book list

It is the 24th of May and I have not read a single book this month. That is the most sad thing to happen to me in quite awhile.

I've been "reading" four books for the entire month, but I can't finish any. One is "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" which I know is a classic but I just can't get into it, sorry. A few are short story collections that I read on here and there. And one is the WORST book I have ever attempted to read, and I hate to mention the name here to even give it the tiniest bit of recognition, but it's Jonathan Tropper's "The Book of Joe" and it suuuuuuuuuuuuuucks more than anything I can imagine. The sentences are insane. My two faves:

(Runner up)
I take a deep breath, but the tears continue to come, blurring my vision, and I have to quickly pull over onto the anorexic shoulder of the highway, choking back an astonished sob as I throw the car into park.
What the hell is an anorexic shoulder?! I've only had two fiction classes, but in both we've learned to make things NOT sound like writing. And anyone who enjoys reading knows it's better to get sucked up into the story, not to be aware you're reading a book. If that's not pure "writing" then I don't know what is. I didn't get sucked in at all. The character is a jackass who tries to act macho, so I called his bluff as soon as he choked back his astonished sob.

(FIRST PLACE WINNER FOR ALL OF TIME!!!)
Just before I passed out, their fuzzy silhouettes appeared to touch in a tentative embrace, but I'd barely noted the illusion when unconsciousness dispensed with the foreplay and hungrily consummated our union.
Tell me that didn't make you laugh. This guy needs to put down the thesaurus! Big words don't make him sound smart, they make him sound pompous. And the whole sexual reference? Might be clever if properly done, but it just didn't work here. Then again I've never hungrily consummated my union with sleep, so he might be describing that moment perfectly.

I made it to page 59 - the page after the 1st place sentence, and could go no further. I want a ribbon for making it that far, please. I should have read the author reviews first. One chick-lit author says "You really fall in love with Joe. By the end I wanted to have his babies!" I think I lost brain cells just reading that...

The sad thing is I had just read all but one of Tom Perrotta's books before starting this one, and I was loving fiction. After a semester of reading short stories from classmates, I was kind of not liking the reading thing too much. Then Tom made me love it again. Now this. This damn "Book of Joe" has turned me off ALL books! I can't pay attention to anything with pages! I've been wasting time online, listening to music, and... well, writing, which is good. Maybe I can't read when I'm writing? That would make sense, and makes me feel better about not reading this month because I've been writing a LOT. But I still want to hungrily consummate a union with a paperback before the 31st...

summer...in the city

This is what summer is all about. Staying up until 2.30a, writing and revising. It is beautiful with the windows open and the cross-breeze is so cool I have to cuddle up under a blanket. I feel alive. When I wake up for work in less than four hours, I will feel not-so-alive. But isn't that the point of times like this? It's all about the moment, nothing before and nothing after.

Preoccupied

I've been so consumed by writing and thinking-about-writing that I just now realized, at 10.30p, that my front door has been unlocked since roughly 3p yesterday. Not only unlocked, but the key sticking out of the lock. I'm so lucky someone didn't come in and ransack the place, then take the key and be able to return whenever they wanted. Although, in my wild imagination, they could have come, taken the key, made a copy, then left it in the lock as I did so I'd never suspect a thing. Little do they know that's how I think! I'm onto them...

I wish I could say this was the first time I've left a door unlocked, but it's not. In my first apartment, I left the backdoor unlocked for at least a week before noticing. The good thing about that place was the back door to the building locked from the inside, so no one could come in from outside. Here, anyone can wander into the front hallway and up the stairs, right to my door. I should be relieved nothing went wrong, instead I'm just in awe of the dumb luck I'm having.

My Forms of Fiction class started Monday, and I have been working really hard on our first assignment. It's to write an entire scene in dialogue, between only two people. No he said she said, no scene setting, just straight dialogue. Many times I catch myself trying to type "sigh" and hope it passes for dialogue. The bad thing about this is that I'm working on two scenes. I like one more than the other, but I think it's the crappier of the two. I think I'll work on them both as much as I can, and let a co-worker read them tomorrow and get some pre-class feedback. I think the hardest thing about workshop classes is that I always make myself sick worrying my stuff isn't good, and everyone will blow me out of the water, and I'll have to change my major even though I'm soclose to graduating. I think I just have to have something to worry about...

The funny thing about this assignment is that I think about it constantly. I listen to people and try to develop their conversations into a story. I pick up tones and inflection and overanalyze what I hear. Which is good, because I think I have a problem with realistic dialogue. My characters either have bland voices, or sparkling witty voices. Neither seem too real when I read over it, but others haven't complained so maybe I'm better off than I think.

Ok, here I go, diving back into the writing.

Greetings from Oklahoma

Vacations are usually seen as a break from work, but this one seems to be driving me to write. An escape from the monotony of work, school, and Memphis in general apparently was just what I needed. It was really difficult for me to write my second short story for class this past semester. It wasn't writer's block, because I could think up an idea and just type away. Or I'd pull up an old file, and start editing and adding on in a snap. But they all became too long. Cutting them down to short story length would have chopped off too much of what made it a good tale, so I was stuck. I finally got an idea with some help from those around me, and it turned out fine, but I pretty much felt like a failure for not being able to perform.

Now? Psh, my little book is filled with ideas waiting to become real stories, just as much as Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy. I walk through the hotel lobby - idea! I watch people on the street, in restaurants, and they become characters. Stories come to me as I wait in line to use the gas station restroom, or as I drive past a seedy motel on the highway, or see an ice cream shop with a funny name. Maybe it's because most of these things are new to me. We don't have this place in Memphis, so there's nothing I can associate with it. It's just a blank canvas I picked up next to the expressway.

Or maybe it's just having a break from everything I'm always around. Maybe it's not worrying about how many hours I've worked this week, or trying to remember which bills need to be mailed out tomorrow. Maybe it's because I'm free from studying. I'm not reading others' short stories and critiquing them. I'm not memorizing poetry or Latin grammar charts. I have a little break, and it's different from how busy and stressed I've been the past four months.

It's a welcome change. Especially since summer classes start up next Monday, and I'm sure I'll be feeling stressed again. I'm trying to remember that it's summer, and while I'm taking 14 hours of courses I still need to relax. I need to take time and write for myself, I need to read for pleasure, and I need to hang out with friends. All of this starts tomorrow night, when I get home. But for now, I'm going to lay back in this comfy bed and write my butt off.