afterward, I was lucky enough to spend the rest of the evening with some wonderful family, feeling the love. There was a lot of talk about art, following creative pursuits (one of my cousins is living the dream as a musician). It's great to spend time with people where there is so much mutual understanding and appreciation - particularly when they're family. What made last night so great was being able to be around people with whom I felt so comfortable and happy - family and a friend who feels like family to me.
Anyway, it brought me back to the super-observant descriptive writing that I'm actually trying to move beyond. There's nothing wrong with it as far as sketches or little portraits go, but I need to get better at integrating plot and dialogue -which is significantly more challenging for me. So, here is a bit of an artifact from the not-so-recent past:

Sunday Afternoon

As if on cue, the bugs started to come into view at the first sign of sweat gathering on my upper lip. My nose predictably reacting to the summer cold I can’t seem to shake brings more sweat, that of frustration. I stare at the huge box of sand and gravel in front of me, longing for a beach as a dog lifts its leg against a nearby bench. I watch a couple probe the insides of one another’s mouths as the light begins to change – the sun feeling no less powerful despite its waning position behind me. Summer in this city shows itself on my feet, which are a different shade than my ankles. A fly lands on my second toe, and I don’t brush it off right away, which feels perverse and satisfying. I stare down at the bricks that serve as pavement, mismatched and from different years. I am suddenly conscious of how eagerly I am avoiding checking the time. I even attempt to connect the dots of an excessively annoying nearby cell phone conversation. The man is bent laboriously over his phone, almost yelling into it, ending each sentence on an incline, as if asking an infinite amount of questions.

It quickly becomes too much, enough to rouse me from the bench and force me to look down at my watch – still more than an hour to waste. Somehow the idea of having nothing to do is incredibly enticing until it is all there is. Having no job and dwindling funds leaves me at the mercy of my busy friends’ schedules and the shortage of inexpensive things to do. To take my mind off the burdens of independence, I have discovered an hour and a half of yoga every day at a donation-based studio on St. Mark’s Place. Instead of the eight dollars the studio suggests, I offer a genuine, if slightly embarrassed, smile and thank you on my way out the door.

By the time I have traversed across the park, offering the proper reverence to the old brownstones and attempting to ignore the surplus of tourists on a Saturday, and east on 8^th Street, I try to find a place to sit and wile away the fifteen minutes before the previous class trickles out. I take refuge on the steps of a combination noodle restaurant/tattoo parlor, and stare at the door to the studio across the street.

After feeling a vibration against my waist, I reluctantly answer the call of a friend who seems to be constantly in some sort of psychological turmoil – or at least whenever she calls me, since she consistently asks for advice. Since I can hardly seem to help myself these days, I mostly just listen to her talk for fifteen minutes. For some reason, she sees me as wise, though what I really have is common sense. In my mind, wisdom implies experience, which I certainly lack. It’s all I can do to hear her words through the never-ending debate in my head – is it better to not feel pain and be alone? It’s difficult, even now, to distinguish whether what I feel is numbness or solitude. I hang up the phone with a combination of envy and pity, still with twenty-five minutes to kill.

Fed up with the hard cement of the steps and my inability to get away from my thoughts, which were slowly becoming more and more overwhelming, I gathered myself and climbed the two flights of stairs, wide and probably tiled before I was born.

Before I go to yoga, it always takes a fair amount of inner convincing, my mind forcing my body to be dressed and be at the studio on time, but once I am inside the building, I am in complete accord. The combination of sweat, the wood of the large, wide room, and various perfumes and scents of the surrounding bodies truly reconcile everything that bothers or conflicts me in the moment. What is initially difficult becomes fluid, simple, and focused 90 minutes later. What complicates and frustrates me is eventually simple and unimportant. I feel flexible, aware, and a little breathless – not to mention drenched with sweat and a strange awareness of my femininity, the sexual experience of breathing deeply with thirty other people.

Afterwards, I eventually sink into the reality of the humidity, my unemployment, the construction workers taking note of me very vocally, and my intense thirst for nothing but water. I begin to inevitably come down from the high I have become used to receiving, but there is the memory of it. Also, the opportunity to recapture something so elusive.

Irish Pub, Late Night

As I mentioned before, this is a continuation on things previously written (ie. this would appear after "Gate 74" from before). Again, just a draft / musings which might result in a draft.

Ingrid came into the bar tonight, around 11:30. I knew her vaguely in high school, but she was into artsy stuff that I couldn't penetrate. I went to a play once that she was in, "All's Well That Ends Well." Shakespeare. He's tough enough to understand, regardless of the 3 hard lemonades I'd pounded in the parking lot beforehand, but there was something about the way she talked, said her lines. I've never been able to forget it. It was almost like singing, but not in a way that was lame or contrived at all. It was lyrical, literally. I wanted to kiss her right on the mouth when she started going on about how "an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities."
She recognized me pretty quickly, though I'm not sure why. I can't remember us ever having any sort of real conversation, besides stupid smiles in the hallway and me feigning interest in the school plays. But when she saw me, something in her eyes changed, like she'd isolated a goal or something. She sidled up to the bar, and ordered something like whiskey on the rocks. I asked her what kind, pretending not to know her, wanting to force her to jog my memory of who she was. Somehow needing her to perform that in front of me, for my benefit and no one else's.
I guess I wasn't very convincing, sizing her up, probably too noticeably. As I would have guessed, she started going on about New York, how she lived there now, and how great it was. I always feel like the second someone spends more than a month there, it's all about how much better you are than everyone else. She was calling it "the city", like it's the only one there is, and getting all uppity about it. I gave her the cheapest whiskey we had, and after the first sip she looked surprised, disgusted, and then, immediately aware of herself, tried to cover up both, drinking the syrupy liquor too quickly, trying to seem used to it. I should've felt bad, I guess, but I didn't. It was like getting back at her for how annoying, yet compelling she was. She was quickly drunk, honest, and full of herself.
I quickly started blowing my own cover, too, peppering the conversation with memories I had of her in high school. I think I even mentioned the Shakespeare, which must have totally given me up. I think I ended up giving her three whiskeys, but I was spitting out the shots that drunk frat boys were buying me after the Phillies won around 11. I wanted to keep being able to notice how her eyes were getting wider and how she would laugh constantly, avoiding my eyes and staring down at the bar. I started wondering, after hours had gone by and she hadn't spoken to anyone else, if she'd come here just to see me. Usually girls come in packs, only occasionally breaking away from the herd and letting anyone else in. Penetrating those groups is both impossible and terrifying. Somehow, she came with just herself and no attachments, except maybe to me.
Soon enough, we closed, and it was clear she couldn't drive, so I offered, with bad intentions disguised by honorable ones.

To Blog or Not To Blog

I spent another weekend at home, spending a low key Father's Day with my parents while my brothers are off in the wild blue yonder (summer camp in Wyoming), and got to see a lot of family, many of whom are wonderful, loyal blog readers. When asking about my new job, one of my aunts said, "Well, I knew that you must be happy in your job, because you stopped writing your blog."
In some ways, this is definitely true. My one post a day habit has fallen by the wayside, mostly as a product of my being busy and engaged, as opposed to sitting at a reception desk trying to pass the time until 5 pm. However, my mission toward forward motion continues, in conjunction with the fact that I just took one big step in the self-fulfillment direction, and I think the blog needs to, as well.
While I was home going through some old books and papers that my mother keeps telling me I need to throw out, I came across a little blurb from a young female writer that I printed out around this time last summer, when I was living at home and anguishing over what my next step would be. The author is J. Courtney Sullivan, and she wrote a book called Commencement that came out last summer about a group of girlfriends that attend and graduate from Smith together (take note, all Barnard readers, you'd like this one - it's a great summer book. I'll lend you my copy). Anyway, the New York Times has a fantastic book blog called Paper Cuts (although the name makes me squirm) that has a few regular features that spotlight authors, one of which is called Stray Questions. J. Courtney's is here.
Anyway, the point of this is her answer as to what her writing life and schedule are like (they ask the same questions of each author, and the answers can be illuminating). What struck me is, unlike a lot of the authors the Times talks to, Sullivan works full time and freelances, plus she still finds time to write fiction. Being a full time worker bee myself, I felt a connection (despite one important difference: she has written a bestselling novel. I write blurbs in a moleskin.). Ultimately, she treats her writing like a second job - from 9-5 on the weekends. While I keep trying to drill a writing schedule into my own head, this seemed to be so simple it just might work. In conjunction with my wino pursuits, I have decided to devote Saturdays from 9-5 (wish me luck) to writing, anything, even if I think it's awful. And, of course, this blog. So, expect to see more little excerpts from me in addition to the rants and musings I already attempt to supply.
Back to the publishing world. More later!

Gate 74

Disclaimer: This is in no way a finished product. Just a direction I want to go in. And, yes, I know I shouldn't end sentences in prepositions.

There is a specific sort of full-body shudder I get when I see children lick the floor of the Port Authority, Gate 74 to be exact. Gate 74, service to Wilmington and Baltimore, is on the bottom floor of the terminal, the very bowels of the Earth. This is where I go to get out of New York, a place I banked on loving but now escape from whenever possible.
My parents, also assuming that I would be enamored of city life, were not prepared for my weekly trips home, so I am forced to take the Greyhound bus instead of the more civilized and expensive train. I learned quickly that, in the world of the bus terminal, there are all sorts of rules that don't apply to other forms of transportation. Trains leave at the scheduled departure time, never before, and, if you arrive ten minutes early, you can leisurely walk from platform to train, find a compartment for your luggage, perhaps get some sort of drink in the cafe car, and settle in to your ample seat, all with minutes to spare. This is not so in bus travel.
When taking a bus, it is necessary to be at the gate 30 minutes early. I cannot emphasize this enough. The bus may leave ten minutes before or an hour after it is scheduled. These so-called departure times are nothing more than flimsy estimates, and should not be taken seriously. Add in the time it takes to get to Midtown West from my NYU dorm in the East Village with this sort of time allowance, and this becomes a pretty major operation.
This is my first year at NYU, Tisch School of the Arts specifically, but I hate it when people just say they go to Tisch and then accompany it with this smug smile, as if you should suddenly act grateful to be in their general vicinity. I'm here to study acting. I should feel really lucky to be at such a good school for drama, but it seems like the only thing people go to Tisch for is musical theater. I am surrounded daily by people who have deep, undying love for musical theater, and who are just bursting to talk, sing, and gesticulate wildly about it to anyone who will listen. I have little to no interest in or patience for this.
Sure, there are some basic, resume-caliber details about me that might make it seem like I belong here. Studying drama is an obvious one. I wear a lot of black, like the Smiths and Vampire Weekend in equal measure, and my name is Ingrid, which, I guess is artsy and quirky enough to make sense. I just don't think I can envision myself at a school where people sing showtunes to each other before taking shots of cheap vodka at apartment parties.
So, instead, I spend my Friday nights at Gate 74 waiting for the bus back to my parents' house in Wilmington, Delaware, a place people never seem to tire of mocking. I see it as the last hurdle I have to clear before my weekends of escape, although it would be a lot easier to take if I didn't have to watch that man in the corner cough blood into a cup in between bites of fried chicken.

Post-Game

So, not to keep you in suspense any longer, I think my interview yesterday went well. I met with the Deputy Publisher of Foreign Affairs, who was really great, so smart, and the sort of person I could see learning a lot from. Basically, I love everything about this job, especially the fact that preparing for the interview has taught me that I am probably more interested in the business end of things than the creative - as far as publishing goes. In any event, the opportunity to work for this sort of magazine is rare and exciting. I'm waiting with bated breath to see if I get called back for the second round.
In other news, I've decided to commence on a new creative project. I'm going to set out on writing a series of stories that travel from Wilmington, Delaware to New York and back (probably a couple of times). This all started with my overwhelming desire to write a story about the Port Authority, which I believe to be unique in its nausea-inducing hellishness. There's so much opportunity for great description there. Ideally, I want there to be some character in the previous story that overlaps into the next, a bit of narrator continuity, so we'll see how this goes. I'm hoping to post some sort of draft of a new one each week (ambitious, I know, but I've got to start somewhere).
I'm pretty peeved because I had a significant outline of the first story I wanted to write in a notebook that I'm pretty sure I left in the Pain Quotidien near Bryant Park. In any event, it is now gone, which is very unusual because I've never let one of my notebooks out of my sight before and this one was chock full of important things. Oh well, I'm sure someone at Pain Quotidien is having a laugh reading it as I type this (or I'll find it tonight underneath a pile of sweaters or something). So, tomorrow: musings on the post-apocalyptic mess that is the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I'm sick of writing being an afterthought of this blog, since I've always intended for it to be one of the centerpieces.
Lastly, my two week temp job will wrap up on Friday, and I'm trying to figure out what my next move should be. While the temp agency is always an option, I am thinking of getting a job in a restaurant near my apartment. Or maybe a wine bar (Can you imagine? Working in a wine store by day and a wine bar by night?). For the next couple of days after this job, I'm going to wander the streets looking for places. From the time I started writing this, I already have two interviews set up for next week, so it might be good to have more days free. I won't lie, part of being a waitress and having my days free appeals to me. The other part of it feels a little stale. I'll compromise, I guess. Or I'll get a job and not have to wait tables! Oh, impossible dreams...

Day of Writing (Not the Fun Kind)

I've been in a cover-letter-rewriting and job-applying tunnel all day, which is fine since it was really cold and foggy here today and easy to stay inside and get lots done. Cover letters are a strange beast. I'm someone who generally enjoys writing, and never really dreads it, but writing cover letters is something I absolutely hate. I'm not sure what it is about them, but it seems a universal truth that everyone despises writing them. There's something about summing up all of your experiences in a relevant way, using such carefully selected words, that is stupidly tedious and time-consuming. Then, of course, there's the understanding that everything you write will play such a role in whether or not some company calls you in for an interview. After a couple of hours of this, plus searching for the right jobs, my head starts to swim. Oh well, best to make the best use of this time when I'm not temping. If I'm not getting paid, I might as well be doing something productive!

Ok, enough of that. Now for something completely different. This is neither fiction nor pure truth. I just went with it today - with the prompt of "games people play."

I don't like routine, so I always try to keep people on their toes. When someone never knows what to expect from me, I consider it a personal victory.
It doesn't hurt my cause that I'm moody by nature, and sometimes see each interaction I have in a given day as a new opportunity to exorcise, even in some small way, how how I feel at that moment. Even if it's just thanking the coffee guy, or nervously smiling at someone new, there's definite transparency to how I act, for better or worse.
At the same time, I can be painfully self-conscious or unnecessarily confident, which factors into the equation as well. I realize that I'm effectively describing every hot-blooded woman ever, but I think everyone likes to believe that they are different, and the way their lives interlock with those of others is unique.
I like to think that a lot of people "know" who I am, and that I am not often guarded or performing in some way. I am more or less consistent, and maybe the shifts I make in myself aren't noticeable to others, but I believe this little charade I play is less me running with my multitude of emotions than a way to continually keep things interesting.

I leave you with this, a picture of "productivity." Plans B, C, and D.

A Little Bit of an Exercise I Like

* Write one page of memories, always beginning with the words "I remember." Write a second page of sentences that begin the same way, but are lies. Then, intersperse them.

I remember the pain of gravel on bare feet, and how it eventually lessened the longer I stood.

I remember indescribable pain in my ears after running two miles through a Connecticut winter, and how the thaw hurt almost more.

I remember when it was cool to be religious.

I remember emotional landmines. You touch them, and you die.

I remember my mother's address book, falling apart at the spine and never replaced.

I remember irrational fury at someone suggesting I should like something or someone.

I remember the security of being with adults, and the exhale of being with friends.

I remember the pressure of always appearing to be learning or appreciating something.

I remember running away, wrapping all of my essentials in a white towel and trying to attach the bundle to a stick, like I had seen done in movies. It might have been a grand success, except for the note I'd left, telling my parents where I had gone.

I remember it was a thrill having secrets for about a day or so, and then feeling as if I would die if I didn't tell someone.

I remember the joy of rediscovering something, usually an old letter or picture. The rush of memory, sweet and sudden, is rare and precious.

2 Things I Made From Scratch Today

The first is a little comfort food stew I made (no recipe!), basically a riff on one of my Mom's signature dishes. I felt very competent, sauteing my onions, chopping my parsley, etc...


With luck, it should feed me at work for most of the week. Saving money is a beautiful & delicious thing.

The second is this - a little free write I did this evening. I'm experimenting with proprioceptive writing as a way to mine inspiration a little differently. We shall see...

I left work at five o'clock on a mission, a sense of purpose that felt completely foreign. I needed a zebra aloe plant. If I went to sleep with that plant on my formerly barren windowsill, things would be better in the morning.

At a job where my most pressing tasks involve making sure there is enough coffee for thirty investment bankers to drink when they saunter into work in the morning, each day is an exercise in keeping myself occupied. For the most part, after navigating the complex list of websites the company blocks, I am entertained by the New York Times. Their seemingly never-ending supply of slideshows, "multimedia wedding announcements", and stories on everything from natural disasters to the MTA discontinuing student Metrocards is a godsend in my line of work.

My favorite section is in Sunday Styles, titled Home & Garden, though I have neither. I have Apartment & Dying Daisies in a Cloudy Vase. But that's the great thing about the Times. They don't just cater to people who have townhouses and charming neighborhood gardens. They're also talking to me, the young, relatively poor, yet endlessly aspiring class of person. They know what I want, and there it was - in a new slideshow: Apartment Gardens. The Zebra Aloe was the first slide: "visually arresting" and apparently almost impossible to kill. Perfect.

Equally perfect was the fact that, although I live on a somewhat forlorn stretch of First Avenue, my closest subway stop was in completely respectable proximity to the "Upper East Side" of fancy and comprehensive florists, which the Times, in her infinite wisdom, referenced at the end of the article. And so I left at 5 precisely. After all, the florist at East 87th Street closed precisely at 6, I needed that plant, and it couldn't wait until tomorrow.


PS. By popular demand, a photo of the zebra aloe!