Preschool:
First poem is written. "Down went the celery, down went the cat. Down went me but not dat dat." Very proud of self.
First Grade:
Cute furry animal is happy, cute furry animal gets into trouble, cute furry animal gets out of trouble. The end.
Writing method: Dictation to mom, original artwork by me.
Third Grade:
Joint story with best friend about the misadventures of bat and flying squirrel.
Writing method: Two heads better than one. Original artwork by both of us. Giggling abounds.
Fifth Grade:
Possibly embarrassing time-traveling story involving middle school gym teacher.
Writing method: Mechanical pencils and legal pads. Inspiration hits anywhere and everywhere.
Eighth Grade:
Painfully cliched natural disaster story inspired by hit mid-nineties movie. Stilted dialogue and too many adverbs. Lots of fun to write, though. Flew through it.
Writing method: Mechanical pencils and mead notebooks. Lots of Mead notebooks.
High School:
Mushy stories about having lots of free time with my boyfriend. Writing as coping mechanism and escape from "overly strict" parents.
Writing method: Sparkly pens in secret journals and notebooks, scribbled behind illegally-locked doors.
Senior Year:
"Real" fiction as learned in college creative writing class. Previous writing shown to be positively awful. Damn, this stuff is hard.
Writing method: Parents' slow, slow, computer.
College:
Character development, plot, theme, setting, description? Story arcs...inspiration and ideas coming slower, pushed out by craft. Am I actually going to major in this?
Writing method: Laptop at Village Coffee Shop, caffeine addiction begins.
Senior Year of College:
Tackle novella for senior honors project. With 3 weeks left before due date, decide to completely switch from third-person to first-person POV. Write straight through spring break. Accomplishment. 130 pages. Phew.
Writing method: Village Coffee Shop, Granville Coffee Shop, Library, Quad, Maine, on Floor of Room, on Ceiling of Room, on Top of Fridge. Caffeine IV inserted.
(Almost) Last Semester of MFA:
Write a paragraph. Check Facebook. Walk away. Write another paragraph and decide that character isn't flushed out enough, so write a character interview. Make coffee. Decide that that character wouldn't do what I wanted him to do so change what he does. Do laundry. Research antelopes. Stare at the ceiling. Check Facebook. Write another paragraph. Wait until the last weekend before submission to write the majority of the story and then wonder why I'm developing an ulcer.
Writing method: Survival.
Five-Year Journal, Year One
One year ago today, I started a 5-year journal. I get 6 lines to write a short summary of my day. This was my first entry:
"For the first time, the future looks back at me, as vast and open as the endlessness of space, and as one vision of how to fill the space ends, I must create a new vision of how I will fill it back in. This is very scary."
Though I haven't had the best autumn so far this year, I am happy to say that my future is not so scary as it was on November 3, 2008. Now every night when I open the journal to set down my day, I will also get to read about what happened last year.
This, my friends, is my secret for remembering everything.
"For the first time, the future looks back at me, as vast and open as the endlessness of space, and as one vision of how to fill the space ends, I must create a new vision of how I will fill it back in. This is very scary."
Though I haven't had the best autumn so far this year, I am happy to say that my future is not so scary as it was on November 3, 2008. Now every night when I open the journal to set down my day, I will also get to read about what happened last year.
This, my friends, is my secret for remembering everything.
5 Randoms for a Halloween Weekend
1. My parents decided to come up for the weekend, and while I had a good time with them, I was ready to get back to normal after I dropped them at the airport today. As I observed my interactions with them this weekend, I wondered if other peoples' parents (especially mothers) talk about the past as much as mine do:
"Do you remember when we brought you to Boston when you were 7 and we ate at that place with the checkered tableclothes at Quincy Market and had baked beans?"
"No."
"You DON'T!?"
Or, even more curiously, "Do you remember when you were one and we used to dance around the dining room table singing nursery rhymes?"
"Kids don't remember anything from when they were under three, mom."
"They DON'T!? You don't remember that?!"
I've come to the conclusion that my mother never quite got over me growing up.
2. I saw the Post-Meridian Radio Players' production of "The Big Broadcast" last night, and forgot how much I love live theatre and concurrently am embarrassed for loving live theatre so much. It's so corny. But I don't care.
3. I realized that as much as I miss being a child, I wouldn't find walking around getting free candy from strangers as entertaining as I did when I was little. I can go to CVS down the street now and buy whatever candy I want. Kind of a bummer, really. Now if as adults we could go door to door asking for money, or beer, or electronics...that I could get into.
4. I can't believe it's been almost a year that I've been here on Parker Street. I've now witnessed all the seasons here, and still maintain that this is one of the best neighborhoods to live in. Now, if I could get a couch and maybe an area rug in my living room, life would be near-perfect.
5. Autumn seems to be, once again, a time for endings and re-assessing life goals. I think I am better equipped to deal with such things this year, although am still quite sad at the current outcome. Hopefully if this trajectory continues similarly as last year's, I will see a resurgence after Christmas, and for that I am very excited.
And a bonus 6th...
No matter what kind of mood you are in, seeing Chewbacca riding around on a Seguay in the North End will always, always bring a smile to your face. Especially when he growls at everyone he passes.
"Do you remember when we brought you to Boston when you were 7 and we ate at that place with the checkered tableclothes at Quincy Market and had baked beans?"
"No."
"You DON'T!?"
Or, even more curiously, "Do you remember when you were one and we used to dance around the dining room table singing nursery rhymes?"
"Kids don't remember anything from when they were under three, mom."
"They DON'T!? You don't remember that?!"
I've come to the conclusion that my mother never quite got over me growing up.
2. I saw the Post-Meridian Radio Players' production of "The Big Broadcast" last night, and forgot how much I love live theatre and concurrently am embarrassed for loving live theatre so much. It's so corny. But I don't care.
3. I realized that as much as I miss being a child, I wouldn't find walking around getting free candy from strangers as entertaining as I did when I was little. I can go to CVS down the street now and buy whatever candy I want. Kind of a bummer, really. Now if as adults we could go door to door asking for money, or beer, or electronics...that I could get into.
4. I can't believe it's been almost a year that I've been here on Parker Street. I've now witnessed all the seasons here, and still maintain that this is one of the best neighborhoods to live in. Now, if I could get a couch and maybe an area rug in my living room, life would be near-perfect.
5. Autumn seems to be, once again, a time for endings and re-assessing life goals. I think I am better equipped to deal with such things this year, although am still quite sad at the current outcome. Hopefully if this trajectory continues similarly as last year's, I will see a resurgence after Christmas, and for that I am very excited.
And a bonus 6th...
No matter what kind of mood you are in, seeing Chewbacca riding around on a Seguay in the North End will always, always bring a smile to your face. Especially when he growls at everyone he passes.
A Quick Note
My new cell phone has a section in the "Messages" menu called "Quick Notes." I always just thought these were for business matters: "I'm in a meeting," "Meet me for lunch," "Sorry can't talk busy now" kind of thing. But today I noticed one I hadn't seen before: "I'm sorry/I love you." Ah, I thought, nothing like really showing remorse and love like sending a pre-packaged message you didn't even have to type yourself. And it's not even a comma, or a period, or an "and" - it's an either/or slash. Like either "I'm sorry" or "I love you" or perhaps you're meant to erase the one that doesn't apply...
This...is an apology fail. If you ever receive this text, I would be dubious of its sincerity.
This...is an apology fail. If you ever receive this text, I would be dubious of its sincerity.
Fall
This weekend was quintessential fall:
Apple picking and leaf peeping, tree and rock climbing, movie-going.
Festival-attending, beer sipping.
Dancing to tubas and trumpets and trombones and big drums.
Cart Indian food.
Sleeping in, breaking out the fleece.
Long talks on long walks.
And, of course, having to turn on the space heater first thing in the morning...
I try to keep these feelings with me as I'm back to work for the week, waiting until the next weekend of fun, when I get to let loose again. Sometimes I wonder how some people do this their whole lives - working weekend to weekend, trudging through until they get two special days where they can actually live their lives. This is what I'm working towards, I tell myself as I get up at 5:30 and lumber from the red line to the green line with the masses. I'm working for every day to be just as fulfilling as this past weekend.
Good luck to me, you say. Thanks. I'll need it.
Apple picking and leaf peeping, tree and rock climbing, movie-going.
Festival-attending, beer sipping.
Dancing to tubas and trumpets and trombones and big drums.
Cart Indian food.
Sleeping in, breaking out the fleece.
Long talks on long walks.
And, of course, having to turn on the space heater first thing in the morning...
I try to keep these feelings with me as I'm back to work for the week, waiting until the next weekend of fun, when I get to let loose again. Sometimes I wonder how some people do this their whole lives - working weekend to weekend, trudging through until they get two special days where they can actually live their lives. This is what I'm working towards, I tell myself as I get up at 5:30 and lumber from the red line to the green line with the masses. I'm working for every day to be just as fulfilling as this past weekend.
Good luck to me, you say. Thanks. I'll need it.
It's a Good Thing the Past is Passed
This is the intro to a really really really bad sci-fi short story I started (but never finished), circa mid-1998. There is a reason it was never finished.
100 years ago, our Earth was unknown and new. Although we had been around for billions of years, this number didn’t even compare to how old some of the other worlds were. 100 years ago, we found out there were other worlds. 100 years ago, other worlds found us.
I was around 100 years ago. I’ve only been around 18. The year I was born was 83 years into the Reconstrcution of our world. My name is Wick Putnum, and my name means “new” or “full of life.” I was totally oblivious of what was going on around me and what my world had been through. 100 years ago hadn’t mattered to me.
It does not. 100 years ago, our planet was blasted by a force of what can only be described as “wind.” This “wind” blanketed the Earth in chemical tonxins, causing every living thing to die. Only two hundred survived – the 200 that were underground in an experimental housing project. These 200 lived underground for thirty years, starting new lives and sadly laying to rest the ones that lived out their last years in that living grave. Finally, they ascended to the surface, finding a barren wasteland, and nothing but dry sand, which was actually the dehydrated bodies of all living organisms.
Here they began the Reconstruction. Here they build cities anew. And here I was born, live, thrive, and grow. 100 years have passed, and we have discovered we’re not alone. We were blasted with what we affectionately refer to as “intergalactic hairspray” by what we affectionately refer to as an “ant.”
Unknowing if the ants will ever strike again, we’ve built up an army to protect our land. We’ve developed spaceships to defend our bases. And we’ve send up thousands of our willing men to man them. We hope they will never come again to this place.
Weird Dream
Things are changing around here, and I don't yet know how, but I had a weird dream last night that I hope is, if not prophetic, at least can act as a comfort.
I was at a Catholic church, but it was huge, like a complex almost. There were helicopter pads and stuff. I was in an outdoor arena, waiting for a speaker to begin. A helicopter landed very close to the arena, at about the same level as our heads, and the blades were very close. The helicopter didn't sound too good, so we all decided to leave quickly, and it's a good thing we did - it blew up just as we were leaving the grounds.
We entered the city and, lo and behold, it was like War of the Worlds - tripods everywhere. I was running with the priest and we both kind of looked at each other like, "Here we go again." We hid in a bar, behind the counter (think Shaun of the Dead). A friend brought us a party pack with a disposable camera and some chocolate, I'm guessing to capture our last few moments alive. The fighting sounds died down and we decided to get in the car, and as we were driving away from the bar we realized we didn't see any of the tripods. I called my mom, to tell her goodbye, but as we were talking we realized there really wasn't any reason to say goodbye. The tripods were actually just men in paper mache suits, and now they were all falling over. There was no real threat. We actually bumped the car into one and it sort of grunted. Dream over.
So in both parts of the dream there was a threat, and then we dodged things, and then there was a threat again, and it turned out to be not as bad as we thought. So I'm hoping this is to be applied to my current situation. Maybe, in the long run, when I have some ability to look at it closer, this isn't as bad as it now seems. At least, that's my hope.
I was at a Catholic church, but it was huge, like a complex almost. There were helicopter pads and stuff. I was in an outdoor arena, waiting for a speaker to begin. A helicopter landed very close to the arena, at about the same level as our heads, and the blades were very close. The helicopter didn't sound too good, so we all decided to leave quickly, and it's a good thing we did - it blew up just as we were leaving the grounds.
We entered the city and, lo and behold, it was like War of the Worlds - tripods everywhere. I was running with the priest and we both kind of looked at each other like, "Here we go again." We hid in a bar, behind the counter (think Shaun of the Dead). A friend brought us a party pack with a disposable camera and some chocolate, I'm guessing to capture our last few moments alive. The fighting sounds died down and we decided to get in the car, and as we were driving away from the bar we realized we didn't see any of the tripods. I called my mom, to tell her goodbye, but as we were talking we realized there really wasn't any reason to say goodbye. The tripods were actually just men in paper mache suits, and now they were all falling over. There was no real threat. We actually bumped the car into one and it sort of grunted. Dream over.
So in both parts of the dream there was a threat, and then we dodged things, and then there was a threat again, and it turned out to be not as bad as we thought. So I'm hoping this is to be applied to my current situation. Maybe, in the long run, when I have some ability to look at it closer, this isn't as bad as it now seems. At least, that's my hope.